“Sure you do. Go get a pencil. Write down my name and phone number.”
“Okay.”
There’s some rummaging in the background. A drawer opens and shuts. I hear a piece of paper being torn.
“Shoot,” he says.
“A-U-S-T-I-N. 732-555-4345. Got it?”
“Si. Nombre es Austeen. Numero, seite, tres—”
I gave him my work number. The only number I’ve got. “Have Luis call me, right?”
“Si. Luis call when he comes back from Mexico.”
“Mexico? When’s he going to Mexico?”
“He leave yesterday.”
I hear laughing and the line goes dead. Was that a joke? Luis with some fake accent? A friend of his? I call back but no one picks up this time. I let it ring twenty-two times, but the dick won’t answer.
Walking back to the police station bench, I wonder again why Blackie’s bearded friend is following me. How did he find me to follow me?
I hope Luis isn’t really in Mexico. I need his help.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Early the next morning, splintering wood tugs my mind from a heavy sleep. I open my eyes in Kelly’s bed, heart thumping, the calm gray light a sharp contrast to the demolition noises coming from the condo’s entrance.
I throw off Kelly’s flowered comforter. What the hell is chasing me now? The bearded guy who followed us last night in the classic Impala? Rags’ one-man hit squad? The Werewolf of London?
The redhead stirs and groans, stretches her arms. Where the hell are my shorts? If this is Psycho Sam, I’m burnt toast. I bunny hop toward the bedroom doorway still pulling on my plaid cotton boxers, then freeze at the big noise rushing me in the dark. A buffalo stampede?
Whack. I’m flattened by an army of dark-clad soldiers in helmets, bullet-proof vests, and plastic windbreakers. The first men through the doorway have their guns drawn. Maybe I’m double-parked.
Lights snap on. As the horde stomps over, around, and directly through me, I see the backs of their windbreakers have the words TREASURY AGENT or FBI or U.S. MARSHALL stenciled in yellow.
What the hell is happening?
One of the buffaloes sits on my chest, pokes a gun in my eye. “Don’t move, asshole.”
The hotel bedroom smells of cigarettes and freshly starched sheets. The furniture’s new but flimsy, all materials coarse to the touch. The landscapes on the off-white walls were painted with sponges on an assembly line.
Unfamiliar voices drift in from the next room. I sit up on the edge of the bed when a man walks in, shows me his badge and federal identification.
“Special Agent Tomlin, U.S. Treasury,” he says.
I keep my gaze focused on Tomlin’s slow gray eyes. He’s a short, squat kind of fifty-something cop. Looks more like a part-time chef. Both eyelids droop toward the lobes of his softball-sized ears. I have to hear a few sentences come out of his mouth before concluding he isn’t a half-wit.
“So your name’s Carr, huh?” he says.
“Austin Carr. I’m Gerry and Kelly’s stockbroker.”
After an hour of sitting side-by-side with Kelly on her sofa while they tore up her condo, bagged all kinds of stuff including the fake Renoir, the redhead and I were separated. I haven’t seen her since. All I know for sure, they threw me in a car, brought me to this hotel room.
Tomlin seems to be in charge of several different squads of law enforcement personnel. Some kind of federal task force?
Tomlin saying, “Gerry’s stockbroker, huh? That’s the extent of your relationship? That’s all you are?”
I shrug. “I’m a father with two kids. A three handicap golfer.”
Tomlin grunts. “Bully for you. How long have you been Burns’ broker?”
“Four or five years.”
“How long have you known he’s a crook?”
“I don’t.”
“Aiding and abetting criminals makes you an accessory, a felon like him.”
“I’m not a felon, and as far as I know, Gerry’s not either. As a matter of fact, Gerry’s not much of anything anymore.”
Tomlin’s forehead sprouts horizontal lines. “What do you mean?”
“Gerry died last night.”
Special Agent Tomlin stands up and moves purposefully to the bedroom doorway. He motions for someone down the hall to come to him. While he’s waiting, he turns again to me. “Who told you Burns is dead?”
“Kelly. I was with her when the hospice called.”
“His wife?”
“The redhead. But they’re not married. She’s just his girlfriend.”
Tomlin stares at me until he’s joined in the doorway by a very tanned young man with a blond mane, square shoulders, two bright red pimples on his protruding chin. Looks like the college surfing champion of southern California.
“Remember the name of that hospice?” Tomlin says.
“No. But I’ve been there,” I say. “It’s one of those old English Tudor apartment houses on West Ridge Road in Branchtown, the ones they fix up as office buildings, dentists offices. I remember the hospice’s address was in the two-hundred block.”
Kelly’s sitting, waiting for me in the motel lobby. I can tell from her streaked makeup she’s been crying. Can’t say I blame her. Held and questioned for six hours. If she got the same treatment as me, nothing to eat or drink except Branchtown’s sulfuric tap water.
“I called a cab,” she says. “I have to go back to the condo.” She sniffs. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”
I drop beside her, slip my arm around her shoulders. Feeling more for Kelly than I expected. I hope it’s just compassion and sympathy. Have to stay focused on getting my kids back. “I’m sticking with you, Toots.”
Kelly leans against my shoulder. “They’re giving me one hour at the condo to pack a suitcase. Just clothes and toiletries. None of my jewelry or pretty clothes. The artwork.”
“Jesus. Did they tell you what’s going on? I mean what the hell did Gerry do?”
“They said he’s a wild dog or something. A smuggler of illegal immigrants.”
“A coyote?”
“That’s it. They also said none of his businesses have paid any withholding taxes for two years, that he embezzled money from every one of them.”
Uh, oh. That means IRS liens on everything.
In case there are mikes around I don’t see, I whisper in Kelly’s ear. “Where are your new bonds? Did they confiscate them?”
She forces a smile. “I don’t think so. Not unless they impounded your camper.”
THIRTY-NINE
The shade under this two-hundred-year-old oak tree offers cool relief from late September’s emergent sun. Eight or nine stories high, the monstrous pin oak’s blazing yellowing canopy dominates Holy Trinity’s graveyard, stretching seventy-five feet from the stone chapel to the white picket fence that runs north and south along the church’s pre-Civil War property line.
I’ve heard of the tree’s legend, including the story of a wrongly accused horse thief, hanged from one of the oak’s sturdy branches, whose ghostly rides are still reported in the local press.
And personally, now that I’ve actually wandered in close, let the tree’s long, craggy arms embrace me, I have to say this sucker gives me the creeps. All these graves feeding the tree’s roots for two hundred years? No wonder the monster’s fat and happy.
Kelly’s been chatting up the Episcopal priest, Father Paul, but she joins me and two dozen other guests now under Branchtown’s infamous oak, Kelly’s two-inch black heels clicking on the cemetery’s brick walkway.
The redhead looks nifty as the widow. She’s wearing a silk-trimmed black skirt with matching coat, and a string of natural pearls inside a scooped-neck, charcoal silk blouse. Took Kelly three hours to bathe and dress in our hotel this morning. Took one hour alone to pin the saucer-shaped black felt hat on her head.
“Father Paul said the ceremony will start in five minutes,” she says.
I kiss her cheek. Oh, boy. Five more minutes, we can get started, get finished, get the hell out of here. I hate graveyards anyway, but this one’s something special because of the oak. I can damn near feel the bastard waiting for Gerry’s body, the blood-sucker’s roots tingling with anticipation for the supply of fresh meat.
Hell, I can feel this flesh eater waiting for all of us.
Father Paul coughs to silence the crowd, then begins his readings. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid.”
I’d be afraid of this oak tree, if I were you, Father, priests having to walk around this graveyard every day, your feet and legs exposed to those gnarly underground siphons. Blood suckers waiting for their chance.
“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff thy comfort me.”
The valley of the shadow of death? Isn’t that where I was standing before, under the sinister branches of that monster oak?
Kelly squeezes my hand. She touches a forefinger to her lips, telling me to hush. Wow. Was I mumbling out loud? Sweet Jesus. All this craziness is rubbing off on my normally rational thought processes.
Well, almost rational. Forging Gerry’s name on that transfer form, going for Kelly’s fifty-eight thousand dollar bribe probably wasn’t my brightest moment. Depends if I get away with it, I guess.
Father Paul is hurrying through his service. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Since Gerry’s about to become the latest entree on this oak’s churchyard buffet, I’m not sure about the house of the Lord getting any, Father. A much bigger piece of the pie, so to speak, will be dwelling in the bark, leaves, and branches of this non-vegetarian vegetable.
Come on, Father Paul, hurry up. Kelly’s looking at me like I’m mumbling out loud again. These people may be gathered for Gerry Burns’ last rites, but this graveyard party’s starting to feel like my funeral.
“Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.”
We all recite the Lord’s Prayer. When that’s over, Father Paul gives a nod. Kelly and Gerry’s two grown children pick roses from the supply provided, toss one each on the coffin, then join the kids’ spouses and children. The family seems very friendly with Kelly.
My feet find an out-of-the-way patch of plastic grass, and I check faces as people pass. Some drop a rose on Gerry’s coffin, others don’t. There’s a small contingent of mourners not coming down from the shade of that oak tree. A dozen or so men...
Those guys in the sunglasses look familiar. That one beefy dude’s wearing a plastic cord underneath his collar and an ear piece. The Feds? Hell yes, there’s Special Agent Tomlin.
My palms grow clammy.
What is this? A cop convention? Just to the left of Tomlin, I see Detective Mallory of the Branchtown force and the Eagle Scout that always—
Oh. My. God.
It’s Rags. Back up under the blood-sucking oak tree, a camera around his neck. He’s supposed to be sailing for the Hamptons on Mr. Vic’s Triple-A, but instead he tried to visit Burns at the hospice, and now he’s sneaking into Gerry’s funeral, still trying to prove my bond transfer was wrong. Maybe catch me and Kelly in a lip-lock with the camera.
I especially hate it that Rags is one-hundred-percent correct about the bond transfer. First time Rags has been right about anything since he weaseled the sales manager’s job.
Look at that. This whole scene is surreal. Behind Rags, checking out Kelly and Gerry’s kids, there’s Blackie’s pal, the guy who used to have a goatee. He’s clean shaven now but I recognize the gold chains. What the hell reason could he have for being here? Following us before? Revenge for Blackie’s death? Or just a desire to finish that fight with me and Luis?
It’s a bad dream, this funeral. There’s no logic. I can’t make sense of it. Like there’s some big joke everybody knows but me.
Maybe I could pitch this tale to Hollywood as a new reality TV show. Which villain will successfully destroy Austin Carr under the spreading arms of this vampire oak tree? Rags? Blackie’s pal? The cops? Hell, Psycho Sam must be around here, too. Somewhere.
In my proposal, I’ll call the show Roots of Evil.
FORTY
The monster oak can’t follow, so the nightmarish quality of Gerry’s burial stays behind when we leave the graveyard. Thank God. Unfortunately, the ugly realities—Tomlin, Mallory, Rags, and Blackie’s pal who used to wear a goatee—can and do tail us out of the parking lot.
Our limousine leads a longer procession away from Holy Trinity’s churchyard than we did arriving. The one piece of good news: I haven’t seen Psycho Sam’s dirty Mariner SUV.
“Where’s the driver taking us?” I say. “Back to the hotel?”
“Unless you wanted to go for a drink,” Kelly says.
I shake my head, no. “It’s just that we have company.” I nod my head toward the back window.
I watch Kelly turn to look. A feeling comes out of nowhere, some crazy response to stress and fear, I guess. I want to kiss the nape of Kelly’s perfumed neck. Right where the wispy red hairs grow wild and long.
“Who’s following us?” she says.
“The Feds from last night, that Branchtown Detective, Jim Mallory. And I think I saw my sales manager’s Jaguar back there as well.”
“All three of them? Why?”
“Who knows? And there’s actually a fourth car behind that, I think. I was in a fist fight with some guys last week at Luis’s Mexican Grill. One of them—”
Kelly saying, “I don’t care about your fights, your sales manager, or that hump local sheriff. But I sure as hell don’t want that bastard Tomlin getting his hands on my bonds.”
I like the bonds used to be Gerry’s, but now they’re Kelly’s. She stole them fair and square. Finders keepers, losers weepers. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. What’s mine is mine, what’s yours is ours. People have a million excuses for crime.
“Did you put those puppies in the hotel safe?” I ask.
“They’re in the trunk. The green airline carry-on.”
“And my money?”
“It’s in the carry-on with the bonds,” Kelly says. “Fifty-eight thousand, cash.”
I take a long breath. It’s going to be lots of fun seeing my ex-wife’s happy face when I pay her what I owe. It’s going to be positively wonderful to play again with my children. “We should get our stuff from the hotel, then lose these cops.”
“Or just buy new clothes in Mexico,” she says. She grins at me. “I’m think I’m going to miss having a hot tub right in our room.”
I pat her arm. Strange priorities, this redhead. Me, I’m worried about the Feds pulling us over, finding the bonds and the money, locking us up. “You’re not leaving town until tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“Eight-thirty in the morning.”
“Do you want to check in to another hotel? I guess you could stay with me in the camper. It’s smelly, but cozy.”
“My stewardess friend Betty lives near the airport. I’ve made arrangements to stay with her. She said there’s plenty of room for you, too.”
Do I need another night of hot sex? “Or I could drop you off. Maybe we should say our goodbyes tonight.”
The redhead shows me a world-class pout. Her lower lip must be sticking out two inches. “It’s our last night. I wanted another chance at talking you into coming to Vera Cruz with me.”
Now she loses the pout, gives me the full-boat Kelly smile, wrinkles around the nose. “It’s not too late, you know.”
I knew this was coming. Funny thing is, right now some little voice inside is saying yes, go with her. I guess a small piece of me feels like running away.
Bet I know which piece.
I sigh out loud. Would my kids be better off in the long run if I
wasn’t around, confusing them about “normal” and “broken” families? Struggling with this divorced father crap the way I do can’t be a good example for Ryan. Beth either.
What crap? “I can’t leave my kids, Toots. We’ve been over this.”
“Just a week. Come with me, stay five or six days even, then I’ll put you back on a plane myself, send you home to Ryan and Beth.”
Maybe the time to disappoint her would be after I put that fifty-eight thou in my pocket. “Let’s ditch these cops, then we’ll talk about it.”
The redhead’s still grinning at me. Waiting, confident. Knowing I’m going to fix this police tail like I’ve fixed everything else—the cash, the safe, the transfer, the follow-up details in Mexico.
The only thing I can’t fix is me.
“Let me have your cellphone,” I say.
FORTY-ONE
We brake to a stop. Kelly hands the limo driver five one hundred dollar bills for the day’s work. The money’s crisp and new, and I watch the driver’s ruddy thick fingers encircle the cash with a certain tenderness. I understand. I haven’t had my hands on that much money since Susan won the attachment on my paychecks.
Special Agent Tomlin’s black Chevy Suburban slides to the curb a hundred yards behind us. I see Rags’ Jag and the Chevy Impala belonging to Mr. Former Goatee behind Tomlin. Mallory’s Crown Victoria must be stuck at a light.
I tell the chauffeur how we want to play it and he pops the trunk for me. Kelly and I climb leisurely into the sunshine. I take my time lifting the green carry-on, too. Oh, boy, does it feels heavy.
On a carefully coded, prearranged queue, both Kelly and I will drop the relaxed attitude and execute Plan A. Run like hell. I’ve got the suitcase in one hand, the redhead in the other.
“Now,” I say.
We scurry up concrete steps into a theater lobby. It’s Saturday afternoon. The place is hopping with kids at matinees, boys and girls wrestling, giggling, and running circles around two dozen stressed-looking adults.
The smell of buttery popcorn tempts my nose. We hurry by movie posters on the wall, six-by-four-foot teasers for upcoming big-screen attractions. Space ships. Super heroes. Sexy women. Lots of guns and pointy things. A child wails down the dark hall of viewing rooms.