At the back of the lobby, Kelly and I push through red-trimmed glass doors and dump the theater crowd for the food court. The smell of pizza, burgers, and soy sauce blends into a heady, hunger-producing cloud.
I chose the theater lobby as our starting point because it serves as an entrance to Seaside County’s largest mall.
I use the cellphone once more deep inside the shopping center. Five minutes, the man tells me.
Damn. Kelly and I have to kill more time without getting spotted. I saw Special Agent Tomlin once, when he and three associates first pushed through the red trimmed glass doors and looked for us in the food court. The redhead and I were in the middle of a crowd, just leaving the food area, and I don’t think Tomlin or his men could have seen us, Federal agents or not.
However, since there are only four ways out of that food court, I figure Tomlin and his men split up, took one route each, and whichever one was assigned to the lucky trail—past the Verizon store, then left toward the restaurants—well, that guy is no more than ninety seconds, two minutes behind us. We’ve got to keep moving, and we have to stay out of open areas where he might see us.
God knows where Rags, Mallory, and Mr. Former Goatee are. Probably following Tomlin.
I pull Kelly and the green carry-on through as many crowded spaces as possible, including two wide-open restaurants and a noisy bar with the Mets game blasting. The Yankees must have been rained out.
Tomlin or his man will have to check every face in these crowds before moving on. I figure each busy establishment gives us an extra sixty seconds.
I get an idea. We’re right where I wanted to be, at the mall’s north entrance, near a Mexican joint I tried once but never went back because the food sucked. But instead of walking outside, looking for the taxi I called, I pull Kelly inside the Go Gonzales restaurant.
A young woman of high school age offers to seat us. I say great, could we have something close to the kitchen.
“Excuse me?”
“The kitchen. We love the smells.”
The hostess throws me an “Okee-dokee, dummy” look, grabs two menus, and heads off through a rather surprisingly loaded restaurant. Geez, look at all the people eating this crap. What the hell do New Jersey people know about chili Colorado and carnitas?
At our table, I pretend to fuss with the suitcase, Kelly with her purse. Eventually the hostess leaves. We are not here to eat. I nod to the redhead and we push through stainless steel saloon doors into a hot kitchen. Must be eight, ten guys running around like crazy in here, all with towels on their heads, rags tied around their wrists. They’re too busy to show us anything but curious glances.
I spot the back screen door and push Kelly toward it, then all the way outside. Through the open door, I can see the same giant circular mall parking lot in which we left the limo. Due to our lengthy walk through the shopping center, however, we’re now on the opposite side, maybe half, three-quarters of a mile away from the theater.
I walk through the door behind Kelly, but the suitcase catches on a thick rubber threshold, and I have to stop, turn, and free it. Sure hope that taxi I called is where I told him to be. Five minutes should be up.
The redhead screams.
I look up and gasp. It’s Psycho Sam. He’s got Kelly by the neck.
FORTY-TWO
When the nut job sees me, Psycho Sam flings Kelly to the pavement like a ketchup-stained napkin. The redhead crumples on the asphalt, limp and motionless. My heart catches, then warps to fast forward. Did he break her neck?
The redhead groans, pushes up on one hand. Thank God. She sits, coughs, lifts a hand to her throat. I know she’ll be okay when she begins to sniffle.
Psycho Sam’s coming at me like a guy who used to play football for Notre Dame. Arms wide, weight evenly distributed so he’s balanced and ready to spring whichever way I run.
Sorry, Sam. I’m not running this time.
I snap Rags’ Smith & Wesson out of my inside coat pocket and point it at the big man’s nose. I’m so pissed what he’s done to Kelly, I almost pull the trigger. Almost. I don’t think I’d have much trouble convincing a jury I thought my life was in danger.
“Think that pea-shooter’s gonna stop me?”
“One in the head, one in the heart might slow you down.”
“You ain’t good enough to hit my heart, and my brain’s even smaller than that. Ha, ha, ha.”
Actually, Sam might have a point. Not concerning the size of his organs, but my ability to prevent his advance. Thirty-eights aren’t really known for their major stopping power, and this three-hundred-pound maniac might need more caliber than average. Like a Cruise missile.
How did Mr. Vic talk him down that day? All Mr. Vic had was a .38.
Don’t remember. But I do remember what Psycho Sam’s gorilla-like hands feel like around my throat. I make an impulsive and startling decision. Even I’m surprised when words of surrender flow from my mouth.
“No need for violence, Sam. I’ve got your money.”
He frowns. Sam’s chest is maybe five feet from mine. Big as a barn door. Hell, I probably could shoot him in the heart from here. But am I really going to kill this man—any man—for fifty-eight thousand dollars? Money that’s not even mine?
My finger eases off the trigger.
“Did you say you got my money?” Sam asks. “All fifty thousand?”
“In the green suitcase. Every dollar.”
“Let’s see,” he says.
“I can’t believe you gave that man your money,” Kelly says.
“Me either.”
The taxi showed up as we were unzipping the suitcase. We tossed Sam’s money on the ground, had the taxi driver bring us to my camper, and now Kelly’s nestled in beside me in the front seat. She looks wildly out of place in her funeral dress and jacket, that hat and hair-do. We’re on our way to her friend’s house near the airport.
“Why did you give him the extra eight thousand?” Kelly says. “You said he only lost fifty.”
“Interest. Mental anguish. I wasn’t going to argue at that point. He wanted to count.”
“Just so you know, I don’t have that much cash left,” Kelly says. “I can’t give you any more, at least now.”
“It’s better this way. I didn’t have to kill anybody, and we’re both still alive. He was absolutely right, you know. There’s no guarantee a couple of bullets would have stopped Psycho Sam.”
“I guess I could send you some money from Mexico,” she says.
I take Kelly’s directions and turn off the Jersey Turnpike one exit south of Liberty Newark airport and head east into an industrial area of rusted buildings and abandoned dock property. We’re approximately forty-five miles north of Branchtown, across the Hudson River from New York City.
“Better yet,” she says, “I’ll pay you another fifty-eight thousand if you come to Mexico with me.”
Now there’s an offer. My mind starts working on that, and a question just pops out before I consider all the ramifications. “How long would I have to stay?”
Oops. That didn’t come out right. The words play harsh even on my stockbroker’s ears.
“Forget it,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
“No problem.”
We spend the rest of the drive together in silence. I don’t mind. I’ve got a lot to think about. Sure, I’m pissed about losing the money. My plans of getting back my visiting rights have been returned to the dream category. I’ve just lied, cheated, and committed forgery for absolutely nothing—except for the thirty-six thousand dollar commission I earned on Kelly’s bonds. It’s a good start, but not enough.
The redhead’s leaving town and I’ll be alone again, living in a camper, trying to sell stocks and bonds, Wacko Rags for a sales manager. Sneaking around oak trees and ionic columns to see my kids.
That fifty-eight thousand would have changed my life.
Maybe I should have pull
ed the trigger.
FORTY-THREE
I make another turn Kelly points out and we go from dilapidated tin sheds and rusty warehouses into a slick new development near Newark Bay. Within sight of the Statue of Liberty, surrounded by abandoned New Jersey ship docks and broken, sinking cranes, some sharpie built luxury condominiums around a first-class boat marina.
The one-acre parking lot is full of Mercedes, BMWs, Jaguars, and Audis. Riding in such automobiles, these condos are ten minutes from the Holland Tunnel and Manhattan, Newark-Liberty International Airport, and I-95, the New Jersey Turnpike. Water access to New York’s Upper Bay gives boat owners the Atlantic Ocean and, if your boat is big enough, the rest of the world.
Can’t imagine what these units cost. With a boat slip, probably five to ten million for a bachelor.
I yank down Kelly’s green suitcase and lock up the camper. I don’t want someone stealing my NY Giant helmet. Kelly’s looking for something in her purse, so I start off on my own, walking toward the condominium’s common area, a two-story glass lobby that connects two, ten-story towers. Half a dozen brass sculptures and a raised platform with two security guards dominate the open lobby.
Kelly saying, “Not that way. Over there.” Pointing toward the marina.
“Your friend lives on a boat?” I say.
The redhead waits for me. “A friend of hers owns the condo and the slip. Wait until you see the guy’s boat. A fifty-foot Hatteras, I think she said.”
She seems to be getting over our tiff.
To my right, the sinking sun dips behind a bank of broken clouds, the sunset turning everything red and gold. A motor yacht hums back into the marina after a day of fishing. Poles line up like antennae in a rack near the yacht’s stern.
Kelly leads me down a spiffy planked dock with brass fittings and rope hand rails, past expensive yacht after super-expensive yacht. Hatteras, Grand Banks, Chris-Craft. Some of these babies cost millions.
The dock squeaks under my weight. The air tastes of salt and damp wood. Maybe a hint of rust.
The boat Kelly’s friend occupies looks like a working fishing charter. It sports a flying bridge, a tuna tower above that, and a fighting chair bolted to a plate on the main deck. I don’t see any rods, but there’s plenty of racks to hold them upright.
A black-headed seagull turns a circle above me. The same breeze the bird rides suddenly gusts hard off the water, cooling my face.
Kelly shouts. “Betty? It’s us. Permission to come aboard?”
The redhead and I are bumping hips on the dock, waiting for Betty. My arm’s sore from pulling Kelly’s damn suitcase around all afternoon, but I’m looking forward to sitting down, maybe having a drink.
I’m also considering the offer Kelly made about staying with her one last night. Not to mention the fifty-eight grand proposal if I go with her tomorrow morning. I can’t ask again, of course, but I really do wonder how long I’d have to stay in Mexico. Would she really give up all that cash for a week’s stud service? She’s certainly got the loot now to give away, but I’m guessing a week wouldn’t qualify for the full fifty-eight thousand.
Kelly tugs on my arm. “Come on. I think we can subvert the convention. Betty must be taking a shower or something.”
Kelly slips off her shoes and we climb a box step-up over the railing onto the main deck. The boat looked sharp from the dock, but on deck...wow. What a clean machine. Teakwood everywhere. Brass and chrome polished to a mirror shine. Inside the open flying bridge, I can see enough electronic equipment to monitor a strike on Iran.
“Betty? We’re here,” the redhead says. She’s holding her shoes like you would a kitten, cradled against her bosom.
Still no word from Betty.
Kelly heads down a stairway under the main bridge. I follow her down, carrying the suitcase now so I don’t scuff this puppy’s perfect polished staircase.
At the foot of the stairs, in the main cabin, I’m struck again by the immaculate, hand-crafted nature of expensive yachts. Such detail. Like sticking your head inside one of those restored luxury automobiles at a car show. Only the highest quality materials. Perfectly clean and new.
I follow Kelly between two lemon-colored sofas. They run length-wise down the cabin and obviously convert to bunks. At the front of the low-ceiling room, the bow of the ship, a narrow windshield, and a skylight let in the sun. A refrigerator, stove, and counter sit directly under the skylight. Between the mini-kitchen and the sofas is a round steel table covered with maps.
Kelly walks all the way to the stove.
I follow to the table, past a slim doorway at the foot of the bunks. A head, I assume.
The hair on the back of my neck stands up as the slim door opens behind me. Must be Betty, but my heart’s beating like a flat tire as I spin to see.
“Buenos tardes,” Luis says.
The breath catches in my throat. My favorite bartender is standing between me and the exit. He’s not smiling, and neither is the large-bore, semiautomatic weapon in his right hand. Looks like an old government-issue Colt .45. The muzzle points directly at my chest.
FORTY-FOUR
Kelly either can’t stand or can’t afford to witness whatever’s going to happen now. The lying little slut takes Rags’ .38 from my coat, hands it to Luis, then scoots past us, jogs up the stairs. Her stocking feet are the last I see of my redheaded Jezebel.
My mind wants to run through various explanations—Luis is playing a joke, Luis is stealing the bonds, Luis and Kelly are lovers—but the black semiautomatic aimed at my chest restricts my creative thinking. Not to mention normal breathing rhythms. Nothing really makes sense. Just like at the funeral, there has to be some big goddamn joke everybody’s heard but me.
“Luis. What’s going on?”
He stares sadly at me, and I figure he’s probably going to shoot. Why else would he aim a weapon at me? I’ve seen Luis’s strength, his quickness. If my favorite bartender wanted me to sit, stand, bark, or roll over, all he has to do is ask.
“Senor Burns’ bonds and the money are in the suitcase?” he says.
Senor Burns’ bonds? Not the senora’s? Uh, oh. Slowly, the curtains begin to part. It’s not a big joke that everybody’s in on but me. It’s a big show.
“The bonds are in the suitcase,” I say. “The cash I gave away.”
Something clicks inside my slow-working rusty brain. Barely audible, like the last tumbler on a combination lock. That sign I noticed when I snuck inside Luis’s restaurant that night, the one I thought looked “vaguely familiar” while Luis was in the basement with Blackie? The sign by the staircase that said, “Maria’s?”
“Luis’s Mexican Grill used to be called ‘Maria’s?’” I ask.
He nods. Oh, what the hell is wrong with me? What a numb nuts. Too much drinking, I guess. Too many bumps on the head inside my camper. How could I not remember that name before now? Sweet Jesus. “Maria’s” was listed as one of Gerry’s restaurants in that New Jersey state corporations file I checked out on the internet.
“You work for Gerry Burns?” I say.
He nods again.
At least Luis is being cooperative. And I’m very curious. Not that Luis’s semiautomatic doesn’t put a little edge on my mood, but maybe I’m getting used to guns and bad guys threatening me. And like I said, I’m curious.
“I take it Gerry’s not really dead?”
My answer comes from above.
“Not by a long shot,” Gerry says.
My Jersey-born Mexican cowboy hops down the stairs in a baby blue cowboy shirt, black jeans, and his Mexican silver and turquoise belt buckle, a picture of fat-boy health. Tanned, trimmer than I remember, and bright-eyed. “Surprised to see me?”
I’m pretty much speechless.
“Nothing to say?” Gerry says. “Ha. That’s a fucking first.”
He lays a steady hand on Luis’s shoulder. A warm and friendly touch, an obvious by-product of many years working together. Friendship. Teamwork. Man, oh, ma
n. I think the designation “my favorite bartender” must change.
“We need to get this tub moving,” Gerry says to Luis. “Restrain our guest, then come up top and help me shove off. I’ll get the diesels running.”
My monster scrambles up the stairway like a ten-year-old. Saying Gerry’s in good shape underestimates his nimbleness. The old man is spry as a big horn sheep. Oh, man, have I been had.
“Lay down on this bunk,” Luis says. “On your stomach, please, with your hands placed behind.”
As I obey his commands, Luis reaches for a new roll of silver duct tape from the map table and tears at the plastic wrapping. Deep below, mighty diesel engines fire to life. The vibrations rattle each disk in my spine. Cold sweat pops out on my neck and shoulders. Some scaredy-cat’s heartbeat drums inside my ears.
Austin Carr, you stupid, mother-humping, egotistical, brain-numb jerk.
Here I am on this damn bunk, wrists and ankles wrapped tight in that silver tape. We’ve pulled away from the dock and the boat’s bow is beginning to rise and fall against the Upper New York Bay’s current.
Left to its own entertainment, my mind addresses an imaginary audience: Good evening, folks. Allow me to introduce Austin Carr, this year’s winner of the Golden Dickhead Award. Presented, as always, to that individual making the biggest fool of himself by Thinking With His Penis.
I really do deserve some kind of prize. How could I fall for that redheaded bitch’s bullshit? I can see her green eyes now, fondly gazing into mine, tearing up over Gerry’s faked death. Those trembling lips when she kissed me. Can you believe I honestly thought she’d fallen for the famous, full-boat Carr grin?
A touch of irony there, right? A “full-boat” grin? I have a strong hunch this boat isn’t going to be full long. Soon as they get past the Statue of Liberty, I’ll probably get dumped over the side along with the rest of this ship’s in-marina waste.
I can’t get over how I fell for that redhead’s crap. Not to mention Gerry’s. The FBI and the IRS after him. The son-of-a-bitch is probably one of America’s most wanted tax cheats. All those businesses. All those employees. Leaving the country like this, on a boat. No doubt the IRS’s accusations are entirely accurate. Gerry must have been skipping payroll taxes for years, putting all that money in his pocket.