And what a job I did for him. Laundering that hundred thousand in cash. At least partially hiding two million from the IRS by switching the bonds into Kelly’s maiden name. Shit, they probably are married.
Considering it was a Federal task force that burst into his house the other night, I bet Gerry’s list of crimes ranks badder than awesome. Maybe smuggling illegal aliens would attract the FBI’s involvement, but who knows. Kidnapping? Bank fraud? Hope murder isn’t on the list, although I have a feeling it soon will be.
No way he can let me survive.
FORTY-FIVE
Via con dios, dickhead.
I’m trying to remember what I read once about the various stages humans go through when faced with impending death. I mean like if a doctor tells you the biopsies revealed cancer in all six organs. I think the stages were denial, rage, hopelessness, and finally acceptance and peace. Well, I’m pissed as hell, but it sure doesn’t feel halfway to serene. In fact, I’d like to take a paring knife and slice parallel racing stripes down Gerry’s back, rip his flesh off in long, thin strips. Hang them out to dry in the sun and the wind, sell them to the general public as Gerry’s Special Beef Jerky.
Or maybe pork.
Whew. I need to calm down. I need to remember I’m lucky to be alive. We all are, of course. Every day we should thank God or the Great Spirit or some Higher Power for being above ground instead of under it. But goddamnit to hell, I am so angry at Gerry Motherfucking Burns, I am capable of unspeakable acts, including wasting whatever’s left of my time and energy with thoughts of gruesome revenge.
Totally absurd, of course. I need to lose emotion if I’m to have any chance of survival. Logic and reason must prevail. Felt good to vent there, but I need to carefully consider my situation. When will they kill me? And how will they do it?
I suppose the second part’s easy enough. I doubt Gerry’s going to get fancy, risk leaving blood stains on the boat when there’s cleaner options. He’ll probably just toss me overboard. No Austin, no evidence.
No, when is the key. I need to figure the timing so I can draft and shape potential escape plans within that framework. For instance, there’s absolutely no use working on Kelly’s head—he’s going to kill you, too, honey—if Gerry plans to dump me as soon as we leave the harbor. I won’t have enough time to discover and penetrate the gray matter under that gorgeous red hair.
And by the same thought process, I don’t see any advantage in attempting some desperate, improbable physical action right now if I have a day or two to observe and plan.
Think logically, Austin, but think fast.
Okay, if I was Gerry, I’d dump me soon as we pass the tip of Sandy Hook, enter open water. No one knew where I was going. No one knows I’m here. One of those security guards might have seen me walk across the marina’s parking lot, but it’s not likely. So why wouldn’t Gerry get rid of me ASAP? What possible freaking reason could he have for keeping me alive longer than he has to?
None that I can think of. He might wait until dark, but that’s it then. I’ve got less than one or two hours before I feed the fish. Hmm. Seems to me that presents only one possibility. I must attempt physical assault as soon as they hoist me on deck. Wait for Luis to look away, then hit him, kick him, drive him overboard with a head butt. Sweet Jesus, talk about long shots. How do I know they’ll even let me stand up again?
And even if they untie me, Luis is Luis. Plus he’s got that semiautomatic. I’m me, and all I’ll ever have is the famous, disarming full-boat Carr grin, a few bad jokes, perhaps a small element of surprise.
The ever-present baritone rattle of the boat’s diesel engines rises in pitch to a junk-car whine, and the bow lifts as we accelerate. We’re moving out into the open water of New York harbor now, headed south for the Verrizano Bridge and eventually the tip of Sandy Hook. After that, there’s nothing but wide open Atlantic.
The odds whirl around in my head like the pictures of brightly colored fruit on a spinning slot machine. Ching, ching, ching. When all the little windows stop, and my internal bookies and odds-makers calculate my survival at one million to one, my stomach and throat issues a noise I don’t know how to describe. Half groan. Half wail. Maybe a humble and guttural plea to that Great Spirit.
“Crying for help down there?” Gerry says.
I can’t see the rotten bastard, but Gerry’s familiar voice places my monster at the top of the stairway, up and to my right.
“Or just crying? Ha. Ha.”
Can’t think of anything clever to say, and even if I did, I don’t trust my throat and mouth to bring forth the proper tones. There’s some mysterious muscle spasm going on down there. Or my esophagus is playing host to a polka party for June bugs and beetles.
“Who do you think’s going to hear your whimpering pleas?” Gerry says. “Flipper?”
Nice guy, this Gerry Burns. A warm-hearted individual spreading cheer and goodwill wherever he goes. Probably works weekends with handicapped children. Reading them Harry Potter. The son-of-a-bitch. Stoke that anger, Austin. It may come in useful later on when you need to get physical.
“Do your kids know you’re alive, Gerry? Those kids and grandkids I saw at your funeral? Or are you ditching them along with the IRS?”
His footsteps clamber down the stairs and approach my bunk. Suddenly I can see him as he squats beside me, shows me his face. I smell gin on his breath. Malice flickers behind his glacier-blue eyes. I see my monster’s right fist holds something shiny as the hand rises beside me, punches my left cheekbone.
Pain explodes behind my eyes. My blurred vision fills with dots and neon-bright red and green spirals.
Something builds a wall around my consciousness with coffin-size black bricks.
Sharper pain wakes me up, a searing burning heat on my right arm. Jesus. I’m on fire.
My body convulses in reaction, flailing against the bulkhead. I’m gasping for breath as my eyes open.
Gerry’s kneeling beside me, smoking a cigar, the circumference of which perfectly matches the round, still-smoking ashy wound on my right forearm. The pain cuts across every nerve in my body.
“Oops,” he says.
My nose gets a whiff of my own crisped flesh, flipping my stomach like an Asian virus. I wretch a tablespoon of clear bile onto the yellow bedcover.
Gerry saying, “You were so busy thinking about Kelly’s pussy, the money, the fact that you might not have to sell stocks and bonds anymore, you never even considered your new girlfriend could have another motive.”
I hate it when guys I hate are right.
FORTY-SIX
A crackling sizzle scratches quietly at my ears. The smell of burning raw meat snaps open my eyes, gooses the heart rate. What the hell’s cooking, me? Another flesh-branding session with the Cigar Meister?
I shake my foggy, throbbing head and try to focus on the movement I sense close by. Oh, my. Look at my redheaded Jersey Jezebel doing the dance domestic there in front of the miniature stove, frying up some dinner inside a twelve-inch pan. Poking at the hissing meat with a flaming red spatula.
I don’t remember Kelly coming back down the stairs. Could I have been daydreaming? Or coming in and out of consciousness? The pain in my forearm is so bad I can’t believe sleep was involved. The burning sensation is still there.
“Hi, Austin,” she says. “I thought you were going to sleep through dinner.”
Well that answers that question. Some people get going when the going gets tough. Me, Austin Carr, I like to pass out. The KO-Kid.
Jezebel’s changed into designer jeans and a V-necked forest green sweater, white deck shoes. I can’t think of anything to say. Can’t decide if I want to call the redhead names, pump the bitch for information, or just stare like Dickhead of the Year at those bra-less bouncing jugs under the green sweater.
Complicating my decision is the memory of those luscious bare breasts and the white bow she’s wearing now in her hair. The bow really makes me hot.
“Not
talking to me?” she says.
I grunt, still unable to make a decision.
“I cleaned up that burn for you,” she says. “Put Neosporin on it.”
Gee, Kelly, that’s wonderful. So nice I have a friend like you. Really appreciate the caring concern. In fact, I’m getting a little love-glow all over thinking about how generously you’ve been taking care of me.
Although now that I consider all the facts of our relationship, seems to me I did an even bigger number on myself. Hell, I remember feeling pity figuring Jezebel as the poor, over-taxed nurse.
An astute observer of the human condition, that’s me. Austin Carr. A professional people reader. Trained by telephone sales as a master supplier of people’s inner desires. Full-boat grin my ass. An infamous, a full-boat Carr fuck-up is what I am.
The clue should have been, as it always is, that the redhead gave me a boner. When will I learn this simple lesson? Never ever make decisions with a hard-on. Were I King, boys would be taught this important subject as early as the fifth grade. Whenever it came up, so to speak.
Jezebel spins away from the stove, wiggles closer to my bunk. She clenches that red plastic spatula in her dainty right fingers like it’s a sword, or a magic wand. Is she going to cast a spell, or whack me?
“Look, Austin. I understand you’re mad. But I’m a working girl. I’ve been collecting paychecks from Gerry for twelve years, longer than Luis. Part of that two million in bonds you swiped from his account is my retirement bonus. You want to call me nasty names, feel free. Get it out of your system, especially if it makes you feel better. Nothing you say is going to bother me one little bit.”
“Fuck you.”
I didn’t plan such a lame curse. Like a wake-up morning hard-on, my banal epithet just popped out there all on its own. Dickhead independence.
Kelly smiles. “Oh, Austin. You’re so articulate.”
“Fuck you.”
She bounces back to her pan of frying meat, which I decide must be cheeseburgers as I see on the tiny counter a package of round sesame seed buns and slices of Kraft American, fresh tomato, red onion, and lettuce. The redheaded bitch is probably planning a little survivor’s picnic as they watch me drown.
Kelly saying, “I don’t know if I can stand any more of this witty, urbane dialogue, Mr. Carr. Maybe you should just stop sugar coating it, tell me how you really feel.”
She throws her head back and laughs. Her eyes shut and her red hair shakes the way it does when my Jersey Jezebel makes love.
FORTY-SEVEN
I take a slow breath. Scary feelings grip me. I want to choke Kelly and kiss her at the same time.
There’s some kind of physical pull on me I didn’t fully understand until this very minute, a feeling I’ve had before in my life, but only two or three times. The “magnet thing,” I call it. Jezebel’s drawing me to her like a circling tether ball around the pole.
Can’t believe I didn’t feel this before. Or maybe she always did this to me and I was too distracted with all the other crap going on in my miserable life—losing my visitation rights, Rags, Psycho, poor Cruz.
Damn. These feelings do not bode well for my million-to-one shot at survival. Come on, Austin. Lose the emotion, use this time alone with her.
Jezebel reaches for a king-size, red and yellow bag of potato chips, rips at the packaging, pours the contents into an orange mixing bowl.
More than sizzling burgers, the crisp whisper of tumbling fresh potato chips makes me want to share in their dinner. Can’t believe I’m hungry. Wonder if I’ll be alive when the chips are served.
I take another long breath. “How come Gerry’s so pissed at me? I understand using me for the transfer like you guys did, but I don’t quite fathom the torture part.”
“That’s better,” Kelly says. “Finally starting to get a grip, are we?”
“Come on. What the hell did I do?”
She shrugs. “He wasn’t planning on burning you, I’m sure. He told me you said something nasty about his children.”
His children? “I asked him if his kids knew he was still alive. That’s nasty?”
Her head tilts back. “God. No wonder he burned you. It killed him he couldn’t tell his children about faking his death. He actually cried because they had to attend his funeral. But he couldn’t put his children in jeopardy by telling them the truth. It would make them accessories.”
Jezebel swipes at her forehead with the back of her hand. Must be hot at the stove. “The whole plan, collecting everything he could for this move to Mexico, it’s all for those two kids. He’s the proudest father I’ve ever seen. He’ll contact them and explain himself after he sets up shop in Mexico. Or wherever he ends up.”
That last bit sounded like it might have been a lame attempt at cover-up. Mexico, huh? I’m guessing Vera Cruz, Luis’s hometown. “Why is he so proud of his kids?”
“They’re both doctors. Went to Princeton pre-med together. Then Harvard Med. Both of them interned at Columbia-Presbyterian, both are now doing their residencies at John Hopkins. They’re only the second brother-sister act there ever.”
Jezebel flips three burgers in the frying pan. She handles the spatula better than I would have thought, but I guess the redhead can handle just about anything. She sure as shit handled me. Me and my full-boat Carr grin. Should I worry she flipped only three patties, not four? Or maybe Luis doesn’t like hamburguesas.
“Well, kids or not, he’s still running from the Feds, saving his fat ass,” I say.
The redhead doesn’t look up. “Sure. But when he found out the IRS was onto him, getting close, his goal became preserving what money he could for the son and daughter. The IRS was going to seize everything, even if Gerry’s lawyers tied up the criminal cases.”
“But all he got out of his Shore Securities account was the two million you said is partly your retirement. There was another two or three-million in stock and cash.”
She peeks over her shoulder. “No. The rest was transferred from that Shore account to his Panamanian bank two days ago. You’ve been too busy to check the papers on your desk. Besides, can’t you see what’s over there in the corner?”
I strain my neck to follow her eyes. There’s some kind of package under that brass porthole, tucked between the blond wood bulkhead and the bunk opposite mine. Something wrapped in a thick blue and yellow baby quilt. Oh, my. I can make out eight to ten inches of a familiar and very ornate gilded picture frame.
“That can’t be real,” I say.
It’s the Renoir, the painting I’ve been admiring for two weeks. All those rich happy people, strolling in the sunshine.
“Oh, it’s real,” Kelly says. “Gerry thinks it could be worth a hundred-million, but since it was stolen from a private collection, public auctions are out. In Mexico, or wherever, brokered by a worldly art dealer he knows, Gerry’s got a buyer for twenty.”
If I could whistle, I’d whistle. Although something’s bothering me about this...yeah. Wait a minute. “The other night, when those agents broke into your condo, I saw them impound everything, the Renoir included.”
“The FBI impounded a very expensive fake,” she says. “Gerry’s got a couple.”
FORTY-EIGHT
When I’m done rubbing my loosened but sore wrists, and finished being surprised, I pull a chair up to the table, snatch a bun, a slab of greasy meat, slices of American cheese, red onion, and lettuce. This is no time to skimp on burger toppings. Could be my last meal.
Good old’ Gerry. He must have felt bad burning me because a few minutes ago he freed my hands, invited me to sit and eat with them. The mood seems pretty much friendly, too, although I’m slightly offended when my monster now tells that Jezebel redhead Kelly to aim Luis’s government-issue semiautomatic at my face.
Kelly saying, “I’m hungry, too, you know.”
Gerry swallows a mouthful of fried burger. “You got two hands, right?”
“Yes, but I need both of them to hold the Colt. It’
s heavy.”
“Here,” Gerry says. “Give it to me.”
The transfer is never made. A loud thumping noise interrupts, turns all our heads. The yellow-blanketed bunk I was lying on before is not a bunk anymore. It’s a newly revealed hideout with its hinged lid—the thin mattress—swung up against the bulkhead. That’s what made the thumping noise.
Guess who’s now standing inside this suddenly exposed hideout, pointing a gun at the three of us? It’s Mr. Former Goatee, the same guy who fought with me and Luis at the restaurant. The same man who followed Kelly and me from the burial service to the shopping mall. The same hombre who obviously knew the whereabouts of this boat and eluded Gerry and Luis to stow himself away.
His eyes are the color of roasted coffee beans and slightly buggy, wildly shifting back and forth between me and Gerry. His glossy black hair is pulled into a small ponytail this afternoon, and his squared jaw is set hard, trying to look tough. I’d believe him if it weren’t for the beads of sweat checkering his forehead.
Is Luis in on this move?
Kelly fires the Colt semiautomatic. Whoa! The noise is stunning, knocking me back from the table, numbing my ears and mind. Inches from Mr. Goatee, a piece of bunk lid the circumference of a coffee can explodes in splinters. My ears ring like it’s Sunday morning and I’m inside a church bell.
Mr. Goatee fires back and Jezebel’s right shoulder is slammed by the bullet. The blow spins her backward against the counter and the stove. A spreading patch of red blooms on her green sweater. The Colt clatters to the floor. Jezebel slumps and tumbles beside the gun.
Gerry sticks his hands in the air like a bad western movie. Not a bad idea, though, especially to avoid a gunshot wound like Kelly’s. I raise my hands just like Gerry.