“Luis, you can say or ask anything you want. Anything.”
He pours us both another shot. “It is the senora,” he says. “Senora Burns.”
I try to stop him. “I know. I understand. She’s another man’s wife. But to me, Kelly’s a big girl. She doesn’t belong to any man, let alone a man who’ll soon be worm food. If I wasn’t painting her wagon, somebody else would be.”
“I hear you say, ‘She is a big girl,’ but is this really how you feel? If you are deceiving yourself, if inside this thing does make you feel dishonor, than your spirit will be harmed. Such injuries can be irreparable.”
I grasp Luis’s spiritual approach to my mental and physical health, but I’m also pretty sure he’s got the wrong guy. We stockbrokers pretty much hang our morals on the wall every morning when we come to work. Like a gunfighter hanging up his Colt when he visits a whore’s bedroom.
“Also,” Luis says, “beautiful women are expert deceivers of men. She may be using you for a purpose of which you are unaware.”
Let’s see. So far she’s exploited me for kinky sex, laundering money, and planning the burglary of Gerry’s private safe. What could possibly be left?
In the parking lot, my camper and Luis’s red Jeep are fifty feet apart, both of our cars tucked up against the old chain-link fence that runs alongside a row of four-story white pines. The fence and pines mark the always-shady back border of the restaurant’s property.
A gentle midnight breeze tastes of coming warm rain. A Gulf of Mexico hurricane landed west of New Orleans tonight, and trailing moisture is storming up the whole eastern half of America.
Our shoes kick up rocks in the gravel parking lot. A three-quarter moon blinks down between fluffy clouds, throwing slanted and exaggerated shadows as we walk.
“Consider what I have said tonight,” Luis says. “The senora is married to a rich and powerful man.”
Did something move near those pine trees?
“I’m not planning major moves,” I say. “I just need to keep the account after her husband dies.”
He offers his hand. “Cruz knows you can sleep here whenever you like.”
My hand gets lost in his huge fingers. “You told me. Thanks, Luis. See you tomorrow.”
A gust of hot wind rustles the tops of the pine trees as I reach my camper. A couple of days ago it was cold. Showing winter’s coming, with snow and ice and frozen car seats. But right now New Jersey’s balmy and summer moist again, Miami Beach tropical. Whichever way the wind blows.
I unlock my pick-up and notice Luis’s interior light pop on with mine. I wonder how far he has to drive. Where he lives. I’ve never even asked him if he’s married.
Luis’s Popeye shoulders impose themselves against the Jeep’s interior, then get sucked back out the open door by some invisible force. Whoa. What was that?
A shout startles my ears. Scuffling feet knock gravel against the fender of Luis’s Jeep. The clatter sounds like hail. Men are grunting. Fighting. Adrenalin shoots into my blood stream.
I run toward Luis’s Jeep. My shoes crunch on the parking lot rocks. Pain stings my stiff knees with each stride.
Shouts cut the warm night as I round the Jeep. Three men have Luis pinned to the ground, one guy on each arm, a third punching him in the face. The puncher is Branchtown Blackie. I’d recognize that fedora anywhere.
More adrenaline pumps into my blood. My pulse goes limit higher.
I goose my jogger’s run into a sprint and leap on Blackie’s narrow back. He doesn’t set himself, react in any way, and we go rolling together in a tangle of arms and legs, sharp gravel poking our backs. Blackie’s short bony fingers somehow get a grip on my throat, but at least Luis no longer has fists pummeling him.
A train whistle blows. The bell begins to clang at the crossing one block away. I tug at the fingers around my neck. Blackie’s breath is hot on my face. He smells of that ass-crack flowery soap.
A blue flame sparks inside the pine trees. The windshield of Luis’s Jeep explodes. A firecracker pops by where I saw the blue flame. Glass from Luis’s windshield tumbles onto the asphalt beside me.
Gunshot.
I twist out of Blackie’s grip and press my face low. Cheek against the ground. The asphalt tastes like automobile rubber.
FIFTEEN
Another blue flash sparks against the pine trees.
An invisible meteorite zips past overhead, the vibration poking me even before I hear the shot. Zip-bang. I wonder at the sequence, how the soft tissue in my belly senses the bullet’s super-sonic flight before my ears.
A taste of burnt gun powder drifts in the wind. The train whistle blows again, closer this time. Louder, more menacing. Gusts of warm air push leaves and trash scuffling along the blacktop.
I punch Blackie’s chin as he scrambles to stand. Pain skids from my knuckles to my wrist, but Blackie doesn’t flinch. His stomach must have sensed that bullet, too. He’s up and hauling ass toward the pine trees.
I roll into a squat and check Luis. He’s freed himself from Blackie’s pals. One guy with long stringy hair clutches a bloody shoulder. The other one, wearing a thick goatee and thicker gold chains around his neck, drags his friend toward the pines.
Luis touches my head. “Stay down.”
A car engine fires. Doors open and shut, tires spin on wet leaves. Squealing rubber. A dark shape crosses in front of the pine trees. Light from the approaching train turns a fog of burnt tire dust pale blue.
The train crackles through the nearby crossing and I catch a deep breath. And another. Luis and I are alone. He touches his left arm.
“You’re bleeding,” I say.
“Pocito,” he says. “We must find my knife.”
I stand up for a closer look. “You’re bleeding more than a little bit, Luis. You need stitches. An emergency room.”
“I will be fine. Look for my knife.”
Okay. Fine. I get back down on my hands and knees and peek beneath his Jeep. I catch a glimpse of shiny metal, a reflection off the street light, then slide my fingers around something smooth and cold. Ouch. And sharp.
“I found it,” I say.
I bounce the switchblade in my hand, measuring its awesome weight. I stand up to close the blade, feel it lock with a click, then immediately press the chrome release button. Zing. The eight-inch blade snaps out with a mechanical jolt. An instant sword.
Eat your heart out Errol Flynn.
Don’t know why I’m in such a goofy mood the next day. Maybe it was me and Luis telling jokes in the emergency room. But when I see Rags go into Vic’s office for their regular weekly chit-chat, I get a stupid idea.
Okay, another stupid idea.
It’s an old gag, and the play takes almost nothing to set up. I have to ask Walter for the number is all, then figure out how to bypass our controller’s block on this type of telephone call. It’s all doable, Walter assures me, although I will have to pay the price—attribution—if I want to watch this gag go off.
Screw it. I want to watch.
Walter hands me a camera phone. He wants to see Rags’ face, too.
Mr. Vic’s secretary tries to stop me, but it’s a feeble effort. Determined as I am to screw myself, weapons of mass destruction couldn’t keep me out of Mr. Vic’s office.
Rags and Vic both give me blank faces when I burst into their private, closed-door meeting. It’s never been done. I’m maybe the last one they would expect to have the balls, too. And I’m wearing the full-boat Carr grin. My two immediate superiors slip into serious shock.
“Sorry, Rags, Vic.” I’m huffing with excitement. “But you’d better hear what this guy has to say. It’s about the lawsuit. You won’t believe it.”
Vic’s face is a frozen puzzlement, question marks in both brown eyes. Rags looks pissed, a red flush climbing his neck like an exotic reptilian pet.
I bend over, flip Vic’s telephone to speaker, then run to the doorway and wave at Walter. He punches buttons on his desk, a grin painted
on his face like some Sesame Street puppet.
Vic stands. “Austin...”
“What’s going on?” Rags says.
Same thing that always goes on, Rags. Your ass is mine. A light flashes on Vic’s phone. I punch up the line and jack the volume. I’ve left the door to Vic’s office open so half the sales room can see inside. That half quickly fills up with faces. Walter’s on his knees, his cheeks and forehead bright pink.
“Oh, Rags,” a breathless female voice booms from Vic’s speaker-phone. “I want your prick now. I want your giant cock deep inside me.”
Vic’s mouth opens.
“Hump me hard,” the sex-phone lady says. “Oh, Rags. Hump me hard.”
Rags glares at me, his eyes glazed and unfocused. Tight lips, grim jaw. I snap the bastard’s picture with Walter’s camera. Rags is going to want to kill me for this.
Rags tried to fire me, of course. He blew himself up like a balloon, screaming and yelling about the other pranks I’d pulled on him. Poor balloon-guy almost popped. Mr. Vic had to slap him on the cheek. Twice.
As for me, I got the full-boat Straight Up Vic Bonacelli glare, but as far as punishment, I counted on two factors. One, Mr. Vic enjoys anything pornographic, especially laughs, and two, Vic set up a big-money golf match for us at his country club next Sunday. He wouldn’t want me sulky.
Austin Carr, strategic genius. Mr. Vic tells me to pay a fifty dollar telephone fine for calling a 900 number, and to take the day off to contemplate the inappropriateness of my disruptive actions.
Not bad, considering Raging Maniac Rags wanted to have me arrested.
And hey, a day off is fine by me. I’m a little worried about Luis anyway, not to mention thirsty from all that running between phones, signaling Walter.
Ha.
I visit a client, pick up a small commission from an addition to the customer’s mutual fund account, then swing by Luis’s Mexican Grill early that afternoon.
The carved front door’s locked. So is the kitchen entrance. No sign of Luis. Cruz. Anyone.
Odd.
SIXTEEN
Across Highway 35 from Shore Securities, at the Branchtown Family Pharmacy, I buy six packs of Topps baseball cards in their crisp waxy wrappers. I love opening packs of baseball cards. Pure treasure hunting.
On my way back to the office, I rip at the wrapper of the first pack and step off the curb. Yes, I know, I’m walking onto a two-lane highway between parked cars. But I checked both ways. Nobody’s coming. Not a moving car in either direction.
I’m looking for Derek Jeter, New York Yankee shortstop. My son Ryan needs another Jeter card so he can trade his friend for a Mark—
What’s that? Something’s coming. Something big and frightening, and my body must be worried about it being a car because I jump straight up. It’s instinctive, an involuntary response to the unexpected arrival of fast-moving steel.
It’s a car, alright, trying to run me down. Thanks to my jump, I’m in the air when the Jaguar’s curved nose collides with my ass. The blow stuns me from the toenails to the split tips of my hair. I sail and tumble through the air like a gunned-down duck.
I hear a woman crying for help. Was I unconscious? Nothing in particular hurts. I remember I was struck by a car, but the pain seems general, like a Monday morning depression.
“Austin?”
A hand slaps my cheek. It is the first sharp pain I feel. That crying woman is calling 9-1-1. A man’s been hit by a car, she blubbers. She’s definitely talking about me. I mean, how many guys just got spanked by a car in front of Shore Securities?
Some asshole slaps my face again. I open my eyes. The face above me is blurry. Familiar, but blurry. Huh? Am I dreaming?
“Where the hell did you come from, buddy?” Rags says. “I never saw you until you were sitting on my hood.”
Rags? My sales manager? Man, I knew the guy was mad at me, but...
“You had your face buried in these stupid baseball cards,” he says. Rags holds up a Derek Jeter. “Hope he’s worth a trip to the emergency room.”
While they’re loading me in an ambulance, I hear Rags tell a cop he’d just pulled away from the curb when I scooted between cars ahead of him. No way to avoid me, he says. Couldn’t even hit his brakes until my ass had already imprinted itself on his hood.
The cop believed him. I’m not sure I do. It was the way he slapped me. Called me buddy.
SEVENTEEN
Kelly’s half-wearing a green nurse’s uniform. I don’t know where she swiped the outfit, or how she got hold of the hospital I.D. badge previously pinned above her now bare right breast, nor do I give a rat’s ass.
Not now anyway. The redhead’s nestled in beside me on the hospital bed, the weight of her on the mattress pulling me close, her back blocking the hallway’s view of her exposed chest and my naked mid-section. She could have pulled the floor-to-ceiling curtain around us but said the risk of getting caught would provide extra excitement. Hard to argue with that, or anything else right this moment. See, Kelly’s giving me the sponge bath of my life, and slowly, lovingly, and finally, Kelly has brought me to the Big Finish.
“I think you’re ready,” she says.
I can only groan.
“Yes...see? Oh, my...what a load. I’m no doctor, Austin, but I’d say the accident failed to damage your doodad.”
Doodad? “Are you sure you’re not a doctor?”
Ten minutes later Kelly’s cleaned up and changed clothes in my hospital room’s lavatory. She’s wearing stone-washed jeans now and a lemon yellow sweater that makes her candy red hair and green eyes glow with that girl-next-door innocence it takes studio make-up artists whole careers to perfect.
“Want to know what I found in the safe?” she says.
The bed sheets rub against my skin like canvas. The pillow smells of cheap soap and starch. Outside in the hall, a gurney goes by, its wheels clickity-clacking like a tiny train. And though I’m interested in Kelly’s safe-cracking tale, I can’t get over the fact Rags tried to kill me. I didn’t know the son-of-a-bitch was that crazy.
“Sure,” I say. “Tell me what you found.”
“I can do better than that,” she says.
Kelly digs into her straw beach bag. She rummages through a cell phone, tissues, and a red wallet, finally pulls out an eight-by-eleven-inch manila envelope stuffed with...what? Papers?
She tosses the package on my chest. Ouch. It crashes onto my sternum with the force of a space shuttle returning from orbit.
I undo the clasp. The metal imprints white marks on my fingertips. Don’t know whether it’s the thick texture of the parchment, or my stockbroker’s well-trained sense of smell for money, but I know without looking exactly what Kelly has dumped on me.
I pull out the three-pound wad of papers from the manila envelope. What I expected. Registered securities, mostly blue chip stocks and municipal bonds. A big chunk of Gerry’s portfolio I knew nothing about.
“Using face value on the bonds, and the stock prices printed in the paper Saturday, it’s about two and a half million,” Kelly says.
I take a deep breath. I’m feeling better after a good night’s sleep. The doctors say I’m lucky to have no broken bones, no internal injuries.
“I have to ask you something, Kelly.”
She grins, a smile that covers her entire face. Like Julia Roberts, her happy mouth seems bigger than humanly possible. Guess Kelly got some kicks playing nurse. “Ask away,” she says. “But I bet I know what you’re going to say.”
“You do?”
“Uh, huh.”
“What?”
“You’re going to ask, if Gerry’s about to die, why am I hiding money from him. And why, if I’m going to inherit his money, am I acting now like I want to steal his stocks and bonds?”
This woman is not only pretty, she’s almost smart. “Well...yeah …why? If you’re going to inherit his money anyway...”
Kelly adjusts the bathroom door and admires herself in the fu
ll-length mirror. She tugs on her sweater, stretching the yellow material tight over her chest. “Well, here’s the thing, Austin...I’m not going to inherit much of anything.”
I feel my neck stiffen. “But that day in the office? What Gerry said about his money...it was bullshit?”
“I guess Gerry wants to keep me happy until he dies.”
Can’t blame him for that.
“Only problem,” Kelly says, “Gerry’s dumb-ass lawyer Federal Expressed a copy of the will to our house last week while Gerry was sleeping. I not only read it, I made a copy, had my lawyer look at it.”
“And?”
“And basically I’m screwed. He leaves me a hundred grand—severance pay for my domestic labors. The cocksucker. But his grown children get the money, the property, the businesses. Everything.”
“He can’t do that in New Jersey,” I say. “It’s a community property state.”
She faces me. “Gerry and I were never married.”
I need Walter’s help checking out of the hospital that afternoon, but before I go, I use another patient’s cell phone to call a reporter friend of mine at the Newark Herald-Examiner. I want more information about Gerry Burns.
I’m not sure where Kelly and I are going, or even where we are right now, but I can feel the stakes advancing. And I’m tired of being surprised with new information. This pal at the Herald knows how and where to check public records Google doesn’t know exist.
“Think Rags hit you on purpose?” Walter says.
I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know. I wasn’t looking.”
Walter’s wheeling me through the hospital’s huge revolving glass entrance. His four-door Mercedes is waiting just outside. I can’t wait to get “home,” start living again in my camper with my leg in a brace. I automatically rub my sore head.
“I think you’d better start looking,” Walter says. “Rags is a whack job, and you really pissed him off with that phone-sex gag. Embarrassed him in front of everyone. You’ve been on him good for months.”
“Really?”
“Really. Telling you straight.”