It’s Cruz, not Luis.
I throw up on Mallory’s shoe.
It takes the Branchtown cops all day to approximate the time of Cruz’s death, then three minutes to verify my alibi with the hospital nurses station. Those girls must have been able to recite the exact time of my every bowel movement.
During my wait at the police station, I tell Mallory and a tape recorder everything I know about Cruz, Luis, and the restaurant. But once I’m done with my two Branchtown Blackie stories, Luis’s switchblade, my info apparently isn’t that exciting. I’m sent home with a warning to stay available for further questioning.
I call Walter for a ride. He has a dozen questions, but my answers are one syllable or less. Poor Cruz. He probably got himself killed trying to defend the restaurant.
TWENTY-TWO
I wake up cold and worried. Night air leaks inside my camper, chilling my arms and chest, yet perspiration drips in the hollow of my neck. The first two fingertips of my right hand collect the moisture like evidence. What’s wrong? Cruz’s death? Anxious and restless about my shitty life? Or did a nightmare rouse me? A noise?
Knuckles rap tenderly on my camper door. “Austin? It’s me.”
I slide carefully off my bunk. Definitely a female voice, or Psycho Sam. Sounds like the redhead, actually, but why would Kelly show up here so late? I stoop-walk to the back and crack open the door. The Branchtown night greets me with a cold wet kiss.
It’s Kelly alright. Her gaze shifts from my eyes to a place above my forehead. “I thought you were kidding about the helmet.”
I remove my headgear, toss it on the bunk. “Obviously you’ve never lived in a camper. I was developing permanent contusions and lacerations. You want to come in, have a beer?”
“I...” She can’t finish, and her green eyes thicken with sudden unshed tears. What’s wrong? Same old problem about too many nursing responsibilities? Or a new drama? Maybe she knew Cruz.
“Gerry’s gone,” she says.
Oh, my. I wasn’t ready for that so soon. My monster looked almost well the last time I saw him. “Did he die peacefully?”
“No, no,” she says. “I mean he’s gone, not dead. He left the condo in an ambulance.”
I push aside the rusty camper door and hop down beside my goofy redheaded lover, place my hand on her shoulder. Kelly must be treated with love and kindness. She can’t help it she’s a ding-bat.
A three-quarter moon throws our shadows on the asphalt and puts a frightened glare in Kelly’s moist eyes. Some kind of night bird squawks in the oak tree across from Shore Securities’ parking lot. I pull a blanket off the camper floor and wrap it around our shoulders.
“What happened?” I say.
She spreads her fingers on my chest. “Last night after dinner he lost consciousness. I called 9-1-1 and went with him to the emergency room. The doctor there got Gerry’s Sloan Kettering doctor out of bed, and they decided to transfer him to a hospice. They don’t think Gerry will live more than a few days.”
I reach for her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll be all right.” She sniffs. “Gerry and I’ve known this was coming.” She digs in her purse for a tissue. “It’s just that...even if we weren’t married...well...we’ve been together a long time.”
My arms slips around her waist. The redhead presses her hips against me.
“I don’t need all of it,” Kelly says an hour later. We’ve moved to the penthouse condo. “Just a little. We’ll go to Mexico, you and me. Live in the sunshine like the people in that fancy painting.”
I kiss her neck, then gaze up at Renoir’s Pont Neuf, the centerpiece of Gerry’s collection of Impressionist reproductions. “I don’t care if you take a slice of Gerry’s assets,” I say. “And I’d love to run away with you. But in a few days, a week, a month...eventually I’d miss my kids, miss them so bad I’d have to come back.”
“You told me you don’t see your kids now.”
“Not officially. But I’m pretty successful at being sneaky. More important, I have to maintain residence here to reacquire visitation rights, eventually joint custody. With my ex-wife, it’s strictly a matter of cash. But I’m not giving her any wiggle room. I’ll get the money, then I’ll get my kids.”
“How much?”
“Money you mean?”
“Yes. How much?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. How much?”
“A lot.”
“Come on. How much?”
“I’m not going to say.”
“Yes you are. How much?”
“Fifty-eight thousand.”
TWENTY-THREE
Kelly leans close and nibbles the bottom of my ear. A cold shiver slides down my back. What happened to Gerry’s teary eyed house mate? The grieving future ex?
“Okay, I’ve got it,” she says. “You help me slip off to Mexico with two million of Gerry’s bonds, I’ll give you the fifty-eight thousand as commission for whatever shenanigans you have to go through. I wish you’d come with me, but I guess the money will have to keep me warm.”
“Two million? I thought you said ‘a little?’”
She laughs, crinkling her nose like she does. “Stealing is stealing, right?”
I shrug. “Not if you get caught. Prosecutors tend to use big numbers against you.”
Hours later, while Kelly sleeps, I go on Gerry’s computer, locate the State of New Jersey internet site my reporter friend in Newark mentioned. I type Gerald Burns into the search bar, click go.
The site shows Gerry owns many different businesses, including a construction firm, an importing outfit, pieces of three restaurants, and a land development company. Gerry Burns’ estate must top twenty million. Not much info I didn’t already know or suspect, but confirming the considerable size of Gerry’s estate helps me think maybe his children won’t miss a few million in bonds.
Later, lying in bed beside the redhead, I imagine exactly how I would steal Gerry’s money for her. It’s so simple it’s scary. Forget about those registered securities Kelly found in the safe. All I have to do is forge Gerry’s signature on a few transfer forms, vouch for their authenticity with my friendly back office. Hell, maybe Kelly can even get the sick geezer to sign them. Presto. The securities in Gerry’s account will be transferred into Kelly Rockland’s account. In whatever value and amount I write on those transfer forms.
And wait. If I made a list of the bonds she found in Gerry’s safe, then swap two million worth of them for new bonds just as the transfer between accounts is taking place, the paper trail would get extremely complicated. Not untraceable, but complicated.
It could take a good accountant weeks to put together what happened. A bad one might never figure it out.
I roll over and hug Kelly’s lilac-scented pillow. What am I thinking? What the hell’s come over me? Am I really thinking of running away with the redhead?
No way. I’d never leave my kids.
Stealing money from Gerry’s kids and giving it to his mistress?
I guess I am thinking about that. A little.
Risking my career, maybe jail time for the fifty-eight grand?
Oh, yeah, I’m definitely considering that.
Too many blows to the head, Austin old boy. You must be nuts, wacko, and desperate.
Out of recently developed habit, I cinch up the chin strap on my blue New York Giant football helmet.
Desperate? Who, me?
Ridiculous.
TWENTY-FOUR
My daughter Beth tucks perfectly for the final underwater turn, coiling her ankles, knees, and hips against the pool, launching herself backward in flawless form, a human bullet slicing through the water.
When I see her surface forty meters from the finish, her competitors still engaged in the final turn, I realize my teenager has won another race. Only the most outrageous disaster could prevent her from winning now...and it’s not going to happen.
“Ya
y, Beth!”
When my vertical leaping concludes, I turn to the quiet woman standing beside me. Her sandals and sunglasses are the same shade of bright red, both embedded with rhinestones. “That’s three wins for my daughter,” I say. “The freestyle, the medley, and now the breast.”
Her lips barely move. Her gaze never leaves the water. “I don’t talk to men wearing Speedos.”
After the ribbons, awards, and trophies are handed out, Beth gives me a kiss of recognition as I crowd in close with other well-wishers. I’m safe because although today is Beth’s biggest athletic day yet, her mother is not in attendance.
“Three gold medals and one silver,” I say. “Team MVP. Individual Meet Champion. Summer League Swimmer of the Year. Not bad for a pimple-faced teenager with no boyfriends.”
“Daddy!”
“Oh, you can’t count that skinny kid Michael who calls the house every night.”
“Daddy!”
“I am so proud of you, honey. You’ve worked so hard for this. And you know I was kidding about the pimples, right? I mean, I don’t see one.”
“How did you know Mom couldn’t come?” Beth says.
“I didn’t know. I just got lucky. When are the state regionals?”
“Next Sunday. At Brookdale. Are you coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for a million dollars.”
“Mom already warned the school. She told them she’s hiring a private detective to keep you out.”
“I’ll figure out something. I always do.”
Beth glances at my bare chest, then leans in close to whisper. “Please don’t wear the Speedos.”
I stroll along the beach a few minutes later, basking in the glow of Beth’s achievements. Wow. It doesn’t get better than this. My daughter wins almost everything. Three out of four final races. Team MVP. Individual Meet Champion. Swimmer of the Year.
A seagull squawks in agreement. I loved sports as a kid, baseball and golf especially, but playing the game is nothing compared to the excitement of watching your children play. It’s crazy. Your spirit is engaged as if you were running and jumping out there yourself, sure. But your mind watches, too, torn with angst over the potential positive and negative outcomes. The fear doesn’t go away like it does when you’re playing. And more fear equals more excitement.
A wave crashes and rolls in, splashing my ankles with cold, foam-topped sea water. The Speedos worked again, despite that rhinestone bitch’s haughtiness and my daughter’s teenage embarrassment. I just strolled in from the beach, then walked out afterward like I belong. No one pays any attention to a guy in Speedos. In fact, everybody’s afraid to pay attention to a guy in Speedos.
My camper’s in the municipal lot, up here another fifty yards. Past these rocks. I can see my fender now, between the Corvette and the SUV with those...oh, shit...fishing poles.
“Hello, puke.”
Psycho Samson’s hand snatches my neck before I can run, duck, or borrow an Uzi. I am thrown face first into the wet sand, frozen again by the crushing vise around my neck. Without lessening his monster grip, Psycho Sam somehow throws a leg over me and puts his sweaty ass on my back. God, how humiliating. How painful. He could at least buy me dinner first.
I hear two kids on skateboards in the parking lot.
But I can’t shout to them. Hell, I can’t even breathe.
The edges of my vision turn dark, then black.
TWENTY-FIVE
Cool, white foamy seawater splashes my lips.
I taste salt, dead fish, and sudden shocking, coming-awake fear. Why can’t I turn from the water? Everything feels frozen—my feet, my legs, my hands, my arms. Is my neck broken? All I can do, twist my chin in a range of three or four inches, open my eyes.
Oh. My. God. I struggle madly and ineffectively at continental-size restraints. My distant thumping heart becomes the epicenter of an eight-point-five earthquake. Psycho Sam Attica has buried me in the sand, up to my chin just feet from the surf.
I cry out as more seawater splashes my face.
Waves break just yards away. An army of incoming ocean swells gathers on my limited horizon, preparing to attack. The cloudless sky is an end-of-the-world steely blue.
The next breaker sends a rush of foam that covers my mouth and fills my nose. I’m forced to hold my breath.
I don’t know how much time has passed. Ten minutes. Half an hour. I’ve survived this long by holding my breath as the waves come in, letting the air out underwater so there’s time to grab a new breath when each foamy rush recedes.
This last wave may have done me in. I managed to suck in half a chest full of air, but the other half was water, and it went down the wrong pipe. I’m choking.
Sweet Jesus.
What’s this? A sideways face? Lips kissing me? Blowing warm air into my oxygen-starved lungs.
Is that Kelly’s red hair lashing my cheeks?
An oxygen mask covers my nose and mouth. I’m flat on my back, inside an ambulance, strapped to a gurney. The siren wails.
Kelly’s kneeling beside me. Her bright green eyes twinkle with delight as my gaze focuses on her.
“I know, I know,” she says. “Three unrelated trips to the emergency room in four days. I’ve already called Ripley’s.”
“You mentioned your daughter’s swim meet, so I was looking for you at the club, figured maybe we could grab some dinner,” Kelly says later. “I waited by your camper for a long time, then I got worried. Two young boys with skateboards remembered seeing you with a giant. A giant man and his shovel.”
I have no idea what time it is. I know it’s dark outside the emergency-room window. Feels like I’ve watched the trees and bushes grow up.
“But I was mostly underwater when you found me.” I say. “How did you know where to look?”
“Your screams attracted me to the rocks. I heard a sucking sound, and I saw something strange in the surf.”
“My head?”
“Yes, well, the top. And your ears sticking out.”
TWENTY-SIX
The redhead and I do a late dinner. Then I do the redhead. Not exactly a lengthy and energetic display of affection, but it seems I get the job done.
After, at her condo in front of Jay Leno and the Tonight Show, Kelly tells me again how she wants a piece of Gerry’s multi-million dollar estate. How she wants it before Gerry dies, too, before the lawyers and Gerry’s children start pecking and clawing at every scrap of meat.
I’m bored with her schemes tonight. Pecked and clawed a bit too much myself perhaps. Choked and shot at, that’s for sure. Hit by a car. Thrown onto the asphalt like an empty beer can. Mugged into a lineup by the police. Buried alive in the sand, left to drown.
I’m pissed is what I am. Pissed and ready for a fight. And I know exactly where I’m going, too. Don’t give a crap who gets hurt, myself included. The bastards can pick on somebody else next time.
When Leno’s over and Kelly disappears into the marble bathroom to take a bedtime shower, I dress and walk past the fake Renoir with a salute, then out the door.
I am compelled to action, not by boredom with Kelly, but by a strange, unsupportable certainty that my psyche must fight back to survive.
Nothing makes sense. Rags, Psycho, and my nasty ex-wife can have no relation to Branchtown Blackie and his minions. But something powerful tells me my place in a bigger battle is next to Luis.
The yellow police tape is down, but Luis’s Mexican Grill is still closed, the parking lot empty. I drive around back. Tucked in beside the semi-permanent, tent-sized green garbage bin, Luis’s Jeep Cherokee rests neatly hidden from the street.
I need to play my hunches more often.
Parking beside the Jeep, I hop down onto loose gravel. My shoes scuffle loudly in the silence of the late hour. The traffic on Broad Street is a trickle. Two birds haggle for roosting space inside a patch of pine near Luis’s back fence. The breeze against my skin blows cool and dry.
The hood of Luis’s Jeep toasts my
fingers. He hasn’t been here more than a few minutes.
I try the kitchen entrance, the one I use when I take a shower. The door’s open so I slip inside.
The kitchen is long and narrow with an even narrower oak table extending down the middle. The table’s surface is covered with pots and pans, stacks of dishes, baskets of onions, peppers, garlic, and cilantro left out to rot. There are three bare bulbs for light. Only one is on, at the opposite end of the room.
Carefully making my way along the table, I hear voices. Distant and muffled. I move slower, softening my steps in the dim light, making sure I don’t kick anything loose, knock stuff off the table. The vegetables smell like garbage.
Under the lighted bare bulb at the far end of the oak table, an open stairway leads down into a cellar. Light filters up a wooden stairway. So do those voices—one loud and strong, the other not. I check the darkness behind me and take a deep breath.
The door to the shower and dressing room are at the other end of the kitchen. I’ve never been in this part of the restaurant before. Never seen these shelves, loaded with paper towels and toilet tissue. Never seen this old, hand-painted sign, “Maria’s,” leaning against the kitchen wall. Something about the sign or the name seems vaguely familiar, but it can’t be. Everything over here is new, strange.
A wounded groan slithers up from the basement.
This is what I came for, right? To do battle beside Luis? To find out what the hell’s going on with this Blackie character, settle the problem?
I grab another breath and start down the stairs.
After three steps, I see a prone and disabled Branchtown Blackie. Another four steps and my eyes capture the complete picture: Luis stands on a plastic tarp, his right hand holding his switchblade to Blackie’s throat. Only Luis’s tight grip keeps Blackie’s head off the plastic. Blood and purple bruises color Blackie’s face. If he’s breathing, he doesn’t know it.