NINE
It’s ten minutes shy of eleven when I get to Luis’s Mexican Grill. The old high-backed dark-wood booths sit idle, but two guys with shaved heads occupy the apex of the horseshoe bar, directly below Luis’s hanging collection of authentic caballista sombreros.
I don’t see Luis, the world’s greatest bartender, but my nose and ears tell me he might be helping Chef Cruz simmer red and green chilies in the back. Somebody’s yakking it up back there. Cooking stuff.
I pick a bar stool near the cash register, away from the Vin Diesel look-a-likes showing off their tattoos in wife-beaters. Both are drinking Buds in tall brown bottles and watching the Yankees replay on a grainy television stuck high against the far wall.
A minute later Luis strides out of the kitchen speaking fast Spanish with a short wiry Latino dressed in black. Black suit, black shirt, a black hat from the 1950s—one of those fedora things—and a black leather string tie.
The way this guy struts, holds his head back, he believes himself cool and tough. Personally, I don’t like the over-confident sneer on his lips or the pencil-thin mustache above them.
Luis breaks off their conversation and ducks under the bar gate. He’s wearing his usual white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up, the dark slacks, plus a gray vest today. He unlocks the register, gives me a nod. Preoccupied. Or pissed. Don’t know which because I’ve never seen either look on him before. Eyes like a windy night in the fall. Maybe Halloween.
The black-dressed stranger takes a seat two stools down from me. I can smell his cologne. Or perfume. Or the flowery-smelling white powder he sprinkles on his ass to keep his crack dry.
“
Que pasa
?” I say to Luis. Asking my favorite bartender “What’s happening?” stretches the extended boundaries of my limited Spanish.
“Nada,” he says. “A margarita?”
“A double shot sounds better.”
I expect comment. Tequila shots are not
my usual pre-lunch fare. Especially doubles. Maybe I’m looking for conversation, even sympathy. This bond default could be Austin Carr’s final financial fiasco.
But Luis says nothing. He is uninterested in me today. He simply goes to work, stacking the dish of lime wedges and a salt shaker in front of me, pouring Herradura Gold into a rocks glass.
The man in black grunts like a barn animal. Gesturing with tiny hands; telling Luis he wants a shot, too. Not very polite, this man in black. Did I mention I don’t like his manicured, polished fingernails? Wonder how he knows a
hombre
like Luis.
My favorite bartender caps the Herradura, sends the bottle sliding toward Branchtown Blackie, followed quickly down the slick bar by a clean shot glass and my dish of sliced limes. But Blackie isn’t waiting on ceremony. He grabs the Herradura, unscrews the cap, and snatches the bottle to his lips. Gulp, gulp, gulp.
Un-freaking-believable. Even the Vin Diesel twins in wife beaters are shocked. It’s the first time their eyes have left the TV.
Luis instantly concurs with the bar’s general disapproval. He hops down the counter
like a panther, yanks the Herradura out of Blackie’s hand, and hits the rude jerk with a stream of hot Spanish. Nose to nose. I recognize a few choice curses. Lots of
chinga
this,
chinga
that.
Blackie’s face darkens to a Hershey-chocolate brown. His ebony eyes set smooth and hard, like black marbles. A tiny wrinkle forms in the center of his brow.
Suddenly Blackie’s hands flash from the bar to Luis’ vest, bunching the material into tight balls. Me and the Vin Diesels suck air. Luis, too, is caught off guard, and Blackie takes advantage, dropping off his stool, using his weight and the leverage of the bar to yank Luis off his feet behind the counter.
My eyes can’t believe what they’re seeing. Luis is suspended above his rubber floor mat, feet kicking, searching for purchase.
My jaws must be wide enough to swallow one of Cruz’s two-pound pork burritos.
Luis slaps his back pocket. That’s when I wake-up, realize Branchtown Blackie has made a disastrous mistake
—his hands are tied up. Luis’s are free.
El hombre
Luis’ right palm, fingers and thumb are blurred locomotion, too fast for my eyes.
Luis’s hand comes back up even faster. A snapping or clicking sound, heavy and metallic, fills the hushed and empty restaurant. Something blacker than Branchtown Blackie runs point for Luis’s right hand.
Blackie freezes when he sees it. Me and the Vin Diesel twins gasp again, this time louder than the air conditioning.
Calm, relaxed, Luis touches the pointed tip of an eight-inch steel knife to Blackie’s throat. It’s one of those big Tijuana switchblades I used to covet as a kid, Black steer horn with chrome trim and a stainless steel blade.
Oh. My. God.
TEN
A blood-red flower blossoms where the double-edged point of Luis’s switchblade presses Branchtown Blackie’s Adams apple. Crimson drops become a trickle that runs beneath Blackie’s shirt collar.
Sweet Jesus, Luis. Don’t kill him.
On television, last night’s Yankee crowd breaks into wild booing. Bad call at home, I’m guessing, but it sounds like the assembled masses want Blackie killed. A Coliseum full of Romans, thumbs down.
My heart is the creature from
Alien
, thumping to escape and run loose throughout the ship. I tell myself to breathe slowly. Remain calm.
Luis whispers something to Blackie’s nose. Probably threatening surgery. But Blackie won’t let go, his stony face set dry and hard. Unblinking.
Faccia rozzo
. The manicured little weasel has no fear. Or maybe he thinks Luis’s eight-inch switchblade is made of rubber.
A crazy scream soars above the television booing. Luis and Blackie don’t flinch, but the twins and I shift our attention toward the back ruckus.
Through the kitchen doorway runs Chef Cruz, his fingers clutching a microwave-sized butcher knife. Scary-looking thing is almost bigger than Cruz, but he’s got it balanced high above his shoulder.
I prepare to duck.
Feet still off the ground, Luis waves off Cruz. The big switchblade stays about one-quarter inch under the skin of Branchtown Blackie’s throat.
Cruz is already around the Vin Diesel twins,
his knife tickling Luis’s hanging sombrero collection, but he stops short of Blackie, following Luis’s instructions. The butcher knife remains shoulder-high, ready to cleave.
Luis whispers to Blackie again. I can’t tell in Spanish or English. Seconds go by. Five, ten? It’s hard to tell time when the whole room is frozen, us customers staring wide-eyed like wax dummies.
Finally, Blackie lets loose of Luis’s vest. The Vin Diesel twins and I sigh in unison as my favorite bartender’s feet return softly to the rubber-matted floor.
Luis pulls the knife away, folds the blade, and sticks the weapon back in his pocket.
Blackie touches his Adams apple, checks his fingers to assess damage, the quantity of blood. It’s more than a drop or two, but Blackie’s reaction is nonchalant, as if such wounds were a daily occurrence. A shaving cut.
Luis and Blackie pin each other again. No heavy breathing. No more whispers. Just staring into each other’s eyes like wild animals. Males with old, well-battled antlers.
Cruz spins and hurries back toward his kitchen. The twins and I throw money on the bar, head for the exit.
Waiting on my desk at Shore Securities the next day is a certified letter from a New York law firm, Bisker, Brasher & Bobkin. At least that’s what I think the letterhead says. Helvetica compressed bold italic is a little tough to make out. I recognize the font because my ex-wife’s mother picked the same typeface for our wedding announcement fifteen years ago and forty-two people went to the wrong church.
Woeful marketing aside, the letter boils down to this: Unless we pay the ex-football player-slash-boat captain fifty grand he says he lost on the St. Louis hospital bonds I sold him, myself and Shore Securities will be sued for triple damages under the Federal racketeering laws, “said parties having displayed an organized pattern of criminal activity.”
I’m surprised my wackiest client found out about the default so fast, but a lawsuit doesn’t worry me much. In fact the letterhead on this fancy parchment must read Brisket, Basket & Brainless. They didn’t even bother reading Psycho Sam’s account agreement where it says all complaints must be argued before my industry association’s arbitration panel, not the courts.
I glance up to find Rags scowling at me. The level of animosity I sense astounds me. Honest-to-God malice, like he wishes I was dead. Wow, Rags. Sorry my camper shed rust on your Florsheims.
“
Vic wants to see you,” Rags says. “Now.”
I fold up the letter to bring with me, head for the boss’s office. I’ll be all right. They’ve got insurance for these things. Besides, I won Straight Up
Vic eight hundred dollars last weekend when I made a thirty-footer on the seventeenth.
Straight Up
Vic is playing golf on the twenty-by-twenty antique Oriental rug that pretty much covers the maple floor of his private office. The owner of Shore Securities putts ball after ball into one of those plastic, hole-in-a-platform contraptions that flips the winners back at you.
So as not to interfere with his stroke,
Vic’s solid lilac tie is tucked between the second and third buttons of his starched white shirt. He doesn’t look up at me until he’s made three in a row.
“What’s with this lawsuit, Austin?”
I turn palms up. “The St. Louis bond default. This client’s second with us. Claims I never told him this one was junk-rated. Says he never would have bought it.”
Vic
rolls another Top Flight toward the green plastic toy. Bang. It’s a winner. A spring shoots the ball back within two inches of Vic’s tasseled black loafers. “Those puppies generated a confirmation that said they were double-B rated, right?”
“Absolutely. And this same guy’s bought nothing but junk for six or seven years. He’s a yield buyer, always has been.”
Vic lines up another putt. We call him Straight Up because he tried to get out of the forest one day with a three-wood, made solid contact, but struck a tree and lost sight of the ball. We waited for it to land. Five seconds, ten seconds. Nothing. Seemed like half a minute later, Vic shrugged, and started walking. Four steps, then
thunk
. A ball crashes from the sky like a missile, embedding itself so deeply, Vic needed a five-iron to dig it out, confirm the ball was his. That ricochet in the forest must have gone fifty stories straight up.
“You need to take this guy to the
’Splaining Department,” Vic says, “tell him I hate spending money on lawyers.”
I stare at the certified letter in my hand. Triple damages. Federal racketeering laws. “This boat captain is a psycho to start with, boss. Now he’s really pissed off. Maybe I should give him a day or two to calm down.”
Vic lifts from his putting crouch for first time since I’ve been in the room. He leans his new titanium, pro-balanced putter against his desk and glances at a color photograph on the wall. His fishing yacht, the “Triple-A.”
“Today, tomorrow, whenever. But talk to him,”
Vic says. He stops me when I head for the door.
“Keep Rags informed, Austin. And remember I really hate lawyers. If I have to hire one for this, I’m taking half his fee out of your commissions.”
ELEVEN
Outside
Vic’s office, my ears go hot. I check the hallway mirror for escaping radioactive steam. Me, pay half? Is he kidding? I sell bonds that Vic and his Wall Street cronies underwrite, convince my clients they’re safe, but when the bonds go south, thanks to poor research, or worse, maybe undiscovered fraud, Mr. Vic says I should be in control of my customers?
Straight Up my ass.
I must be giving off vibes of the wounded as I trudge across the sales floor because Rags takes one look at my body language and decides to take advantage. He’s standing by my desk, but now he plops his ass on it, glances covetously at my coffee. He has my phone wedged between his neck and ear, too, talking to somebody.
When I get closer, he rips the plastic lid off my Starbucks and puts his mouth and tongue inside like he’s performing oral sex. Carmela should be so lucky.
Vic’s unfortunate daughter has more hair on her face than a raccoon.
Rags swallows a gulp. “Nice speaking with you, Mrs. Burns. Remember what we talked about.”
What the hell? I snatch the phone from his neatly manicured fingers.
“Kelly?” I say.
Rags jumps to his feet, spilling my coffee, trying to grab the phone back. But I’m too quick for him, so now he’s leaning on my chest with his forearm. Blood flushes his face. I haven’t been in a fist-fight since grammar school, but I’m ready for this skinny prick. The anger and frustration inside me want to pop. Mount St. Helens has nothing on this pent-up stockbroker.
Kelly’s voice on the phone is a distant crack of thunder. Unintelligible
.
“Give me the phone back,” Rags says, “or you’re fired. Right now.”
“Screw you, you little weasel. Mr. Vic’s not going to let you steal my clients.”
I make sure my voice rises so the last part’s loud enough for the whole sales room to hear. A new sales manager swiping clients could empty this place of big producers fast.
Rags’ job is to keep the big hitters happy, not push them out the door.
Rags realizes talk about stealing clients, just the confrontation, make him look bad on the floor. I can see in his weasel eyes he’s going to back off. Smarter than I thought. Give the jerk some credit.
He takes a deep breath. “We’ll talk later.”
Rags strolls away like refrigerated honey, slow and sweet, the phony smile unlikely to win any Oscars, however. He mumbles an insult in a tone so low even I can’t hear. His gaze slides off to my left somewhere, grinning at an invisible joke.
“Kelly?” I say.
“What happened? I heard shouting.”
“What did that guy say to you?” I ask.
“Tom? Your boss?”
“Yes. What did Rags say to you?”
“Well…he suggested you were less than reliable, that as your superior, he would be happy to take over direction of Gerry’s account personally.”
Why am I not surprised? “He’s a son-of-a-bitch.”
“Don’t let him upset you, Austin. I have that nurse coming tonight, remember. We planned on meeting for dinner at that Mexican place you like.”
“
I
like? Don’t you like Luis’s, too?”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve been there a lot with Gerry.”
“You want to go someplace else?”
“No, Luis’s is fine. I’ll have the shrimp enchiladas.”
“Great. So what time?”
“I can leave as soon as Gerry gets his morphine.
Say nine?”