TWENTY-ONE
I’m cold, shivering in the rear of Detective Jim Mallory’s city-sponsored four-door Ford Crown Victoria. Fog shrouds a blinking red train crossing as we approach. Our tires squeal to a halt. The wooden gate drops inches from our headlights. Clanging bells poke my ears, and in the distance, the engineer blows his discordant horns.
Not sure whether to blame my
shivering and shaking on another sudden shift in New Jersey’s weather or the anticipation of additional calamities. Mallory and the Eagle Scout are driving me to Luis’s Mexican Grill for unexplained reasons, and I’ve got a nasty chill worrying what we might find.
A misty drizzle keeps the wipers busy thumping across the windshield. Those hurricane remnants and warm humid air have given way to a storm front out of the Great Lakes. Much lower temperatures. In the closed Ford, I smell leather, gun oil, and from the back seat’s stained ru
g, a feint stench of dried vomit.
A crime’s been committed at Luis’s, I was told. A bad one, I’m guessing. Across the tracks, throug
h the glare of the flashing crossing lights, I can see into the restaurant’s parking lot. Three squad cars, half a dozen cops, and a circle of yellow tape surround a lump on the asphalt. The lump’s covered by a blue tarp.
The train arrives, shutting off my view. The yellow tape and blue tarp stay bright in my head. Neon color in a wet drab world.
“Somebody dead?” I ask.
Neither detective speaks. They keep looking straight ahead. Ignoring me.
“Come on, tell me,” I say. “Or I’m not saying another word until I see a lawyer.” Hey, I watch all the good cop shows. If everyone exercised their right to be silent, our prisons would be empty.
Mallory sighs. “Someone who works at the restaurant has been shot. A Hispanic male.”
The train passes, the gate lifts, and we pull across the railroad tracks into Luis’s parking lot. My heart’s skipping rope, jogging and jumping at the same time. There’s a double-granny knot in my stomach. Did Branchtown Blackie’s friend take another, better aimed shot at my favorite bartender?
When we pull up, the Eagle Scout jumps out and yanks me from the
Crown Victoria. None too gentle. Mallory’s partner is stronger than he looks. The little dick.
The drizzling fog tastes like fish. The Catch of Yesterday.
I try walking toward the tarp, thinking they want me to have a peek at the body, but Mallory grabs my arm. “This way, pal.”
Mallory’s tug pulls me off balance. Stumbling backward, my ex-favorite T-ball coaching partner slams me against a squad car. Whoa. What’s the hell’s going on?
Mallory’s Crown Victoria blinks high beams on me. My hand jumps up to cover my eyes.
Somewhere in the darkness, a cop says, “Put your hand down, asshole.”
I comply, but can’t help squinting at the Crown Victoria’s brights. My eyes sting with the glare.
“Stop making faces,” the same cop
-voice says.
Finally it dawns on me. I’m in a one-man line-up, scoped out by someone behind those lights. Am I a murder suspect?
Oh Lord, I hope that dead body isn’t Luis.
“That’s him,” a whiskey voice says. “That’s the guy what lives in the camper.”
Sweet Jesus. The uniformed cop who called me an asshole and Eagle Scout tug me over to Mallory’s Crown Victoria and stuff me in the back seat. I missed the smells.
Mallory’s grinning when he sticks his head inside to talk. “We have a witness says you were fighting with the victim. Lots of shouting, cursing.”
My skin turns clammy, my breathing shallow. Oh, please, not Luis. “Who’s the victim?”
“You wanna take a look?” Mallory says. “I mean, if you admit hanging out here a lot. Knowing everyone.”
Mallory walks me over. My legs are wobbly. Trickles of sweat run down my flanks. The foggy air closes in on me like heavy snow.
The Branchtown detective waves
, and one of the uniformed cops pulls back the blue tarp. Another train’s coming. I hear the clanging bells. The distant horns.
Sweet Jesus. Not easy to tell who it is. The face is bashed, features smeared across a bloody hunk of meat. But I recognize my friend by the overall size of the head, the partial hairline, the shape of one good ear.
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 de
velopment 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.
“
Yay, 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 la
ter, 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.