Stiffed (12 page)

‘Well, they got that right,’ I say.  ‘Was one of them called Gerlach?’

‘Yes, Joe Gerlach.  The good looking one,’ Sally says, touching her hair. 

Oh great, she fancies the
cop that wants our scalps.  If she even gets a sniff of booze she’ll be opening her legs and ratting us out.

‘He doesn’t have much good to say about
you,’ Sally continues.

‘That figures.’

‘He said to tell you that if you got in contact that he has the t-shirt.  And how did he put it: “If you’re uncertain whether you’re guilty, I can guarantee it.”  He said it would be … ’

‘Shit,’ I mutter
.  He has the blood stained t-shirt from when I lifted Marino’s clothes from the garbage bin.  I’d stuffed it into the back of the wardrobe.  Then promptly forgot about it.  I should have collected it and burnt it along with everything else.

‘The bodies,’ Jason says, panic in his voice.  ‘If they search my parent’s house they’ll find the bodies.’

Jason’s just read my thoughts.  Gerlach might have a blood stained t-shirt, but does he have anything to match it against?  We’ve burnt the bed, but he’ll know that.  And he’ll want to know why.  He’s probably got a forensics team combing over the house.  No doubt we’ll have missed a few specks of Marino’s or Junior’s blood.  We need those bodies, not to leave them so that they are discovered, but to make them disappear.

Or to trade with.
  Now there’s the germ of an idea.

Either way we need them out of Jason’s garage.

And we need to try and take charge of our own destiny.  This whole escapade has become too messy and we’re too boxed in.  We need to try and expedite a resolution.  And if the police are out as option, then the only alternative is the opposition.  We need to do a deal.

‘Okay, okay,
’ I say, ‘here’s what we’re going to do.  Jason and Paavo will get a new van and move the bodies from Jason’s garage.  Hide them somewhere safe.  I’ll go and talk to Aldo Pirelli, see if I can sort this ... this ... this clusterfuck out.  Explain that it’s all a misunderstanding; that we have nothing to do with it.  See if he knows where Annabelle is.’

‘You call that a plan?’ Sally says.

‘It’s better than the plan that you don’t have,’ I reply, knowing that she’s right, that it’s not much of a plan.

‘We need to stick together.’

‘No, we don’t.  We need to try and get ourselves out of this madness.  If all four of us are picked up at once we’re finished. Aldo Pirelli can get this mess straightened out.’

‘Aldo Pirelli only cares about what’s best for him and his associates.’

‘Which is why it’s in his interest to help us.’

‘Why?  Why is it in his interest?’

‘Because … because it just
is
.  We have Marino’s body.  He’s tied into this fuck-up in some way.  We can trade Marino for help.’ 

‘
What the heck is he going to do with a dead body?  We need to find the million dollars,’ Sally says.  ‘He’ll only be interested in trading for the money.’

‘Look, we have no idea where the million dollars is
!  We have no idea who has Annabelle.  The only thing we do know is where the dead bodies are hidden.  The only solution is to try and reason with one of the key players.  We’re just running around like headless chickens at the minute getting nowhere.’

‘We could just go to the police.’

‘It’s too late for the police.  They think we’re guilty of a dozen different crimes.’

‘You are!
  That’s why we need to go to them.  Trade Redneck, Barry White and Pirelli for leniency.’

‘You’re assuming we have something to trade.’

‘We have the bodies, don’t we?’

‘Yes and nothing to say that we
didn’t kill them!  We’ve no material evidence that Redneck, Barry White or Pirelli killed them either.  But there is material evidence linking us to their deaths.  The blood all over my house, my blood soaked t-shirt, the inside of the van.  They’ll just claim that we’re trying some elaborate deflection scam.  Trying to point fingers at known criminals.  A few clever lawyers and we’re fucked.’

‘But what about Annabelle and Kate’s kidnappings?’

‘What about them?  They’ll both disappear!  We’ll be blamed.  Problem solved.  We go down, everyone else walks away.  Someone with a million dollars.’

Sally’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes buggy.

The room fills with oppressive silence.

‘But how will going to Pirelli help?’ Sally says eventually.

‘How can it do anymore harm?  I can reason with him.  Tell him that we’re not involved; that we’re innocent bystanders.  Appeal to his sense of honor.’

‘It’s still a terrible plan.
’

‘Has anyone got a better one?’ I ask.

‘A bad plan is better than no plan,’ Paavo says. 

No doubt another army slogan.
  It sounds like horseshit to me, but then so does my so-called plan.

6

Life is hard; it’s harder if you’re stupid
— 
John Wayne

We refined the plan a little.  Not much.  Just gave it a slight polish. 

Sally
has set off with Paavo and Jason to Annabelle’s factory.  There they’ll pick up a van and then drive to Jason’s to collect Marino and Junior, transporting them to an old warehouse that Paavo knows.  In the meantime, Sally will drive back to her house, collect me and deliver me to a bar Pirelli owns and is known to frequent.  Sally has the Raptor, Jason the Uzi, leaving me gun-less, but I’m perfectly fine with that.  I have no desire to be in a shoot-out.  Running or surrendering is more my style.

Whilst Sally
’s gone I’m to get a shower and try and make myself presentable for Pirelli.  I doubt I’ll get through the door looking like someone who’s been dragged through a hedge backwards and then beaten with a stick on the other side. 

I wander round the house, savo
ring the peace and calm; some time to myself after the madness of the night and morning.  There’s no doubt that Sally has landed on her feet.  The place is like a palace, tastefully decorated and spic and span – like one of those homes you see featured in lifestyle magazines.  Everything matches and nothing is out of place.

I head into an enormous bathroom decorated
with large white tiles and chrome fittings.  There’s a Jacuzzi bath in one corner, a walk in shower in the other, a pristine toilet and a bidet.  Sally has laid out one of her idiot husband’s light blue shirts with a collar on a chair, along with a yellow tie, a pair of black polyester trousers, black shoes and white y-fronts.  The fresh t-shirt I brought with me has ‘I’m with this moron’ written across it in large letters accompanied by an arrow.  Hardly the thing to wear when visiting a mafia boss.  I hold up the trousers.  They’re about two inches too short, but I can live with them.  The shoes are a size too small, but should be okay.  Thank God I also threw into the plastic bag I brought with me a fresh pair of boxers. The thought of wearing Klutz’s y-fronts makes my skin crawl.

I strip off
, admiring my bruised body in the full length mirror.  The bump on my head is still the size of a golf ball.  My torso is tattooed with green and purple bruising.  The hair on my chest is just starting to fuzz back, barely a few millimeters long.  The chances of me ever getting another body wax are the same as O.J. Simpson making President.  I’ve no idea why I agreed to go along with it.  God knows how Marino would have coped.  The skin over his entire body must have been composed of little else other than hair follicles.  All I can say is women must have some kind of sado-masochistic streak to wax voluntarily.

I turn on the shower, setting the temperature to lukewarm, and step into the powerful blast.  Jesus, that feels good.  I try and relax, let my mind empty, but there’s fat chance of that happening.  The questions
firing through my neurons all concern Kate.  Who the hell is she?  How the hell did she get a million dollars?  And where on earth did she hide it?

It occurs to me that I basically know
nothing about her.  She breezed in and made herself part of my life without really revealing anything about herself.  Basically, what I know is that her favorite color is red; her birthday is March 17
th
, which every Irish kid knows is St Patrick’s Day; she loves old black and white movies and hates reality TV; and she has a thing for bourbon, but detests tomatoes. 

She was all surface and no depth, like she’d put
on a mask to hide her true self. She could be warm and affectionate one minute and as cold as ice the next.  She could manipulate a situation, twist your words any which way she pleased, be condescending and belligerent, and then turn on the charm and the compliments.  She was an expert in kissing and making up, the sex either tender or savage.  She could laugh with you and a moment later be laughing at you.  And she always liked to get her way, even if she conceded ground strategically every now and then.  As time moved on she became more argumentative, more demanding, and more domineering, as if playing her role was becoming tiresome. 

I lived with h
er for seven months and she’s still an enigma. 

And now I know why.

It was all a lie.  She was some kind of confidence trickster.  And I was her patsy; her cover whilst she hid. 

And now I’m paying the price.

My friends are paying the price.

Because she stole a million dollars from
either Redneck, Barry White or Pirelli, or all three.

And now they’ve found her
and all hell has broken lose.

I rinse away the suds, turn off the shower and reach for a fluffy white
towel.  Sally should be back any time now. 

* * *

Ten minutes there, ten minutes back.  Sally should be here.  Even allowing for traffic, say twenty minutes there and back, she should have returned.  I’m starting to get frantic again; the underarms of Klutz’s shirt are already stained with circles of sweat.  I knew I should have gone with the others.  We could have dropped Jason and Paavo off and then continued on to Pirelli’s bar.

I glance at my watch for the tenth time in two minutes
.

First
Kate disappeared.  Then Annabelle.  Now Sally.  I’ve managed to get all three women kidnapped! 

How the
hell does that happen?

I pace from the front door to the back
door and back again, staring out of a narrow window at the lifeless cul-de-sac.  Still no sign of her. 

Shit.

I head to the telephone in the hall and scan down a list of telephone numbers printed on a pad.  Sally’s cell phone is listed second from bottom.  I punch in the number and let it ring.  After seven rings it switches to an answer service.

She’s probably hasn’t put the battery back in. 
Fingers crossed.

The phone b
eeps: ‘Hi, it’s Sally.  Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’ 

‘Sally …
it’s Tadhg.  Call home, okay.’  I end the call.

Damn.  What are the chances she’ll hear that any time soon?

I pace back to the window.  Nothing moves outside, not even the leaves on the trees. 

She’s now been gone forty five minutes.
  Somebody’s snatched her.  I know they have.

Shi
t.

Do I wait or do I go and see Pirelli about Annabelle?  I’ll give it five more minutes then
I’m out of here.  I’ve already wasted enough time; the longer I leave things, the worse they’re likely to become. 

I
stride back to the phone again and glance in the hall mirror.  It’s not a pretty sight.  The shirt is too tight, the trousers too short, and I’ve never looked right in a tie.  The Crusaders cap is completely out of place with the rest of the get-up.  I look and feel like Jerry Lewis. 

Back to the window.
  Nothing.

Fuck it, I’m going to have to go.  But how
the hell am I going to get to Pirelli’s?  I head through to the kitchen and into the garage.  I spot exactly what I’m looking for lined up on the far side: four mountain bikes; two for kids and two for adults, helmets looped over the handle bars.

Since I don’t drive, the bike is my vehicle of choice.  I know every side road and shortcut in the town. 
It’s only a mile or so to Pirelli’s lair so it should only take a couple of minutes.  All I’ve got to do is avoid the cops, Redneck, Cowboy and Barry White.  And anybody driving a car.  Folks round here think that roads are for cars and trucks.  Anything else is just potential road kill.

I wheel the largest bike into the house and up to the front door.
  I take the helmet from the bars and put it over the cap.  This isn’t going to work.  I take the cap off, hang it on the coat stand and put the helmet back on.

I can’t leave
though without doing something about Sally.  Something bad has happened, I know it.  Even she isn’t dumb enough to stop and have a long chat with a neighbor or run another errand.

Contrary to my better instincts I head back to the phone.  I look up the number for Carrick Springs Police Division then t
ap it out.

It rings twice.
  ‘Police, how can I help?’

‘I need to speak to Joe Gerlach.’

‘I’m sorry, but Sergeant Gerlach is busy right now.  Can I take a message?’

‘
Can you tell him that Tadhg Maguire called?  I … ’

‘
Tadhg Mag … I’ll put you through.’

Oh, Christ
.  Tadhg Maguire is obviously synonymous with Open Sesame.  I should go; they’re probably tracing this number.

‘Tad?’

Shit that was fast.

‘It’s Tadhg.’

‘Sorry, Tadhg.  Where are you, man?’  I can hear the sound of traffic in the background.

‘Sally Krebs has gone missing.  She left her home fifty minutes ago and hasn’t returned.  She was only meant to be gone twenty minutes
at most.’

‘Sally Krebs?’

‘You were here not much more than an hour ago, Joe, so stop pretending you don’t know who she is.  You need to find her.  Annabelle Levy is also missing and so is Kate Jansen.’  If I’m going to set them looking for Sally, I might as well get them looking for all of them.

‘Tad, calm down.
  Talk to me slowly.  What has happened to …’

‘It Tadhg.
  They’ve been kidnapped.  That’s all I know.’

‘Kidnapped?  Tadhg are you
feeling okay?  Just stay where you are and we’ll come to you.’

‘I’ve got to go now, Joe.  I just wanted you to know they’ve been kidnapped.  They want a million dollars.’

‘You want a million dollars, Tad?’

How difficult is it to remember a name?  He’s either the world’s worst negotiator or it’s some deliberate ploy to wind me up.

‘I haven’t kidnapped them, Joe,’ I say patiently.  ‘I’m trying to rescue them.  And I don’t want a million dollars.  They do.’

I slam down the phone, dash to the front door, open it and wheel
the bike out.  I can already hear sirens approaching.  More than one car.

Fuck.

I swing my leg over the bike and start pedaling like a swan trying to get enough speed up to take off. I exit the estate, swinging left.  A police car turns a corner up ahead, coming straight towards me.  I lower my head, trying to hide my face.

Oh fuck.  This is it.  End game.

It hurtles past me, not slowing.

Shit.  Shi
t, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, my mind mantras, incapable of any other thought.

Maybe that phone call wasn’t such a hot idea.  Now Joe Gerlach thinks I’m a kidnapper.

I hang another left.  The air is hot and humid and I’m sweating like a sinner in church.  I drop down onto the saddle and immediately stand up again on the pedals.

Damn
.  I guess my balls aren’t ready yet for a saddle.

* * *

I zip across the parking lot of a Market Basket, cross a sidewalk and hop down onto the road.  I have a nice pace going, but it would be better if I could lower myself onto the seat and really crank up the speed.  I coast with the traffic for a few meters, then dash across the road between two on-coming cars and remount the sidewalk on the far side.

The whole town seems alive with the sound of sirens.
  They must have the whole fleet out looking for me.

I hang a left down a residential street, hopping back off the
sidewalk onto cracked tarmac.  It’s lined with one-storey houses that are well spaced with neat lawns and pruned shrubbery, a few with poles flying the Stars and Stripes.

Behind me I hear the whoop of a siren.

I glance over my shoulder.  A police car has just pulled onto the street, its red and blue lights flashing.

I’m quick, but I’m going to have difficulty outrunning
even a badly tuned police cruiser.

I drop the gears to a higher cog and lash into the pedals trying to gain some extra speed.

Without looking back, I can sense that the car is closing in, its revs increasing.

I sw
erve up a driveway and onto a sidewalk lined with garbage bags.

Shit
!  The last thing I need – an obstacle course.

We’re approaching a crossroads.  I fly
off the curb, scoot across and hop back up.  Thank God nothing was coming the other way.

The cruiser pulls alongside.

‘Tad!’

I look across at Joe Gerlach.
  He’s sitting in the passenger seat staring over at me with an amused smile.

Making that phone call was pretty damn dumb. 
Moronic.

‘Tad
, pull up.’

I try and increase my speed.  The junction with Telegraph Road is coming up fast.