Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

  The mongoose relied on response. The cobra struck with a fall from above, and the mongoose danced clear, leapt and bit the vulnerable area behind the snake’s hood. A mongoose never tried to strike the cobra until after the cobra did. The mongoose positioned himself so that the cobra could only strike from one direction. I knew all of this because of a report I’d helped my daughter to do after they read Kipling’s “Rikki-Tikki-Tavi.” Nothing like a fourth grade report to bet your life on.

  When I got home, I wasn’t fuming anymore. I had to work that night, and I had to pick up a bottle of red wine for my evening with Dana for dinner. I didn’t think her invitation was made lightly, and I didn’t want to take it that way.

  Dinner was blade meat and kale soup, a favorite, and I ate it mechanically, not enjoying the cumin and other herbs that Mrs. Pina used. Tender blade meat was the product of hours of cooking, with pauses to cool and reheat. It was a lot of work, but I was eating it without pleasure. Mrs. Pina probed with her eyes, without asking any questions. Marisol was too absorbed in the excitement of the day to notice anything.

  After we cleaned up, I took Mrs. Pina aside and told her about Jason and Adam. I told her what they looked like and told her to call DaSilva, Lacombe, Dana and me as soon as she spotted them. They’d sent a message, and I remembered the beating that continued after I was unconscious. I called and left a voicemail for DaSilva to brief him. I made sure to tell him how worrisome it was. Laying a foundation couldn’t do any harm.

  I managed a shower and shave, struggled into my work clothes and left, after collecting my goodbye hugs and kisses from Marisol. I felt a physical pull, the urgent need to be home. I knew I couldn’t live with that, every night. I could guard my house, all day, every day, or I could run away. There had to be another option.

  ***

  The hotel bar had slowed down, after the notoriety wore off from the Congressman’s death, but Sarah was on the schedule to work with me.

  Business was slow, and we had lots of leisure time. Time to look at the harbor through the windows, then back at the clock, polish glasses that were already clear and wipe the spotless bar. We had time to talk, hum and think.

  If Jason and Adam didn’t bother us again, no contact or messages, no further threat pointed at Marisol, then they could go home to Washington, and maybe the system would do something about them. I would help it along, if I could. Otherwise, I’d have to act. I felt relieved by having a decision made, even if it depended on somebody else’s actions. I caught myself hoping that the two monsters would head south. Hope isn’t a good reason to let your powder get wet, but it isn’t a bad thing to have.

  The shift lasted forever. I was partway home, trying not to doze, when I quit fighting it. I found a donut shop that had its lights on, and bribed the kid cleaning the place with a ten-dollar bill for a pot of coffee. He passed three cups through the window at the rear, making me promise never to tell a soul. It got me home to stumble to bed, after checking on Marisol and sending Mrs. Pina to bed. An old western flickered on the TV set. John Wayne flipped a short carbine in one hand to cock it, flourishing a pistol in the other with his horse’s reins in his teeth. He had a patch on one eye, and appeared to be long past his best days. “You’d better fill your hands, you son of a bitch!” he shouted, just as I switched the set off.

  Had there ever been a time that simple? It was a good question to fall asleep with, so I did.

  Chapter 20

  I woke up in time to see Marisol off to school. When I’d had some coffee and felt more human, I called Sandra, the TV lady. She said, “Unless a civil war has broken out in D.C., you’d better be Brad freaking Pitt. And you’d better be horny, and recently divorced from what’s her name.”

  “Um, it’s Paul. Paul Costa?”

  “Yeah, I’m listening. Who needs sleep anyway?”

  “About Jason and his pet monster?”

  “Okay, I’m really listening, now.”

  “I need to know where they are, and I need to stay aware of it.”

  “That’s easy. The little shit is going to run for his father’s seat. He’s up your way.”

  “You’re joking.” I started getting queasy.

  “I wish. Nope, he figures he learned at his father’s knee, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “So he’s here for a good long while?”

  “Yup. Probably moving into Daddy’s old digs, to set up residency. He may never have lost it, who knows? The good news is that he’s not down here for now.”

  I spent a few minutes telling her about his visit to the school and the attention he gave to Marisol.

  “Mother. Fucker,” she said, carefully pronouncing each syllable.

  “I need him tracked, if you can make that happen.”

  She was silent for a moment. “Our affiliate up there has an old friend of mine producing for them.”

  “Is that good?”

  “Producers are serious journalists. They’re the reporters who get the information for people like me to spend a few seconds on air. This guy was a pit bull. The best. If the junior asshole from Rhode Island is going to run, he has to stay on good terms with the media. I think it’ll work, Paul.”

  “Will he do it?”

  “I think so,” she said slowly.

  “Sandra—"

  “You’re welcome. That’s what friends are for. Besides, there is the exclusive. I haven’t forgotten.”

  “Neither have I.”

  We hung up, and I felt a little better. DaSilva knew that Jason made an approach. He and Lacombe would read that as a threat. I had someone who could trail along with Jason, and Jason would want him around.

  It was still early, and I went to my computer, logged on to the Internet, and checked my email. There was one from “DennisTMenis.” I opened it, and it was from Dennis Pereira.

  “How’re things?” it began. “The attached is a photo and description of Miranda, courtesy of the escort service. In the meantime, there really has to be a good way to make money with all of this computer technology. If you come up with something, let me know, and I’ll split the take with you. Kathy Sousa says to say hi, and why haven’t you called her, you dog?”

  I sent an answer to thank him. I passed on a hello to Kathy Sousa, and told him that the FBI had a whole group that did nothing but go after on line scams. I didn’t bother to tell him why I didn’t call our classmate. Dennis would know that if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t.

  DaSilva’s business card had an email address, so I copied the photo and description file and sent it directly, with no trace of Dennis in it. I signed off and picked up the phone to make an appointment at the range for some pistol practice.

  They had a small “Hogan’s Alley” combat practice range, with a mocked up city street. It sounded like fun, until they told me it cost a hundred bucks for a half hour. Nope. They had a pistol range for target and one for combat shooting. Each went for twenty-five bucks an hour, plus target costs. They could sell ammunition, and they insisted on having my Beretta looked at by their gunsmith. It sounded like a professional operation, and it was just over the border in Massachusetts. My license was okay for Rhode Island, so I asked the guy at the range about carrying it over the border.

  As he suggested, I locked it in the trunk, and drove up into the countryside west of Taunton. I checked my weapon in, and waited for about twenty minutes. The gunsmith bore sighted it for me, and cleaned it, adjusting the tension of the recoil spring. He gave me a signed card to present to the range master.

  The concentration was just the thing to help me try to think. The range master had been in the Marine Corps, and didn’t like my choice of holster position and orientation.

  “Okay, so you can draw when you’re sitting at the table. Great. While that barrel is clearing the holster, it’s pointed at your waist, right into your guts from the side, about the worst way to get hit that there is. I don’t like drawing across body, either, so that leaves the high right with the butt to the rear. The FBI does it,
and it works. The weapon is safe until you level it, quick, natural and brings the gun right on line. Shit, Navy, even the SEALS do it that way.”

  We argued for awhile, enjoying the debate, finally getting into a shooting contest. I had him, until we got to twenty yards. At that point, he could just about write his name with the .45 he insisted on using.

  I paid him off.

  “Remember what I said, Navy, unless you plan to get into a gunfight sitting on your ass.”

  My early start on the day was great, in some ways, but it got me home with time on my hands. I figured I’d do some housework. As I pulled up to the house, another car pulled away. It looked like it had been parked outside of my house. I had my gun in the trunk, so I pulled straight into my garage, opened the trunk, and locked and loaded. I holstered it after I had gone through the whole house.

  There was careful, and there was fearful. I didn’t mind careful, but I couldn’t stand being afraid. It made me angry. I was still angry when I picked up the phone, hung it up without dialing, and paced around the house. Then I started a pot of coffee, and picked it up again.

  I called the strip joint, and got lucky.

  “Tim?”

  “Yup, this is Tim Foley.”

  “Hi, Tim, Paul Costa.”

  “Hey! How they going?”

  “Okay, but we should talk.”

  “Drop by, I have to tell you something, and I still don’t trust your phone.”

  “Give me an hour?”

  “See you, then.”

  Chapter 21

  I checked all of the locks on the doors and windows, left a note for Marisol and Mrs. Pina, and left. I made some turns to see if I was being followed before I headed for the “Gentlemen’s Club.”

  If anything, Tim Foley looked bigger, and tougher than I remembered except for his boyish grin. He poured me a coffee, got his filthy old mug out and sat at a table with me.

  There were no customers, and a couple of the girls were sitting around, looking like tired secretaries. A little bored, sitting casually, with legs crossed sipping coffee and chatting, except secretaries didn’t sit around in the mix of outfits that they did. One looked like an underdressed cowgirl, with chaps and a thong, a gun belt and a cowboy hat. There didn’t seem to be anything under the vest she wore, which somehow stayed in place. She was talking to a woman wearing an evening gown with no back, and very little front, along with opera length gloves. It looked like a Fellini movie.

  He looked around and saw what I was seeing. “Pisser, isn’t it?” He pronounced it “Pissah.”

  “How do you deal with reality when you leave here, Tim?”

  “It’s a crutch for people who can’t handle booze, drugs and fantasy. You just get used to making the jump, I guess.”

  “I guess so, What’s up?”

  “Lois is back.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Did she tell you anything about Jason and Adam?”

  “She mentioned them. She doesn’t like to talk about it.”

  “She staying with you?”

  “No.”

  I thought again about how wise she was. “Jason and Adam are up here too; that’s why I called.” I told him about the school visit, and how close he got to my daughter. His grin faded. “If they know that you and I are friendly, and they know about Lois—” I started.

  “I should be worried, right?” He sounded grim.

  “Can you get her under cover?”

  “I can get her to be careful, I hope.”

  “She has my number, and the cops are aware of things, but unless she’s in Newport, they can’t do much.”

  “She ain’t in a running away mood.”

  “Since I’m here to bring you bad news, do you know a Newport cop, named ‘Petersen?’” I asked, after a moment.

  “He used to come here. He dated one of the girls, but she hasn’t seen him in a few days. He’s real bad news. I think he’s on a pad. I know he and Morley were asshole buddies.”

  “On a pad?”

  “Yeah, he gets paid off to overlook some things. He has to unless he has a family fortune or something. He spends more in here than an honest cop could. If you’re on his shit list, there’s lots he can do.”

  Now it was my turn. “Pisser.”

  “I’ll call Lois. She may want to talk to you. Shit, I just wanted to tell you that things were looking up and that she’s back.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I’ve brought trouble your way.”

  “Not you, man. I’ll break their fucking backs if they come near her. I can be at her place from here or my place in less than ten minutes, and she always seems glad to see me.”

  I liked his smile. Acne and battle scars notwithstanding, when he smiled and thought of her, he had the pure joy and abandonment of a kid who’d just gotten the puppy he wanted.

  I was home a half hour later, checking my mirror frequently and coming into my neighborhood from a different side, watching for cars moving and any other hint that my house was under surveillance. It seemed clean, but I was still cautious. I pulled into my garage, and searched my car. Short of using a drug dog, it seemed clean. I entered my house with my hand near my gun. It took me a half hour to search my own house. Paranoia, but even paranoids have enemies. A cop with a grudge could “find” all sorts of things.

  I remembered Dennis Pereira’s email about scams, and checked my files on my computer. No cookies or activity that I couldn’t account for. I felt silly, but Tim had gotten me thinking. I was chasing my tail. Enough was enough. I had a date with a beautiful woman in a few hours. I had to go and leave my daughter, or let men who belonged in jail keep me at home.

  I tried to think of how my grandparents would handle it. It was tough, because I couldn’t imagine them getting into my situation. Still, my quiet and retiring grandfather had taken on the whole system for me and won. My grandmother’s steely determination intimidated more than one person who spoke better English, was better educated and had more visible power.

  Marisol came home with her flurry of books and energy, followed by Mrs. Pina. “You have a meeting with the FBI lady, tonight?” she asked.

  “Yes, but I’m thinking about canceling. Those men I worry about, and the reporters. I think I should be here.”

  “I think different,” she answered, with her chin pushing forward. “I think that this night is fine, and that I can protect our girl. I think that you worry about things that I can handle.”

  “Mrs. Pina—”

  “Paul, you think I would not want you to stay if I was worried? You think I do not care about Marisol?” She was getting a little louder than I wanted, so I led her outside onto our front porch.

  “Mrs. Pina, these men— I know you can take care of ‘Sol. Maybe better than me, but they just like to hurt people.”

  Her purse was huge and could have qualified as luggage. Lifting it was an effort for me, but she lugged it all over the place. She reached in, and produced an honest-to-God Luger. Carrying seven rounds of nine millimeter, with the famous jointed action, it was one of the best designs for comfort and accuracy.

  “Where in the world—” I started to say, and stopped myself.

  “No one hurts our girl, no one gets in; no one bothers us. No one changes our lives.”

  “Have you ever fired that thing?”

  “Manny’s father brought it home from the war, and I keep it clean and I have fired it.” Manny was her husband, dead for the past ten years.

  “Not your job, Mrs. Pina, it’s mine.”

  “I will be here, Paul, whether you go or not. I think you should go. I think you should spend time with her. It might be good for you. Bring her here, if it would make you feel better, but these men should not change things. You can’t live afraid, you know that.”

  There it was. Our blood called to us. I was angry because she was right. Another man might have thought she was wrong, but she knew me well. I went over her gun, checking the tensi
on in the magazine spring, as well as the action and trigger pull.

  “Where did you learn to take care of a gun?”

  “My father, in Angola, taught me.” She was grimly determined. I hoped that no repair people showed up in my absence. I gave in to her, because I trusted her. It seemed irrational, but it felt like the right thing to do. I was hoping my libido wasn’t doing my thinking for me. I gave her Dana’s number and showered and dressed.

  It was an occasion, so I hauled out my best suit and ironed a shirt. Marisol thought somebody was getting married or died or something, and couldn’t stop giggling.

  “Mrs. Pina won’t stop looking out of the windows, Daddy. What’s she looking for?”

  “She wants to make sure the house is safe, that’s all, honey.” I doubted that she believed me, but she let it go.

  After I left, I detoured to a liquor store that specialized in wines and bought a nice Australian red that I’d heard good things about, then headed up to Route 24 and the drive to Boston.

  ***

  She was wearing a floor length black dress, and had her hair in a twist with some loose tendrils. I smelled cinnamon and coffee and a meal cooking. It blended into a net of different kinds of deliciousness. She looked beautiful, and when I slipped my arms around her, I felt the weight of fabric slipping over silk and skin. She finally broke the kiss, “I have to turn the fish, and if we keep that up, we’ll never get to dinner.” She asked me to open what I brought.

  The table was set carefully. Her corkscrew was a good one, and I poured us each a glass. For the first time, I had time and inclination to look around at her home. I was standing in her living room. Some furniture was missing or had been moved. She had rearranged it to accommodate a dining room set from her kitchen.

  There were four bookcases of different sizes and shapes scattered around, with titles that I was familiar with, along with some in French. Lots of Hemingway, Saroyan and Steinbeck were mixed with some textbooks, including investigation and forensic tomes. I found a small CD player and picked out a couple of soft jazz disks. I loaded it, and started it up on a random mix.