The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

I don’t even attempt to make a guess.

  “Umm, how’s about, I don’t know.”

  “One-hundred-eighty. Or roughly, half a lunar year. Now, my client has been accused of stealing plus or minus five-hundred K. Let’s go with five-hundred even just for shits and giggles, shall we?”

  He buckles up the now full briefcase.

  “I’m down with that,” I say.

  “Now, what’s one-hundred-eighty times five?”

  Desperately, I try to make the calculation in my head, just to make certain I don’t appear like a total dolt.

  “Nine-hundred,” he says, beating me to the punch.

  Fuck, I should have gone to Harvard.

  “Now, divide five-hundred grand by nine hundred, what do you get?”

  Me, just stupidly staring at him with an open jaw.

  “You get five-hundred-fifty-five dollars and fifty-six cents. That’s the precise amount of money Gladys would have had to steal from the till on a daily basis in order to make five-hundred-thousand.”

  Finally, a bright lightbulb shining over my head.

  “Yeah, but if she was taking in three or four thousand per day, it could be done.”

  He laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

  “Loudonville Elementary is home to around two-hundred-twenty students, K thru six. Say one-hundred-seventy-five of them buy their lunch instead of brown bagging it, and I’m being generous here. At around three-dollars-fifty cents per lunch, that’s a total daily take of about six-hundred-fifteen.”

  Another lightbulb over the old noggin’.

  “But what about breakfast? The school serves breakfast, I’m sure.”

  He’s already shaking his head like what I’m suggesting doesn’t amount to a hill of lima beans.

  “Already researched it, Jobz, which is why I’m a rich ass lawyer and not some broke pro bono public defender dipshit wandering the halls of divorce court representing equally broke white trash jerks.”

  “And?”

  “And, if the school does one-hundred-fifty per morning peddling soggy scrambled eggs and dry pancakes, it’s a lot. So, what’s that make our daily grand total come to?”

  “I guess about seven-hundred-sixty-five bucks on a good day.”

  He extends his left arm along with the index finger attached to it.

  “Which is exactly why it would have been impossible for Gladys Carter to casually steal five-hundred K from the program. Maybe the Albany School Board accountants can forgive a five or six percent discrepancy in the books as half-assed business practices on the part of a sweet old lady and chalk it up at the end of the year as a tax-deductible loss. But no way in hell are they about to forgive a seventy-five to eighty percent discrepancy.” He smiles, while taking hold of his briefcase and sliding it off the desk. “Case closed, even before it’s opened.”

  He comes around his desk.

  “Gotta go, Chief,” he says. “Help yourself to a drink before you let yourself out.”

  “Thanks,” I say, as I watch the big man exit his own office.

  For almost a full minute, I sit there thinking things through. Kindlon just dissected the financials of the whole Gladys Carter extortion affair for me, like he was a master butcher slicing and dicing a newly slaughtered calf. If I were part of a jury, I would already be voting for Mrs. Carter’s innocence. Plus, he’d already been speaking with Miller. Which also tells me, the old detective has also been appraised of the math. On top of that, Miller thinks it’s possible she’s being railroaded, too. That is, I’m to believe Kindlon at his word.

  “Then, why the hell does he want me to keep looking into the case?” I quietly pose to myself.

  Slowly, I rise. Turning, I can’t help but take notice of the whiskey decanters set on the table beside the smoking chair.

  “What the hell?” I say.

  I go to the table, find a clean glass, and pour myself a generous couple of fingers of whiskey. I drink it down in one swift pull. The whiskey tastes a little too good and goes to work on my fragile nervous system so quickly that I’m almost tempted to ask Marge to join me. But considering I’m meeting the lovely Brit later on tonight, I decide against it. I pour a second quick shot and down it before setting the empty glass back onto the table.

  On my way out, I smile pleasantly for Marge.

  “I’ll be seeing you in all the familiar places, Marge,” I say.

  “I’ll make sure there’s extra whiskey for you, Steve Jobz,” she says, smiling back at me.

  “Far be it from me to refuse Mr. Kindlon’s offer of tasting his booze,” I say, approaching the door.

  “Oh, and Mr. Jobz,” she says.

  I turn back around.

  “Is that a banana in your pocket? Or are you just happy as hell to see me?”

  I look down. The barrel on my piece is making its presence known.

  “That’s no banana,” I say with a wink.

  “You all come back now, ya hear?” she says.

  I head out into the corridor with a smile on my face. I descend the stairs like I’m Danny K in some silly 1950s Hollywood rom-com musical.

  “Have a nice day,” I sing to Hot Receptionist Sheila when I get to the landing.

  “You too, Mr. Jobz,” she says. “Looking forward to seeing you again.”

  I wonder if she’s noticing my big long gun barrel, too. Heading outside, I can’t help but smile.

  “I’m on fire today,” I say aloud. “I’m so hot, I’m glowing.”

  Next stop, the lady of the moment. Gladys Carter. Slipping my gun back into the glove box (it’s too much of a pain to carry it), I look her up on Google again, this time using my smartphone. I find one of the still alive Gladys Carter’s listed in the white pages. Like Miller told me earlier, she lives in the heart of Albany’s west end, Pine Hills District. Not exactly a neighborhood for the world’s rich and famous, but a place where, once upon a time, middle-class families lived and thrived after World War II—especially those who worked for the State, religiously voted Democrat, enjoyed their one week vacations per year in either Cape Cod or Lake George, retired with a solid pension and, if they were lucky, died in their sleep.

  State workers still lived in Pine Hills and they were still religiously Democrat, but their economic status nowadays was more lower-middle class. On the other hand, what used to be the standard week vacation has turned into two or even three weeks plus a week’s worth of sick days, and even men get maternity leave now. But the pensions are mostly gone, and if you don’t have a thriving 401K retirement account in the bank, you can pretty much count on dying on the job instead of in your own bed.

  I pull up to a rundown two-story bungalow on Fairlawn Avenue. The house has a front porch and there’s an empty rocker set on it. The trim could use a good coat of paint, and some of the siding looks like it needs to be replaced. I can’t see the roof but judging by the tall pines located directly beside the house and the many pine needles that must gather on it, it too will probably need to be replaced sooner than later.

  I get out. For a quick second, I consider grabbing my gun. But what the hell, an old lady lives here. How dangerous can she be? If my interview gets heated, what’s the worst that can happen? She attempts to hit me with a wooden spoon?

  Climbing up onto the porch, I approach the front wood door, knock. When I don’t make out the sound of footsteps, I thumb the doorbell. It rings. That’s when I hear some commotion coming from inside the home and then footsteps. A pair of eyes masked by cat-eye reading glasses stare out the little glass panes embedded into the thick door. I smile, friendly as all hell. Like I’m a Jehovah’s Witness looking to turn her onto their version of the big guy in the sky.

  A couple deadbolts are unlocked, and the door opens.

  “Yes,” says Gladys Carter, “can I help you, young man?”

  Young man . . . I already love her, even if she does turn out to be an extortionist. Pulling out my wallet, I show her my ID.

  “Mrs. Carte
r, I presume?” I say, while holding the ID in front of her face. “I’m Steve Jobz from the New York State Unemployment Insurance Fraud Agency. May I come in?”

  Her face goes sour while she tries her hardest to make sense of my ID. My guess is she’s satisfied that the photo matches my face.

  “Yes,” she says, tentatively, “you may come in. Heavens me, have I done something wrong?”

  Returning the wallet to my back pocket.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Carter,” I say, stepping into the old house. “I hope I’m not disturbing anything important.”

  “Oh, not at all,” she says, trying to work up a smile. “I have a lot of time on my hands these days, now that I’ve been laid off. In fact, I was just baking some cookies. Would you like some?”

  Of course the sweet old lunchroom lady is baking cookies . . .

  The place smells like a bakery.

  “Let me guess,” I say, “chocolate chip cookies?”

  She smiles warmly. “Toll House,” she confirms.

  “Well, it’s about lunch time,” I say, “and I haven’t eaten. I could go for a few cookies.”

  Her eyes go wide. “You haven’t eaten,” she gasps. “Well, let me fix you a sandwich, Mr. Jobz.”

  Oh my God, she couldn’t be nicer if she were Oprah on Wellbutrin.

  “Mrs. Carter, you don’t have to do that, really. I just have a couple of questions for you, and I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “Nonsense, young man,” she goes on. “I’m the Lunchroom Lady, and that means you must allow me to make you a nice sandwich.”

  “Well,” I cave, “okay, if you insist.”

  What the hell choice do I have? Plus, I am kind of hungry.

  “Excellent,” she says, “you just sit yourself down, and I’ll be out in a jiff. What would you like? Peanut butter and jelly? Or ham and cheese on Wonder Bread?”

  I shift myself over to the couch which is pressed against the exterior wall to my left. A large picture window is embedded in the wall above the couch. The drapes are open, letting the mid-day sun in.

  “Ham and cheese is fine,” I say.

  She disappears into the kitchen and starts rummaging through the refrigerator. For an older woman, she’s pretty spry. She’s little, barely five-feet-two or so, and her gray/white hair is pinned up in back, just like in the videos I’d watched earlier. When she greeted me at the door, she was wearing a blue cardigan sweater over an old t-shirt, baggy blue jeans, and slippers. In other words, she presents herself humbly. Meaning, she doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who would be involved in a major league extortion racket worth upward of a half million dollars.

  Also, her house bears no indication she’s stashed away a whole bunch of bad money. The living room is small and cozy with a fireplace to my left and directly before me, an old fashioned, fat bodied television with, get this, rabbit ears. A dining room is attached to the living room and beyond that a sunroom enclosed by French doors. All sorts of pictures hang on all the walls. While she’s fixing my sandwich, I decide to get up and take a look at them.

  “I have to say,” she says, from the kitchen, “I’m kind of glad you showed up, Mr. Jobz. Things have been getting pretty lonely around here since I got laid off.”

  She’s used the term “laid off” twice now. It tells me she’s worried I’ve come here to deny her UI application to her face, which is something I would never do considering I would rather live than die. Case and point. I once had to break it to an angry three-hundred-pound weightlifter to his face that he didn’t qualify for his requested one-hundred-eighty free weekly dollars. He nearly put me through a wall. Not that the sweet lunchroom lady was capable of doing the same, but you get the point. You just never know.

  I go to the wall near the front door and the staircase that accesses the home’s second floor. A few old black and white pictures are mixed in with the other, more recent, photos. One of them shows a young man and an equally young woman. He’s wearing a black tux, his hair elegantly slicked back on his head. The woman is wearing a long white dress, white stockings and pumps. She’s also got a hat on her head. Neither of them are smiling. It’s a wedding picture probably from the 1920s or even earlier.

  Another shows the same couple, slightly older and a little plumper, holding a toddler. The toddler is a cute little girl with a big bow in her long blonde hair. It’s got to be Gladys. Another photo reveals what I’m taking to be a very young and attractive Gladys graduating from high school. Then another one graduating from college.

  Finally, I come to a full-color photo. It’s Gladys seated on a colorful towel on a sandy beach, the blue ocean in the background. Sitting beside her is a tall, thin man with black hair. They are both wearing Wayfarer sunglasses. If I had to guess, I’d say the picture was snapped in the late sixties or early seventies. There’s a child digging in the sand. The little boy is maybe two or three. He’s wearing a hat to ward off the sun’s rays. Both Gladys and the man are smiling, happily.

  “Oh my gosh,” she says, startling me. “You found my wall of memories.”

  “Is that your husband, Gladys?”

  She’s holding a plate with a sandwich on it along with some potato chips. Lays potato chips, if I had to guess.

  “Yes,” she says sadly. “That was Bradly, my husband, and Matthew, our son.”

  She’s using the past tense. Not a good sign.

  “Are they—”

  I let the back half of the sentence dangle, because I can’t get myself to say it.

  “They died in a car accident back in 1979. Seems like yesterday, still. I guess it always will.”

  “Mind if I ask what happened?”

  She slowly shakes her head.

  “My husband was driving Matty to football practice. They were late and Bradly was speeding, which he had a habit of doing.” She chokes up. “They ran a red light. They never saw the truck that slammed into them.”

  “Oh, dear God,” I say. “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she says smiling sadly. “It was a long time ago. They say time heals wounds, but this one has continued to fester, day after day, night after night.”

  Nice going, Jobz. Bring up the worst memory of the poor woman’s life, why don’t you, before grilling her on being an extortionist and while she serves you lunch. You dick!

  “But let’s not dwell on the past,” she says. “Come, sit down and enjoy your lunch.”

  She turns and begins heading across the living room floor for the dining room. That’s when I spot the picture out the corner of my eye. One of the more recent photos. It’s a group of four women all sitting around a table. Just a quick glance tells me they’re not hanging out at a restaurant, but instead, at somebody’s home. In particular, someone’s kitchen, judging from all the stainless-steel appliances. I also recognize the women in the photo. Or most of them, anyway. It’s Frumpy, Cute Brunette Chris, Principal Simon, and a woman who could be Gladys Carter, if only she were thirty years younger. Twenty years anyway.

  “Come eat, Mr. Jobz,” she insists, as if she were my mother back when I was still a teenager (which my mother still believes sometimes).

  Pulling my eyes away from the photo, I spot something on the floor, under a small table pressed up against the couch. The table not only holds a lamp, but a stack of unopened mail, and some receipts. I can’t help but notice that the one on the floor is a receipt from Field’s Food Service. I recall the big semi that pulled up to the school today, apparently to make the weekly food drop. Mrs. Carter would have overseen that process until just a few days ago.

  I get this sudden tight feeling in my gut. It tells me what I’ve discovered on the wall of memories, and the receipt on the floor, can be construed as evidence. Bending over, I quickly snatch up the receipt, shove it in my jacket pocket.

  “Coming,” I say, pulling out my smartphone. “Just answering a text on my phone.”

  “Oh, those infernal cell phones,” she says from the dining room. “The school child
ren can’t live without them. I still don’t have one, you know.”

  But I don’t answer a text. Instead, I snap a quick picture of the Loudonville Elementary School ladies sitting around a kitchen table, whooping it up and drinking margaritas. Returning the phone to my interior jacket pocket, I quickly scoot my way across the living room to the dining room where Gladys has set my food up before a ladder-back chair in the center of a long harvest table. She’s seated herself across from me. A red mug of steaming tea is set before her. There’s a picture of the Queen’s crown printed on the mug, along with the words, Keep Calm and Carry On—the motto for the London Blitz back in the early 1940s when the Germans were bombing the crap out of the city’s civilians.

  Taking my seat, I select one triangular half of the ham and cheese sandwich and steal a bite. Not half bad.

  “Oh, dear,” she says, “you have nothing to drink.”

  She gets up.

  “Oh, it’s no bother,” I say.

  “Don’t be silly,” she says, heading into the kitchen. “What would you like?”

  I can hear her opening the refrigerator.

  “Let’s see now,” she says, “I have skim milk, orange juice, cranberry juice, or good old-fashioned tap water.”

  None of it sounds too appealing. If only she had a Budweiser.

  “Cranberry juice sounds great,” I say, even if I’m not all that thrilled with the stuff.

  “Coming right up, young man,” she says.

  I listen to her pouring the juice and then returning the big bottle of the red stuff to the refrigerator. She comes back with the glass, sets it on the table beside my plate. Sitting herself back down, she takes a very careful sip of her tea and smiles for me.

  “Mrs. Carter,” I say, “you’ve been very kind to me, but I do have a few questions for you, not regarding your UI claim, necessarily, but your alleged actions as the lunchroom lady at Loudonville Elementary School.”

  Her face goes slightly pale, but otherwise she seems nonplussed. Reaching out, she pats my hand.

  “Now, the questions can wait, young man, while you eat your nutritious lunch. Take it from the lunchroom lady, there is nothing I’ve enjoyed more than feeding hundreds of children on a daily basis.”