The place seems to settle into a sad soundtrack of sobs and weeping. But the noise is interrupted by the funeral home’s front door opening and what sounds like the Ghost of Christmas Past walking in. I hear chains rattling and the stomping of jackboots.
“You don’t have to play so fucking rough,” comes a voice I semi-recognize. “It’s not like I’m gonna run away with these goddamned chains on.”
The three of them enter the viewing room—Kyle Carter bookended by two burly Albany County Sheriff’s deputies. One of them black and tall, the other white and short. They’re both wearing green uniforms, black combat boots, and matching green baseball caps. They’re packing heat on their hips, and their utility belts also support handcuffs, black mace spray cans, and nightsticks. Their faces are chiseled not from common stone but from pure, solid granite. They hold on to Kyle like their lives depend on it. Like their jobs do, anyway.
Just a few years ago, allowing a county inmate to pay her respects at a friend’s wake would have seemed like a prisoner’s pipe dream. But since the governor has been sucking up to the radical left wingers who’ve kidnapped his party, it surprises me the sheriff wasn’t required to draw up an R.O.R.—that is, releasing her on her own recognizance—while allowing her the use of a county vehicle along with a cash stipend for the day’s outing. Perhaps that time is coming. When it does, I will already be on my way to setting up shop in another country.
The deputies accompany Kyle to the casket. Since she’s shackled from wrists to ankles, it’s more or less impossible for her to kneel. No choice but to stand there, staring down at the lifeless body.
“They thought I killed you, Anita,” she says after a time. “But I would never do such a thing. You were my friend, once. Until you weren’t my friend any longer. But I forgive you for what you’ve done. I hope you rest in peace.”
You might think she’d either mull these words silently in her head, or at the very least, whisper them so softly no one in the room could possibly hear them. But instead, she practically shouts them. It causes Anita’s mother to grab her walker and pull herself out of her chair.
“Did you kill my baby girl?!” she screams.
The old lady is so enraged it’s like she’s suddenly thirty years younger. She’s about to thrust herself at Kyle when her surviving daughter grabs hold of her and pulls her back into her seat.
“She did not kill, Anita, Mom,” Surviving Sister says. “She used to work with Anita . . . Sort of.” Then, turning to Kyle. “I think it’s best you left now, Kyle.”
Kyle gazes at Anita’s family with laser-like eyes.
“Your sister died because some creep stabbed her to death,” she says after a long, hard beat. “But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t capable of stabbing me in the back. All of them stabbed me in the back.”
“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Surviving Sister says. “Just go. Please.”
The mother is wailing loudly again. It’s all a pathetic sight to witness. But revealing, all the same.
Anita is dead, and the entire community is mourning her loss. The question this part-time gumshoe has to ask himself, however, is this: Was Anita not only just friends with Kyle the extortionist, but an extortionist in her own right? Were all the women captured in that photograph sitting around a kitchen table drinking margaritas all in on the extortion ring? Again, I picture the Field’s Food Service boxes being loaded into the van.
“Of course they were all involved,” I whisper to myself.
“Let’s go, Kyle,” says Black Deputy.
“Yeah, before this thing gets ugly,” says White Deputy.
“Be seeing you, Susan . . . Mrs. Simon,” Kyle says.
“Yeah, in seven to ten years,” Surviving Sister Susan says, not without a snort.
Mrs. Simon wails. I make a mental note to interview Susan Simon at some point.
Welcome to gangland . . . Albany, New York style.
An uneventful half hour passes. Stragglers come and go—young and old. Anita Simon didn’t live enough life for her to attract a mob to her wake and funeral. She didn’t get the chance to leave a footprint that big on the community even if she was the principal of an elementary school.
I’m almost getting to the point where I might take my leave when two more people of interest show up. It’s Cute Brunette Chris and Frumpy Dorothy. Why it’s taken them so long to get here, I’ll never know. Maybe they were preoccupied with Billy, filling out the paperwork in triplicate for his suspension.
As they enter the room, they both eyeball Mrs. Simon and Susan, but rather than approach the grieving family, they go right for the open casket. The kneeler is wide enough to accommodate the both of them. They make the conciliatory signs of the cross, telling me they are both Christians and possibly even believers. They recite silent prayers—or at least appear to.
Cute Brunette Chris is the first to stand, followed by Frumpy Dorothy who is brave enough to lay her hand on Anita’s cold, dead, embalming fluid-filled hands. Together, they turn and approach Mrs. Simon and Susan. They both offer whispered condolences while taking hold of Mrs. Simon’s trembling hand. It’s quite the display of respect, sympathy, and love for a beautiful young woman cut down so early in her prime. A real Hallmark card if there ever was one.
The Hallmark card atmosphere is destroyed when the two women back away from the grieving family and eyeball me from across the room. I paint on a smile and even offer a friendly wave as if they just walked into Lanie’s Bar. But they’re in no mood for me or my smiles. They don’t smile back, nor do they acknowledge the wave. So much for my bringing them donuts. Turning their backs to me, they head for the vestibule where they sign the condolences book before exiting the funeral home and return back to the land of the living.
Another half hour goes by. No one of note comes in. Just parents of students who attended Loudonville Elementary School during Principal Simon’s tenure. Or so I can only assume. Add to that the members of the Albany School Board, and the wake turns out to be a pretty popular showing. Too bad they don’t serve refreshments.
Truth be told, I’m wondering if Brit will show. But then, if she does, it would be a sure admittance of her connection with the deceased. My gut tells me it ain’t gonna happen. However, toward the end of the three-hour viewing, someone rather interesting does show up.
Billy Anthos.
He enters the viewing room alone, not attended by a parent. Maybe his mom drove him here, and she’s waiting outside for him. Or maybe he rode his bike here since the funeral home isn’t that far from the elementary school. He’s wearing the same jeans and retro Black Flag t-shirt he was wearing when I pulled him off that small kid earlier. His hair is thick and black. Like I said before, he’s tall for his age . . . and wiry. I’m wondering if this is his first wake since he appears not sure what to do with himself.
His hands nervously stuffed in his jean pockets, he nods at Mrs. Simon, then makes his way at an agonizingly slow pace to the body. He doesn’t kneel, and he doesn’t make the sign of the cross. He doesn’t do much of anything but just stare at the body. He stares at her for a long time, or so it seems. He rubs his nose once with his knuckles, and for a quick second, I think he might be crying. But in the end, it’s just a nervous gesture.
After a while, he turns and starts for the door. But not without spotting me. He offers me a quick smile and even a slight wave. I didn’t plan it this way, but that’s my cue to get up and follow the kid out of the building.
“Hey, Billy,” I bark as I close the funeral parlor door behind me. “Wait up!”
He’s about to mount his bike when he turns and eyeballs me.
“Oh, hey, Mister,” he says.
Catching up to him, I hold out my fist.
“Give me the rock,” I say.
He makes a fist and pounds my fist with it.
“We’ve never been properly introduced,” I say. “I’m Steve. Steve Jobz.”
He smiles.
�
��Like, really,” he says, like a question. “That’s your real name. That dude was like totally mad rich.”
“It’s short for Jobzcynski,” I say. “And I ain’t even close to rich. More like the opposite.”
“My dad’s always bitching about being broke,” he says. “He and my mom fight about it a lot. Or they used to fight anyway, before she took off.”
“That’s too bad,” I respond. Then, “You did the right thing coming to your principal’s wake. That’s very big of you. Very mature. I know today wasn’t an easy day, getting suspended.”
His face takes on a kind of sad pallor.
“I guess I shouldn’t have hit that Anthony kid,” he says. “But you wanna know a secret, Mr. Jobz?”
“Call me, Jobz,” I say.
“Oh cool,” he says. “You wanna know a secret, Jobz?”
“Sure,” I say, “I can keep a secret.”
“The truth is, Anthony is always picking on me. Not the other way around. His parents live down the street from us on Upper Loudon Road, right across from our school. His mother like inherited a construction business or something from her dad. She was rich right out of college and didn’t really have to work for it. My dad has started a ton of businesses and crapped out at every one of them. He works at the Price Chopper supermarket now. But mostly, he just drinks. My mom took off a long time ago. So, Anthony is always going on about how poor we are, and how I shouldn’t even be at Loudonville Elementary.” He shakes his head. “He makes me feel bad, you know.”
“And so you lost it,” I say. Then, leaning into him. “Now it’s my turn to tell you a little secret. You did the right thing busting him in the face. Can’t blame you a bit.”
He smiles. “You really think so?”
“Man’s gotta stand up for what’s right. You did the right thing by defending yourself. Just like coming here was the right thing when you could be home doing something fun.”
He purses his lips. I stare into his eyes. There is most definitely a sadness lurking inside them. A sadness that a twelve or thirteen-year-old should not be experiencing.
“You really liked Principal Simon,” I say.
He nods, his crazy thick hair blowing in the breeze.
“Yeah,” he says.
“Let me guess,” I say. “You used to cause a little disruption in the classroom on purpose sometimes just so you could be sent to her office and spend the day with her.”
He cocks his head to the side over his shoulder. “Maybe,” he mumbles. Then, with a beaming grin. “Okay, yeah, snagged. But I thought you knew that already, Jobz.”
“Yeah, I remember you giving me that sly wink the other day when you were sent to her office,” I admit. I place my hand on his shoulder. “Anyway, try not to be too sad for too long. Ms. Simon is in heaven now and one day we’ll be there, too. God willing.”
I raise my right fist again. He raises his hand, gives me the rock one last time. As he lowers his hand, I can’t help but notice a Band Aide covering a portion of his palm. I’m surprised that’s all the damage he managed to inflict on himself when he was punching out Anthony.
“See ya, Jobz,” he says.
I watch the poor kid ride off into the sunset on his bike.
***
Getting back in the Mustang, I head in the direction of Lanie’s Bar now that it’s after four in the afternoon and I have a few minutes to kill before my second date with Brit—a date that’s sure to not go very well.
On the way, however, my gut has a little talk with me. Why would Billy make the effort to attend his principal’s wake all alone? Like I said, on the surface, it was a very nice—if not mature—gesture for a thirteen-year-old. And that story about him being the one picked on by the much smaller kid, and his father being broke, his mother having taken off a long time ago . . . Something isn’t adding up for me.
I make a slight detour along Upper Loudon Road. It’s a quiet neighborhood filled with all sorts of cute-as-a-button, single and two-story homes, most of them probably constructed immediately after World War II.
I take it slow since I’m doing my best to try to determine which one might belong to Billy’s parents. When I come upon a two-story colonial that’s considerably more run down than any of the homes I’ve witnessed thus far, I sense that I’ve found it. For sure, I know it’s his when I see Billy’s bike lying on its side on the overgrown front lawn. He must have taken a shortcut through the elementary school property and beat me here.
I drive further down the road, then make a three-point turn and head back the way I came. When I’m a safe enough distance from the rundown colonial, I pull over to the side, throw the transmission into park. For a time, I just sit there staring at the place. A whole lot of nothing happens for a long time. I have one hand on the wheel, the other on the gear shift when I see a burly man come out of the house. Billy is following him. Neither is speaking to the other.
They both get into an old model Honda SUV that’s been robbed of its spare tire. The SUV starts up and they back out of the driveway. As luck would have it, they drive in the opposite direction of me.
I’ve got two choices. I can either proceed to Lanie’s as planned, then head to Brit’s place. Or, I can do precisely what my gut is telling me I should do, even if it is illegal. I can find a way to let myself into Billy’s house and look for some clue that tells me he’s more than just a troubled young man. Something that tells me he’s somehow mixed up in this Loudonville Elementary School extortion business.
***
I get out of the car, walk to the house. Looking over both shoulders, I don’t bother with trying the front door. I go around the back. It’s warm out. There’s almost surely an open window. Unless that is, they have central AC, which I’m guessing they don’t. Or if they do have an AC unit, more than likely, it’s on the fritz, judging by the general, rundown condition of the house.
I spot an open window over what I’m guessing is the kitchen sink. I look around, catch sight of a wood bench that belongs to a picnic table. Taking hold of it, I place it under the window and step up. I’m able to access the window, but I’ve got to get through the screen.
Being that I don’t have a jackknife or a screwdriver, my only choice is to poke my index finger through its bottom and pull it out. Jamming my finger through the old, delicate screen wiring, I tear the screen away from its aluminum frame. I then push up on the double-hung window and climb in through the opening, head and torso first. Arms out front, I plant my right hand on one side of the sink and the left on the other while I do my best to scooch my legs through. But that’s also when my right hand slips out from under me, and I drop down onto the old linoleum-covered floor like a sack of potatoes.
My head is ringing, and I feel like I might have bruised a rib. Of course, my head hasn’t stopped ringing since I got walloped by that brick the other night. I’m otherwise no worse for wear. Placing my eyeglasses back on my face, I’m about to get up when I hear a sound that sends a cold chill up and down my spine. It’s not the sound of Billy and his father having arrived back home suddenly. It’s the angry growl of a guard dog.
Okay, guard dog is pushing it because the canine in question is a little Chihuahua that can’t weigh more than ten pounds. But boy, is he pissed off. Slowly, I get back up to my feet.
“Nice doggy,” I say.
But he’s barking savagely now and nipping at my ankles.
“Easy buddy,” I say, doing my best to divert from his chomping jaw.
I find myself searching the messy kitchen. Chihuahuas can be nasty, if I recall. But they also love their food. They love food so much; every meal seems like their last. There’s got to be something I can give this dog to eat while I search the joint and get the hell out.
I find what I’m looking for. Set on the kitchen table is an open pizza box. There are a few slices left over. Pissed Off Chihuahua now has his jaws clamped to my pant cuff while I drag his stiff body over to the table.
“Look what I got for
you, boy,” I say, taking a cold pizza slice. “Pizza.” I toss it to the opposite side of the kitchen. “Go get it, boy.”
Pissed Off Chihuahua hesitantly releases my pant cuff. He gazes at the pizza lying there for him to tear into. He then looks back up at me and then back at the pizza. I don’t know dog talk, but I can tell by the expression on his face that’s he’s saying, fuck it. This jerk isn’t worth my missing out on a full slice of pizza.
He races across the floor for the food, snatches it up in his jaw. My idea works like a charm. Time’s wasting. If I’m gonna snoop, it’s now or never. I head down into the attached living room. Just like the kitchen, the place is trashed. There’re all sorts of newspapers, empty pizza boxes, and soda bottles lying about. The amount of empty beer cans alone would probably bring me twenty or thirty bucks at the Indian beverage redemption center alone.
The walls are wrapped in a cheap white paneling, and the floor is covered with a shag carpet that might have been orange back in the 80s but has become a muddy gray-brown over the decades. It also hasn’t been vacuumed or shampooed in forever. The pleather couch has holes torn out of the cushions. The flat screen television isn’t mounted to the far wall, instead sits on an old milk crate. My Providence College dorm room was nicer than this joint. Poor Billy. No wonder he’s always pissed off.
My eyes gravitate to the pictures on the wall to my left. I go to them. Pictures of Billy taken by the elementary school photographers. Some pictures of him playing soccer in the fields behind the school. Another picture of the father when he was younger. He’s standing behind a counter, smiling proudly. I can’t be sure, but it looks like the counter belongs to a carwash. Maybe that’s what Billy was talking about when he said his dad started a lot of businesses that crapped out. Maybe he owned a carwash or a series of carwashes at one time.
I keep searching. When I find a snapshot of the happy shiny family standing around the Christmas tree, I’m nearly robbed of my breath. Or maybe it’s just the pain from my bruised ribs. What’s for certain, however, is this: Kyle Carter is Billy’s mother.
The Extortionist Page 17