The Extortionist

by Vincent Zandri

  A loud bang is followed by the mechanical clatter of the overhead garage door opening. Pissed Off Chihuahua goes ballistic. He’s barking up a storm while sprinting across the kitchen floor, a piece of pizza crust still clamped in his jaws. He jumps off the step and down into the living room, jumping on his hind legs at the door that accesses the garage. The time for me to take my leave has come. But first, I pull out my smart phone, thumb the camera app, and snap a picture of yet another incriminating picture—Kyle Carter’s family standing around the prettiest Christmas tree you ever did see in what I’m quite certain must have been much happier, much more financially lucrative times.

  The car enters the garage. I head to the opposite side of the living room, go to the glass sliding doors. Unlocking it, I slide one side open, step out onto the crumbling wood deck, then slide the door closed. I go to the kitchen window, and for a split second, consider placing the screen back in the window. But it’s torn to shreds, so what’s the point? I do, however, step up onto the picnic bench and close the window. Maybe Mr. Anthos won’t even notice the screen has been tampered with. Returning the bench to the picnic table, I search for the quickest way to escape the property without being seen.

  A berm of bushes and small trees separate the property from a narrow side road that accesses Upper Loudon Road. I make my way through the brush, praying I’m not going to find a tick stuck to my ball sack later tonight. I’m in no mood for Lyme’s Disease.

  Heading out onto the narrow road, I speed-walk my way to the main road and my Mustang. Hopping back in, I slip the key into the ignition, start up the V-6, and pull out onto the road.

  Steve Jobz, PI, the master gumshoe is closing in on North Albany’s crime of the decade.

  The Mustang motors to the end of Upper Loudon Road, I go right onto Crumity and then make another right onto Albany Shaker Road, the road that will take me directly to Lanie’s Bar. My heart is pounding, not in my bruised chest, but in my throat. I pull into the parking lot, but don’t pull into one of the available spaces. Instead, I create my own by space by parking under a tree planted close to the curb. It makes for an easier, quicker getaway should I ever need it.

  Just as I suspected, Henry is seated at the bar working on one of her famous Cosmos. Tonight, she’s dressed in a dark blue pants suit, her hair done up in a bun. She might be big, but she’s beautiful.

  “What took you so long?” she asks. “I was beginning to think you standing me up.”

  “It’s not like we had a date planned,” I say.

  “You predictable like a clock,” she says.

  “Means I’m right at least twice a day.”

  I order a Bud and a Jameson back from Goateed Bartender. While he works on delivering, I give her the low down on everything that’s happened since I last saw her. From last evening’s date with Brit, to learning she’s left-handed, to my believing she could very well be the person who not only attacked me out front of my houseboat, but Anita Simon’s killer.

  “I don’t believe it,” she says, her eyes wide. “Way you described her, she the cutest, sweetest, most giving woman you ever did meet. ‘Sides me, of course.”

  She sips her drink. My beer and shot arrive. I steal a quick sip of both. I’m so worked up, I feel like I could down both of them in thirty seconds flat. But I’ve got to calm down, get my shit under control. Wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, I start in about Dave Barter, how he used to be married to Brit, and how she ripped off his family fortune.

  “And her name’s not Brit,” I go on. “It’s Tracy. She used to live in California until she disappeared after making it appear that Barter’s father was losing his mind. She got the old man to sign over his fortune to her, and she took off.”

  She just looks at me with her big, brown, stunned eyes.

  “You think she tryin’ hard to pull that crap with your mama?”

  Biting down on my lip. “Sadly,” I say, “I know it’s the crap she’s trying to pull. She’s also doing it to the Ann Lee Home. Running the same operation she and the ladies were running out of the Loudonville school. Grafting the cash while ordering way more food than they needed from the suppliers so they could sell it off on the black market.”

  “Some people got no scruples,” she says.

  I tell her about my brief conversation with Ann Lee Director, George McCabe. How the place has been mired in financial dire straits for quite some time.

  “And you think Brit killed Principal Simon?” she asks.

  I drink a little more beer, sip a little more whiskey, feel the soothing goodness of the alcohol settling in.

  “She’s a lefty. The killer is a lefty. She’s also got a bandage on her left hand, like maybe she cut herself while cutting somebody else. It’s been known to happen to killers who use a knife. Once the blood starts flowing, the blade handle gets slippery.”

  “Jesus,” she says. Then, “What about motive?”

  “You been watching CSI Miami again,” I say.

  “Lonely nights.”

  “You like ‘em lonely.”

  “Don’t need no overgrown man/boy fartin’ all night in my bed after he have his way with me.”

  “Motive?” I say. “I’m guessing she didn’t like the way Anita Simon was turning her back on the operation, ratting out Kyle like she did. Maybe she was about to rat out everyone else.”

  “You think the FBI’s on to her? You just said she operating on a federal level.”

  “I haven’t heard shit from the FBI. Unless Miller has, and he just hasn’t said anything about it. I’m just the hired gun. In any case, it’s probably time somebody started running some names in the database.”

  We drink in silence for a beat until I say, “Something else strange happened today.”

  “Something stranger than what’s been goin’ on already with Brit and Principal Simon’s murder?”

  I tell her about Billy Anthos, how I broke up a fight he was having with a smaller classmate of his outside the school. How the kid accused Billy of picking on him, when in fact, the situation is reversed. At least, according to Billy.

  “And then, get this,” I go on. “Billy shows up at Anita’s wake?”

  “A thirteen-year-old kid shows up . . .”

  “Shows up alone,” I say. “I caught up to him afterward. That’s when he laid that story on me about being the victim of a bully and not the other way around.”

  “A much smaller bully,” she points out. “Sounds like he also had a major crush on Anita Simon.”

  “That’s not so unusual,” I say. “Didn’t you have a crush on any of your teachers?”

  “They have crushes on me. You know how many man teachers I had to come close to kicking in the balls when they try and get in my panties?”

  I drink a swig of beer and shake my head, sadly.

  “I’m guessing that shit happens more often than people know,” I say.

  “Hashtag me fucking too,” she says.

  Finally, I reveal my little B and E at Billy’s house and the photo I discovered hanging on the wall.

  “You and your pictures of pictures,” she says. “That handsome Detective Miller know you been breakin’ into people’s homes? You call that real detective work?”

  “Is what it is, baby,” I say.

  “Love it when you call me baby,” she says. “Makes me want you to buy me another drink.”

  She orders another round from Goateed Bartender, makes a point of telling him I’m buying, like I have a choice in the matter.

  “So, guess who’s Billy’s mother?” I say.

  “Ivanka Trump,” she says.

  “Kyle Carter,” I say.

  Her big brown eyes go wide again.

  “No shit.”

  “Yes shit.”

  “Miller know about all this, Jobzy?”

  “I’m gonna wait to tell him everything after my date with Brit.”

  “Your date just might close the book on this whole thing.”

  “That’s
why I’m waiting. Why keep on giving him sample chapters when I can give him the entire novel.”

  Our drinks arrive. I’ve got just enough time to drink this final round and get to Brit’s for a dinner of leftover lamb stew which is sure to go left over again. Henry negotiates that very careful and crucial first sip over her filled-to-the-rim Cosmo.

  “You best be careful tonight, Jobzy,” she says after coming up for air. “This Tracy-slash-Brit chick anything like you say she is, she might just try and do something bad to you. Like poison your cheese and crackers or something.”

  “I’ll be packing heat,” I say.

  She rolls her eyes. “Now what you gonna do, shoot her?”

  “No, but when the barrel of a forty-five caliber semi-automatic stares you down, you tend to back off.”

  I down the rest of my drink, slide off my stool. Digging into my pocket, I lay out a twenty and a five spot on the bar, tell Goateed Bartender to keep the change.

  “Wish me luck,” I say.

  “You just stay alive,” Henry says.

  “The best revenge,” I say.

  I pull into Brit’s lot, shut off the Mustang. Unlocking the glove box, I pull out my piece and shove it in my pant waist, concealing it with my jacket.

  “Christ,” I whisper to myself, “I sure hope I don’t have to use it.”

  Getting out, I approach the front door and thumb her apartment number on the wall-mounted panel. The door unlocks automatically. I step inside. Heart pulsing in my temples, I hear her apartment door open.

  “Steve,” she says, chipper and happy. “So glad you’re feeling better.”

  “Me too.”

  She’s wearing a white t-shirt over tight Levis and leather sandals. Her thick black hair looks slightly wet, like she just washed it a little while ago. Her green eyes are sparkling.

  “You smell that? It’s reheated lamb stew. I think stew is better the next day, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s got more flavor that way.”

  She disappears back into her apartment while I ascend the stairs, slower this time, so I don’t fall flat on my face again. It dawns on me that I didn’t stop for wine. That I didn’t even think about stopping for a bottle of wine. I wonder if she noticed that I didn’t have any booze in hand, and that she finds it strange. Not that we’ll have anything to celebrate tonight when I confront her with the truth.

  Stepping through the door, I can’t help being overtaken by the pleasant aroma.

  “You’re right, Brit,” I say, “it does smell better than yesterday.”

  That’s when I see Dave Barter, and that’s when I . . .

  ***

  When I come to, I’m lying on the couch in the living room. I know this because I see the flat screen TV and the glass-topped coffee table. I hear voices coming from the dining area. Not just two voices, but several. My pistol is gone, which is no surprise. Not that I can get at it anyway, what with my wrists duct-taped together. My ankles are duct-taped together, too. So is my mouth. For all intents and purposes, I’m paralyzed and at the mercy of Brit and Barter.

  I can however, still hear.

  “What do we do with him?” Brit says. “We can’t just keep him on the couch like that.”

  “They already think you killed Anita,” comes a second female voice.

  I can’t be entirely certain. But if I have to guess, it’s Cute Brunette Chis.

  “Chris is right,” says yet a third voice. Frumpy Dorothy. “They find his body in a ditch somewhere—the very man who’s been investigating us—they suspect you of killing two people. They’ll eventually figure out we’ve all been working together, and they’ll start pointing fingers at all of us. Next thing you know, we’re all doing life sentences for conspiracy to commit murder, never mind our business partnership.” She exhales a deep breath. “I knew I should have minded my own business at Metabolic Meltdown.”

  “Speaking of which,” Cute Brunette Chris interjects, “you ever get Jobz’s mother to sign over anything?”

  “You kidding?” Brit says, “Jobz is her power of attorney. He’s the one I was trying to win over. Christ, I had to actually fuck him—”

  “I don’t need to hear this shit,” Barter interrupts.

  “Oh, grow up, Barter,” Brit snaps. “How many dudes have I fucked just so we can keep our heads above water? What have you done to make any money other than bitch and moan?”

  “You two aren’t gonna have one of your fights, are you?” Cute Brunette Chris says. “’Cause if you are, I’m leaving. I had enough of that shit with my parents when I was growing up.”

  “I hear you there,” Frumpy Dorothy says. “Now, back to the situation at hand. What do we do with Jobz? He knows too much. Way too much. We can’t let him live, but we can’t leave behind a body of evidence either. It’s just too risky.”

  “I’ll do it,” Barter says. “I’ll take care of the body and the car. Make it all disappear. Dump him in the river, maybe. Make it look like he got drunk on his houseboat and fell in and drowned. Or maybe make it look like he drove into the river in his car. Point is, I do it right, no one will ever know the difference.”

  Fuck me, I whisper to myself. Is this really how it all ends? Is this how I ride off into the sunset? How I go quietly into the night? By being tossed into the Hudson River while strapped to the driver’s seat of my Mustang? At least give me a freaking fighting chance here, for God’s sakes. I try my best to loosen the duct tape that binds my wrists. I’m pulling and pushing with every ounce of strength I have left in my body. Pushing, pulling, yanking. But getting nowhere. My entire body is wrapped in the shit. Why don’t they just put a bullet in my brain now and be done with it?

  “Why don’t you just shoot him in the head, Barter?” Brit says. “Use his own gun. Make it look like he committed suicide. What do cops like to do again? Eat their piece.”

  “What’s his motivation?” Barter says. The tone of his voice tells me he’s not entirely comfortable with murdering anyone, much less me. Murdering in cold blood, that is.

  “How about he’s madly in love with me,” Brit says, “but in the end, I’ve rejected it, and now he can’t bear to live.”

  Holy crap, can she read my thoughts or what? I never should have allowed myself to be suckered into her beautiful green eyes, her chiseled face, her soft voice and warm touch. Never should have bought into her being so nice to my mother, her maintaining a bedside vigil from dawn till dusk. It was all a ruse, a play designed to fool my ass. I bought the whole con artist package hook, line, and freaking sinker. Now, I’m about to die for being so stupid. I always knew I wouldn’t die of natural causes in the end. I guess I also knew that, when I died, it would inevitably be over a girl. I’m wrong a lot of the time, and it bugs me. But sometimes, I hate it even more when I’m right.

  “That’s a very good idea,” Barter says. “Mr. Jobz is a real screw up anyway, so I guess it wouldn’t be so unbelievable that he’d kill himself.”

  I hear him push out his chair.

  “You’re gonna do it now?” Cute Brunette Chris says. “I can’t bear to be here when you do it. I’ll throw up.”

  “Get a hold of yourself,” Frumpy Dorothy says. “Always so melodramatic, this one.”

  “Hang on, Barter,” Brit says. “Make sure your prints aren’t on the pistol. I’ve got a pair of rubber gloves under the kitchen sink.”

  “What about the noise?” Cute Brunette Chris asks. “The neighbors will call the police.”

  “Barter will shoot Jobz through a pillow,” Brit says. “He can use my My Pillow. It’s a piece of shit, anyway. But its patented filling will suppress the loud bang.”

  “How do you know a pillow can do that?” Cute Brunette Chris says.

  “I saw it in a movie once,” she says. “The Godfather or something like that. Barter will shoot him, then transport the body and the car to the banks of the Hudson River. Maybe back to the port where Jobz’s houseboat is parked. That will be the perfect spot.
You don’t even have to toss him in the river, Barter. Just make it look like Jobz got up, got dressed for work, got in his car and said, screw it, I don’t wanna live anymore now that Brit rejected me. So, he pulls a Kurt Cobain and blows his own brains out.”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Frumpy Dorothy says.

  “I still don’t wanna be here when it happens,” Cute Brunette Chris insists.

  I hear a commotion coming from the kitchen. I’m picturing big Dave Barter going through the cabinet under the sink in search of a pair of rubber gloves. That noise is combined with footsteps heading into the bedroom. It must be Brit going for her My Pillow.

  “Found them,” Barter says. “The gloves will be tight, but they’ll do the job. You have something like a bedsheet to wrap him up in when it’s all done? Plus some towels? He’s gonna bleed all over the place.”

  “I can’t believe this is happening,” Cute Brunette Chris adds. “We are not murderers. We’re not even criminals. We all worked out together at the gym, and this is what it leads to. I’m living a nightmare.”

  Judging by the tone and trembling sound of her voice, she’s about to cry.

  “Get over yourself already,” Frumpy Dorothy says. “If you’re gonna be a criminal, act like a criminal.”

  “I never wanted it to be this way,” Cute Brunette Chris says. “I just thought we’d sell some food on the side and make a little extra cash. What’s the harm in that?”

  Frumpy Dorothy breaks out in laughter. It’s the kind of laugh that’s more mockery than anything else. Like she’s laughing at Cute Brunette Chris, not with her.

  “Get a load of poor baby Christine,” Frumpy Dorothy says. “I just thought we’d sell some food on the side . . . Yeah, like we were setting up a fucking lemonade stand.”

  “I’ve got the pillow, some towels, and an old comforter to wrap him in,” Brit says. “Now, let’s do this, Barter.”

  The sound of my gun being locked and loaded is the kind of sound that turns my bowels to water. At this point, I’m guessing it would have been a better idea to leave the pistol locked up in the Mustang glove box. But I was trying to protect myself. Now, I’m about to get my brains blown out by my own gun. How’s that for bitter irony?