Head Games

by Thomas B Cavanagh

  Day-Glo whirled on the sandy-haired guy, putting a thick hand on his throat. In an instant, a semiautomatic was in his other hand, pressing the barrel to the forehead of the bigger man.

  “You do what I tell you,” Day-Glo said. “And you keep your mouth shut doin’ it. You’re here for one reason, and that’s to do whatever I say. You clear on that, slick?”

  Slick said nothing, most probably because his windpipe was constricting.

  Day-Glo released him. “Get back in the car. And keep your mouth shut.” He turned back to me. “Sorry about that.”

  I didn’t respond, instead eyeing the semiautomatic.

  “Now let’s try again, Mikey. Would you care to take a ride?”

  I flicked my eyes from the gun to Day-Glo’s face. “Sure, I’d love to.”

  The big goon broke into a wide, grotesque grin. “See? Manners. That wasn’t so hard. After you.” He grabbed the back of my collar and propelled me forward to the open back door of the waiting Escalade, thrusting me into the empty third-row seat. So much for not getting in the car.

  I righted myself and sat up. Slick was in the front passenger seat, facing out the windshield. The Latin guy slid behind the wheel. Day-Glo positioned himself directly in front of me in the second row next to another, smaller man.

  The smaller guy was in his mid-twenties, olive-skinned with close-cropped, black hair. His face was narrow, his mouth a taut, angry fissure. He glared at me over the back of the seat, his eyes furious—more than hot—molten with rage.

  At first I didn’t recognize him. But then it hit me. “Aw … shit.”

  The Cadillac started rolling.

  “You know who I am?” the man said.

  I nodded, looking down at my shoes. Some of this was starting to make sense now. But I needed to work it out. I needed time—

  “Say it. Who am I?”

  I looked up, meeting his gaze. “Juanito,” I said.

  Day-Glo’s fist shot out over the back of the seat and caught me on the temple, knocking me sideways along the seat and tunneling my vision for a moment. That woke Bob up. The ache pierced like a spike behind both eyes and lingered.

  “Don’t call me that,” Juanito said. “You especially.”

  “Okay,” I said, sitting up and attempting to uncross my eyes.

  Juanito then hit me with an open palm on the opposite cheek, snapping my head around. The just-healed cut on my lip from my most recent seizure reopened, and I felt the salty, metallic taste of blood on my tongue.

  My first instinct was to lash back. Put a heel in Day-Glo’s teeth and sink an uppercut into Juanito’s chin. But I forced that impulse down. I was outnumbered, outgunned, and in their vehicle. This wasn’t a fight I could win. If they wanted to give me a beating, then I guessed I was gonna have to take it. I just prayed that was all they had in mind.

  “My name,” Juanito hissed, “is Juan Alberto Alomar, the Third.”

  “Right,” I said, wiping the back of my hand along my bloody lip. He could call himself the Queen of Sheba if he wanted, but he was still the only son of Juan “the Don” Alomar.

  And I knew that this little car ride wasn’t headed anywhere good.

  CHAPTER 27

  The Escalade bumped its way out of the parking garage and turned onto a bricked patch of downtown street. Alomar and Mr. Day-Glo considered me coolly for a few minutes. I said nothing, looking idly out the window, trying to commit landmarks to memory, to figure out where we were headed. Maybe I’d get lucky enough to describe to a 911 operator the route used to take me wherever we were going.

  “You find him yet?” Day-Glo finally asked.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t play fucking dumb,” Alomar snapped. “The cousin. The singer.”

  “No.”

  Another few moments of silence. Alomar looked out the window, too.

  “Where are we goin’?” I said.

  They ignored me. My brain was churning, trying to make sense of this. Obviously, Juanito Alomar was my “friend” in Day-Glo’s description of a “friend of a friend.” With friends like these …

  “Do you have any idea what you did to my family?” Alomar said, still gazing out the window. We were heading west on South Street, crossing under I-4. The neighborhood was quickly deteriorating.

  “Look,” I said, being careful not to call him Juanito. “Your dad was a bookie for the mob. Gettin’ pinched is an occupational hazard. If it wasn’t me, it woulda been someone else.”

  Alomar snapped back around, jabbing a finger at me. “You took him from us and killed him. You killed him, you bastard!”

  “I, uh…,” I stammered. I couldn’t recall ever killing anyone, especially the biggest criminal of my career. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “My sisters had to grow up without their pop. No birthdays. No Christmas. My mother cried every night. She still cries.”

  I said nothing. He was heading down memory lane, and nothing I could say would make any difference.

  “He never saw me play baseball my senior year. We went to the district finals. He never met my prom date.” Alomar was breathing heavily now, the emotion taking hold. “Twice a year my mother would load us up into the car and drive to Kentucky or Virginia or North Carolina or wherever they had him that month. We’d get maybe an hour with him while an armed guard watched us. An hour for the whole family. But now we can’t even do that.”

  “Did your father die?” I asked, trying to be gentle, not wanting another crack across the chops.

  Alomar’s finger was trembling now. “Lung cancer. They got him in the prison hospital up in Butner. He’s too sick to talk on the phone. Can’t get outta bed. They give him three months, tops. Those fuckin’ prison doctors don’t care. Why should they? He’s just another inmate, right? Another spic scumbag. He complained and coughed up blood for months and nobody did a damn thing. When he finally collapsed in his cell, they decided, okay, maybe now we’ll take a look. And by then it was too late. He was already a dead man. So now he lays there in his bed, wheezing, waiting to die. Praying to die. Can’t talk. Has sores all over his body ’cause nobody bothers to change his sheets.” Alomar swallowed. “And you’re the one who put him there.”

  “Is that what this is about?” I asked. “What does this have to do with Eddie Sommerset?”

  “My pop trusted you,” Alomar continued. “He trusted you, man. You came to him to place bets. You were looking for the action. You fuckin’ lied to him and set him up.”

  “I was doin’ my job. So was he. Except his job involved gambling, extortion, prostitution, and drug smuggling. In the end, it was my job to arrest him. That’s how it works.”

  “Tell that to my sister who had no one to take her to the father-daughter dance. Or to my other sister, who’ll have no one to walk her down the aisle in November. Tell that to my mother, who you destroyed. Don’t talk to me about your goodamn job.” Another bout of intense glaring before Alomar looked back out the window. “I can’t believe that, of all the people, it’s you mixed up in this.”

  “Just what, exactly, is this?”

  Day-Glo waggled the pistol. “Wrong question, Mikey. I thought I told you to get smart. You’re tellin’ us you don’t know what’s goin’ on? After all this, you expect us to believe that?”

  “I have a guess.”

  “We’re listenin’.”

  I swallowed. “I assume you’ve reopened your father’s business. Eddie was a customer and made some bad bets. Couldn’t cover. Got a line of credit. Made some more bets, hoping to get outta the hole, but he only got deeper. Maybe he got more credit, based on a voucher from his rich cousin, who had bailed him out before.” I looked directly at Alomar. “But you started to get nervous. This was your show now, not your dad’s, and you couldn’t afford a soft rep. Plus the growing red ink on the balance sheet was gettin’ the attention of the home office up North. So they sent down … a consultant.” I glanced meaningfully at Mr. Day-Glo. “To make sure things were handled
. You decided it was time to call in Eddie’s markers. But he was in too deep. And his cousin with the cash had disappeared. So Eddie ran. And you couldn’t have that, right? It would be bad for business. So you start lookin’, hopin’ he’ll find his cousin so you can get your payment, ’cause the cousin is the only one with the necessary cash. Along the way you learn that I’m also lookin’ for the cousin, for a completely different reason. But it doesn’t matter, as long as someone finds him. So you start tailin’ me, too. Then you find Eddie and decide that you’re tired of gettin’ played. He’s a weasel, and if you let him go, it’s open season for everyone to start welshin’ on bets. You need to make an example of him. To send an early message not to fuck with you. Smashin’ his kneecap isn’t enough. He’s never gonna pay you anyway. So you make him the ultimate example. But the debt stays on the books and somebody’s still gonna goddamn pay. The only one left is the cousin, who’s still missing. And the only one with half a shot of findin’ him is your old friend Mike Garrity.” I paused, cutting my eyes from Alomar to Day-Glo. “So, fellas, am I close?”

  They shared an expression that told me I was close enough.

  Day-Glo raised the gun and pointed it about ten inches from my nose. “So where is he, smart guy?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll ask you once more—”

  “I told you! I don’t know.” The Escalade bounced over a set of railroad tracks.

  Day-Glo lowered the gun, debating whether he should believe me.

  “So,” I said, “how much?”

  They exchanged another look.

  “It had to be a chunk,” I went on. “To justify the result.”

  Day-Glo’s expression hardened, zooming in on Alomar. The message was clear. This mess was because of Alomar’s bad judgment, and he should be the one to admit the debt.

  “One seventy-five,” Alomar said.

  I grimaced and nodded. That oughta do it. Poor Eddie never had a chance.

  “Look, guys,” I said. “I hate to tell you this, but I don’t think I’m gonna find him. He’s got millions of dollars and an itch to disappear. That’s a strong combination.”

  “You’ll find him,” Day-Glo said.

  “You’re that confident in my abilities?”

  “I am.”

  I snorted. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up.”

  “I’m gonna get my money,” Alomar said. “I don’t care who it’s from. The cousin. His mother. You. But I’ll get my money.”

  “Leave the mother out of it. And leave me out of it, too,” I said. “I’ve got nothin’ to do with Eddie. I have no stake in his debt.”

  “You’re in, Garrity,” Alomar hissed, jabbing a finger at me. “You’re part of this now and you better fuckin’ find that singer. I want my money.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  “You will,” Day-Glo said.

  “Again, with the confidence. You do wonders for my self-esteem.”

  “Don’t be a wiseass, Garrity,” Alomar said, his eyes wide and crazed. “I’ll take a hammer and knock out all your fuckin’ teeth. You can still look for the cousin without teeth. I swear to Christ I’ll do it.”

  I didn’t doubt him for a second. The Cadillac came around another corner and I saw the shadow of the I-4 overpass slide across the truck. We were headed back to downtown.

  Alomar lifted his chin. “Is it true? Do you really have cancer?”

  The Escalade pulled into a bus loading area and parked.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  Alomar nodded to himself. “Good.” He looked me right in the eye. “I only pray that you die before my pop does.” He turned away. “And that you suffer and your family suffers.”

  On that cheery note, Day-Glo swung the back door open and yanked me out onto the sidewalk. Then he opened the front passenger door where Slick sat in stony silence. The coffee stains on his shirt seemed to have darkened during the drive, and his crushed cheek was turning dark purple, swelling up and starting to shut his left eye.

  “One shot,” Day-Glo said. “You owe him one good shot.”

  Slick pulled his lumbering frame from the seat and stepped over to me, gripping a small metal rod in his palm. The rod was meant to make his punch harder, offer less give when his knuckles connected. I made a move to bolt, but Day-Glo whipped behind me, pinning my arms back.

  A ham-sized fist shot out with alarming speed and cracked into my face, impacting my right eye socket with a force that snapped my head backward. Tiny pinpricks of yellowish sparkles danced in my vision for a moment before everything went black.

  * * *

  I was only out for a few seconds, but it was enough. That son of a bitch clocked me a good one and I knew I had a world-class shiner brewing. Add that to the bruise from the punch in the Escalade and the reopened lip from the slap, and I was becoming a poster boy for nonviolent confrontation.

  I forced open a rapidly swelling eyelid while Day-Glo dragged me to a doorway. He unceremoniously dumped me on the stoop.

  “We’ll be in touch, Mikey.”

  A car door slammed. I heard the SUV peel away and turn a corner. I lay there in the doorway for a few minutes like some homeless bum. Footsteps came and went. People walking the city sidewalk, ignoring me.

  I regained my faculties and pulled myself up. Leaning a hand on the brick façade, I poked at my upper cheek under the right eye and winced. Okay, that registered some definite pain. A sharp, raw, fresh pain. I prodded again and determined that my face still had structural integrity. Nothing was broken. But the way it was already swelling, I knew I wouldn’t be posing for cover shots anytime soon.

  The tip of my tongue dabbed at my split lip, and the pain made me involuntarily suck in a sharp breath. I spit a teaspoon of blood onto the sidewalk. Lovely. A dirty look from a passing woman in a business suit. I smiled at her and imagined holding up a sign that read WILL FIND MISSING BOY BAND MEMBER FOR FOOD. GOD BLESS.

  I squinted up at the surrounding buildings, orienting myself. I was only two blocks from the parking garage of the skyscraper that housed Global Talent. I lumbered the distance and found my truck in the garage. The rearview mirror showed me the damage to my face. It looked bad, but I’d be okay. I knew that it would look even worse tomorrow.

  I pulled out of the garage and let my mind stew on this latest development. Juanito Alomar had been a teenager when I’d arrested his father. I knew who he was. We had been watching him, too, as part of our investigation into the bookmaking operation. Juanito was officially employed by his father’s car dealership, but we all knew his real job was to act as one of his father’s bagmen. He’d take bets and collect payments, as well as make deliveries of customer winnings. He wasn’t one of the enforcers, just a gofer for the business.

  We had some evidence against Juanito, but, ultimately, the federal prosecutor decided not to include him in the indictment. He was a minor and under the influence of his father, the real target of the investigation. The prosecutor felt that not only would they have a hard time making the charges stick, but arresting the kid might make Juan the elder seem more sympathetic. So the kid walked away while his father went to federal prison.

  The bookmaking operation dissolved. Someone bought the used-car dealership. The remainder of the Alomar family stayed low profile and out of trouble. Central Florida was a safer place for decent society once again.

  But now Juanito was back, all grown up and running his dad’s old operation. Apparently, he was involved enough in father’s business while it was around to convince the leaders of the Angelino family up in Jersey that he could handle the responsibility. Wiseguys are like fire ants. You think you’ve killed them, but just wait a little while and a new nest pops up a few feet away, as nasty as ever.

  So Juanito was the new mob bookie in Central Florida. He was also probably working his way back into the lucrative gambling cruise ships out of Port Canaveral. But he’d made an early mistake. He’d trusted Eddie Sommerset. Considering Juanito was likely on
some sort of trial probation with the boys up North, the last thing he needed was a demonstration that he could be taken advantage of. It was bad business, and if mob guys defined themselves in any way, it was as businessmen.

  Enter the enforcer from up North, our Greek friend in the Day-Glo golf shirts. His job was to make sure that Juanito collected, now and in the future. Eddie’s execution served as an effective deterrent to other customers who might consider not paying. A head in a box was a much stronger message than a broken kneecap.

  But the bosses up North still expected that debt to be settled. I imagined that Juanito had a lot riding on it. His credibility. His role in his father’s old business. Maybe even his physical well-being. So he was intensely motivated to get the situation resolved as quickly as possible; so motivated, in fact, that he was willing to put his faith in the very man who’d arrested his father those many years ago to find the cousin. And now Juan the Don lay dying in a prison hospital in Butner, North Carolina, cancer slowly eating him alive.

  I pulled the truck into my apartment parking lot and cut the engine. I took a deep breath and marveled at life’s amazing symmetry.

  Upstairs I found an ice pack in the freezer and pressed it against my swollen cheek. The pain was getting worse. Not to be outdone, Bob ratcheted up his headache, competing for the prize of most agonizing head pain.

  I slouched in my recliner and leaned my head back, letting gravity hold the ice pack in place. After a few minutes, I decided that I better call Joe Vincent or Detective Diaz. Maybe both. They’d want to know about my little joyride in the Escalade.

  I stood, found the last of Cam’s Zuraxx on the kitchen counter, and swallowed them with water scooped from cupped hands in the sink. Then I turned to the phone. But I didn’t pick up the receiver. I never got a chance.

  The message light on my answering machine was blinking, and the display told me I had one message. I reached out my finger and pressed the play button.

  It was a male voice, one I didn’t recognize. But as he talked, the real message became clear and I felt my world suddenly crumble below me and cast me tumbling into the abyss.