by A. J. Lape
Eleanor pulled and bounced me along as I crab-walked backwards on the floor. She kicked open a stall, full intentions of instituting a swirly. Dear, Lord. Prayers didn’t come easy for me, but I didn’t want my head in the toilet. Overall, the room smelled like citrus, perfume, and rainwater, but it didn’t overshadow the fact that it was still a toilet that God only knew whom had relieved themselves in.
Blood pumped furiously in my veins as I kicked and pawed, making note to take a self-defense class. I shouted the word, “Ergonomics!” which totally sailed over Eleanor’s head, and why wouldn’t it? Who in their right mind said the word ergonomics? I never cursed, but once I typed the abbreviation WTF on a text to my friend Justice, and my autocorrect changed it to the word ergonomics. Now, if I’m pushed beyond my limit, I shout out ergonomics.
Clearly, a testament that I’d slipped over the edge.
Inches from the toilet, I made one last-ditch effort for freedom and lodged a heel into the corner of the metal door. Gaining some leverage, I crashed my shoulder into her knee, and the moment she staggered, I jammed backwards again until she landed butt-first in the bowl. Eleanor pierced the air with a horrified scream, water splashing as she thrashed like an alligator in the death roll. Prying my heel lose, I stumbled up and curled the fingers on my right hand into a fist—knowing I should pound her face, not knowing if I had the required nerve.
Eleanor’s chin looked pretty hard, manly even, and when she pushed a few inches out of the bowl, I closed my eyes and swung like a heavyweight. On impact, the flesh of my knuckles split, road-rashed like it had been scraped along the highway. Unfortunately, my punch didn’t seem to faze her for more than a few seconds.
“That money and Elmer are m-mmine!” she stuttered, trying to stand.
Shaking out my right hand, I then hauled off and smacked her with my left. Bloody spittle flew from her mouth and drip-dropped to her chin. Before she could suck in another breath, I whacked her again, even harder.
“That’s for scaring that little boy!” I screamed, launching my boot into her shin. “And that’s,” I kicked again, “for telling me I had bad hair.”
She ugged a curse, sinking lower in the bowl. I had not one bit of remorse. Not one. In fact, she should count herself lucky I didn’t have a gun. I slammed the door shut and eyed a padded bench sitting flush against the wall. Quickly scooting it over, I jammed it up against the door, trapping her inside. I stood there, trying to gain some perspective on what had just happened.
As Eleanor continued to founder like a beached whale, I took two cautious steps over a pool of water slowly oozing across the floor. Shaking the water from my feet, not one thing inhabited my mind other than getting the heck out of Dodge and placing Eleanor in handcuffs. Hopping over a wet roll of toilet paper, out of nowhere it felt like an asteroid knocked me over. My teeth rattled in my head. Couldn’t breathe. Saw stars. Bit my tongue. Once I regained my bearings, I stooped down and picked up the sunglasses of the person I’d collided with.
My hands got sweaty.
Then turned ice cold.
Cautiously tilting my chin upwards, I stared into eyes as crystal blue as the translucent waters in Tahiti. Reality came fast and hard. I traveled back to the first day of vacation when I sat across from Lincoln, looking at a 5x7 black and white photo of Turkey Cardoza, his trophy wife, and two envoys representing different mob families. Turkey wasn’t the man in my presence, though. It was one of the others. In that particular photograph, this man’s profile had been highlighted, and the file clerk in my head reminded me this wasn’t our first face-to-face encounter. In actuality, it was our second. He’d just spoken with Grizzly minutes earlier but was also the man who’d threatened me when I busted up the amputation-in-progress in Grizzly’s building. And biggest gulp of all, this man just might be “the problem” that “traveled east,” according to Paddy.
Geographically, Orlando lay to the east of Los Angeles.
That could only mean one thing: the Taylor clan had been marked.
No doubt, this situation was what Paddy tried to warn Lincoln about, but I didn’t want to calculate the odds of both of these cases being related. I didn’t think they were, even though circumstances suggested otherwise. Funny thing was, it seemed the death wish Dylan feared I had might be receiving a little help from evil forces. I didn’t ask for things like this to happen; somehow, they just always did.
This man appeared bigger, meaner, and more “mobby” in person. In his large right hand, he gripped my lucky hat. Slowly replacing it on my head, he forcefully poked the barrel of his pistol in my ribs, giving a quick jerk over his shoulder toward the door. Call me a genius, but I interpreted that as I needed to move or I’d get real friendly with a bullet.
Eleanor barked out a line of expletives as she pushed herself out of the bowl, screaming I wasn’t going to take the kid and her man. Swinging the door wide, the bench screeched across the floor as she shoved her way out. Eleanor’s face blanched. Terror-stricken when she registered someone held a gun at my chest. She glanced at Blue Eyes then to me, then back at the bathroom stall she wished she’d never exited.
Palming both hands high, her chin quivered, and she surprisingly cowered like a whipped dog. You’d think she’d sick all that crazy onto him, but she stumbled behind me, making me her human shield. Funny what fear could do. You’d find yourself hanging onto the person less threatening. Survival 101, I guess. Here Eleanor huddled next to me like we were girlfriends when moments earlier she’d had plans to drown the life out of me.
I remembered the tagline from the 1956 version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers … “There was nothing to hold onto … except each other.” Wow, my options in life were a decapitation devotee or someone that rubberstamped an amputation. Neither sounded appealing, but if this was my day to die, I at least wanted to connect the dots.
“Turkey Cardoza sent you,” I whispered to him. Nothing. “Are you going to kill us?”
Even more nothing. I might be stupid, but I wasn’t an idiot. Situations like this didn’t occur out of the blue, inside a vacuum. Wise guys liked to send messages. They weren’t the ransom type. They could give a flying flip about money when they were laundering it elsewhere. If they wanted Lincoln to back off the Turkey hunt, what better way than to take something he cared about??
This man believed I was a blood relative.
Even though I had no affinity for Eleanor, I didn’t want him to shoot her. If Eleanor died, we might never get the answer to where she’d been stashing Cisco. But how could I convince him to only take me? Eleanor remained a witness, and I’d watched enough movies to know that an extra set of eyes weren’t what criminals deemed the perfect crime. Appeal to his sense of decency, I told myself. It might be hard to find because the man currently held a gun to my gut.
I gazed into his eyes, trying my best to shift into a hostage negotiator. “She kidnapped a little boy and hasn’t told anyone where he is yet,” I said. “Don’t kill her now. Let her tell the authorities where he is. You can have someone … umm … shiv her in prison.”
Darcy, Darcy, Darcy, you might as well have put the weapon in his hand, the good angel sighed. Ah, it’s for a good cause, the devil busted out laughing.
No kidding, those words weren’t something fifteen-year-old girls used in real life situations. Heck, your average adult didn’t, but my goal was to buy the both of us some time. Granted, I’d thrown Eleanor under the bus, but if this plan worked, at least she’d live and Cisco might be home by daybreak.
Blue Eyes lifted his gun, and for a split second, I waited for my life to flash before my eyes … it didn’t. Heck, I didn’t know what that meant. Maybe it meant I hadn’t lived long enough, or maybe I wasn’t smart enough to go to the light. After a second to debate, with an angry grimace, Blue Eyes reared back and struck a shrieking Eleanor on the side of the head with the butt of his gun. She grunted twice, her tongue shot out to the side, then she sunk down my back to the floor in a broken heap.
We left Eleanor lying in a pool of water as he pushed me in front of him, left hand clutching my shoulder, the other ramming his pistol into my kidney. Giving the assumption I was onboard with the plan, I knew enough to not let anyone take you away from a venue.
It empowered them and weakened you.
“Open the door,” he ordered.
I’m not sure I had the proper enthusiasm, but I hoped my inner idiot seized the opportunity to prove me different. My hand slid through the handle, and my only line of defense was to do what I did best.
31. 2-FOR-1 SPECIAL
TALK AND BARGAIN.
Immediately, uncontrollable chatter spewed from my mouth, rolling like a tsunami in the South Pacific.
“So do you have any kids? Who do you think is going to win the World Series? Honest to God,” I paused, looking over my shoulder, “do you think we’ll ever go back to the moon?”
I had no forethought on my verbiage; only that I pulled things out of my own rear end. The cords in his neck bulged, and clearly, I’d become an irritation. His voice demanded no refusal. “Shut up, and keep walking,” he barked.
I didn’t.
“Turkey sent you, right?” He remained tight-lipped. “Then you must be the errand boy.”
“I’ve never been an errand boy,” he snorted angrily.
“Oh, I’m sorry, the lapdog then.”
My word, I practically begged for a bullet to the back of my head. He could care less about his and Turkey’s interpersonal relationship, and he answered my question with another menacing shove forward. Stepping both feet outside, the party atmosphere had been reborn, but the tension between psycho killer and me turned radioactive. When my body stiffened, he went scarecrow and stiffened even more.
Music piped loud, and what my periphery could make out, Kyd still talked to Troy, Elmer was no doubt in the back of a squad car, and I found the thick, black crown of Dylan’s head about twenty feet away. My body instantly ached, my heart yearning to yell out to him, but if Dylan chose to get medieval—you know, rip him to shreds and desecrate the body—there was a good chance his body would be swiss cheese.
I didn’t want my best friend to be swiss cheese.
Blue Eyes tilted his gun toward a rear exit, as the aficionado in me smelled coffee. I drew in a deep whiff and slowed my gait. “Can I have a cup of coffee for the road?” Once again, he shoved the barrel tighter into my lower back. “I’ll be in a better mood,” I rationalized.
My boots shuffled three more feet ahead.
People huddled together, moving in groups like a gaggle of geese. One girl danced nervously, trying to fit in. A guy sitting at the bar next to her slouched over his drink, checking out a pair of women dancing close by. Neither appeared particularly happy, but they were alive … with plans for tomorrow. An ice-cold thought sliced through me. Dreams would be shattered if I didn’t go along with his wishes.
I was here … no going back … my only choice was to let it play itself out.
My mind wandered back to the spring when Eddie Lopez chased me with a loaded gun. In that situation, I made myself bait to save those around me, but how horrifying and mentally traumatizing it felt during the process. In retrospect, I operated on complete and utter shock. Frozen. Moving erratically. Not even slowing down to breathe. This time, I knew what I’d be in for, but even if I tried things differently and yelled for assistance, Blue Eyes undoubtedly would still take me or someone else hostage.
Someone else with the potential to not make it out alive.
Ten more steps brought us to the exit sign. My eyes locked with a large, imposing man who stood only a few feet from the door. Dressed in a dark jeans and a black t-shirt with “Cowboys” stitched over his heart, his short, brown hair rounded out a face almost devoid of features. His upper frame looked immense, his arms barely crossing comfortably above his chest because of the bulge. If he was the bouncer, he definitely didn’t possess the gift of intuition. I shook like a leaf, but he merely glanced down at me from his more-than-six-foot frame and stepped out of the way.
My hand circled the knob as I led us out into the cool, midnight air. The temperature was Baltic by Florida standards, and my body immediately wrinkled like a prune. The sounds of cruising cars and honking horns blared along the street. The ambience was dark and lonely and shockingly not a soul was to be found in the parking lot.
Figures.
Just Blue Eyes and me.
All alone.
I meandered through two parked cars that had pulled in haphazardly then bravely (or stupidly) turned around. “Could you at least tell me your name?” I asked.
His crystal blue eyes spoke words I didn’t know the definitions for. They blinked old, weary, and the thug quality I’d recognized earlier had surprisingly faded from view. Blue Eyes suddenly appeared as if he despised this assignment. Not the response I would’ve expected from a career criminal.
His shoulders sagged a fraction, even though his gun was now firmly planted dead center in my abdomen. Blinking his eyes slowly, he replied, “I’m Bats Giuseppe.”
“Bats Giuseppe,” I repeated.
Oh, my word.
Not only was this man pictured in the surveillance photographs with Turkey Cardoza, but Giuseppe (along with Bonnano and Carlotto) happened to be written on the backs of the photographs in Lincoln’s “Cardoza” file. Did Giuseppe shove a bomb in that man’s mouth, bludgeon the other, or hang someone in a warehouse like Paddy’s video documented? If he was responsible for just one of those murders, then the best I could hope for was a quick death.
I took a shaky breath. “Were you the man responsible for sending that video to Lincoln’s partner two weeks ago? The video where a man had been torched and hanged, then … um … well, his head fell off?”
“Cardoza,” was the emotionless answer.
“Cardoza sent it, or Cardoza was the perpetrator?”
This answer would reveal a lot. “Cardoza is sick,” he muttered.
So Bats stole it, and Turkey Cardoza had a deranged and demented pastime. That video was leverage for Bats … had to be.
“Bats, I suppose you don’t want anyone to know your real name either, huh?” Bats gave a slow, steady inhale and exhale. “I have a little sister,” I whispered, trying to make a plea. “I always wanted a brother, but when you’re raised by a single dad that dream died years ago. I’m fifteen, almost sixteen, and I’m from Cincinnati. I’ve never had a boyfriend or even kissed anyone. I suck at school, and I know that’s probably considered a bad word, but at times it’s merely the best description. I honestly have a hard time sitting still. Like I’m trying to outrun the reality that’s in front of me. It hurts me that very few understand me, but it’s just,” I paused, “it’s just that I’d rather be doing other things, you know? Like tonight, I helped the police find a little boy … I hope so, at least. I try to…” I stopped, the tears threatening to fall. “I try to right some wrongs, I guess, because no one righted them for me. It haunts me, sir, not having a mother live with me, and I’ve never been good at anything except attracting trouble. I’m sure you understand that, but I’m going to give you a piece of advice. If you have plans to kill me, my father will hunt you down. And he won’t be quick or humane about the way he disposes of you. So you might want to leave the country or buy a one-way ticket to Saturn, but even that might not be far enough away from his temper.”
Bats stared at me as if he knew the ending to my story without even turning the next page. For what seemed like an eternity, he breathed and I breathed. A vertical line deepened between his eyes, and his lips painted into a hard, steely line.
He contemplated his next move, but it was a foregone conclusion I was merely stalling.
He looked to the sky, finally saying, “I’m called Bats because I’m a loner and prefer to operate in the dark.”
Okay … progress. “My real name’s Darcy, and it means dark. My parents were idiots because I’m blonde. We’re sort of like family.” I offered a sheepish smile and said, “Would you be my honorary brother?”
I moronically demonstrated the initiation.
Just flapped my chicken wings like a dumb-butt bird.
That proposal sounded a little differently in my brain. You know, he responded, “OMG! Really?! That’s awesome!” then kicked the gravel in bashful embarrassment, and we skipped away hand-in-hand.
Bats lifted his gun to his temple, metaphorically scratching his head in question. His expression saying he thought me the stupidest human being he’d ever run across. Honestly, I agreed. This definitely wouldn’t make my list of Top Ten Ways To Negotiate Your Way Out of Getting Murdered but would definitely make the gag reel.
After a few seconds of disbelief, his voice lowered once again. “Walk.”
“Could you at least do me a favor?” I begged. Long pause, and it hit me like a ton of bricks I’d asked a murderer to do the right thing and follow my dying wishes. I fisted my hands at my sides and baited him, lifting a defiant chin. If he thought I’d back down, then he’d be waiting for the Devil to build a snowman in Hell. But should I even take his word? What other recourse did I have? My request meant too much to ignore without giving it a try. “Could you get word to my best friend that I love him?” I choked out. “He’s Lincoln’s grandson, and I just … love him.”
My dying thoughts I always knew would be of my best friend. Even if we led separate lives, my heart would never cease to yearn for him and how he made me feel like the most special human being in his world. We promised one another to go through everything together, whatever that would bring. Now, I was faced with an overwhelming guilt of leaving him in the lurch of a thing called life.