Wrapped in a towel, Mac appeared and knelt down next to the tub. He lifted her hair from the water and wrapped the long strands gently around his hand. He started to kiss her neck, then reached down to kiss her lips. All the while, he murmured words of love.
Rosie stretched out her hand. “Here, come into the water beside me.”
Mac threw his towel onto the deck and slid into the water. He pulled her to him and kissed her with great tenderness.
* * * *
Mac tossed and turned in one of the lower bunk beds down the hall. About eleven o’clock he got up and started hunting around the place for fishing gear. He knew he’d seen rods and lures here last year. He gathered together a usable assortment and headed down a steep, overgrown path to the river. Standing on a large flat rock, he cast into the clear water and began to relax. As the sun beat down, he stretched his body out over the warm stone. Soon his eyes were shut and the fishing rod dangled from his hand. Mac’s dreams took him to the steaming hot tub.
Lounging in the water, he looked up and saw Rosie, clad in the briefest bikini. She slid into the opposite side of the tub and smiled at him, beckoning. When he eagerly splashed over, she held up her hand, palm out. He stopped. She offered her hand to be kissed. Reaching past her hand, he kissed her on the lips. At first she responded, then pulled away and started to cry.
“Oh, no, not before the marriage. The nuns told me of men like you.”
“Marriage,” Mac gasped. “Look, Rosie, we been traveling together for four days now. Even the nuns would have to take that into account. Here in West Virginia we’d almost be common law man and wife by now.” He lunged toward her, but she disappeared beneath the water.
Mac awoke to find a large fish tugging on his line.
* * * *
They cooked the trout over a charcoal grill on the deck. Rosie looked at him shyly and seemed to recoil when he asked her to set the grill utensils on the cover of the nearby hot tub.
“I’ll find another place,” she murmured. Mac wondered what she had to be shy about. He was the one with the lustful dreams.
The warm May afternoon foretold rain, and the scent of lilacs hung heavy in the air. Rosie had found the delicate purple flowers growing near the back door and pinned one in her hair. She did things like this, Mac mused. The girls he usually ran around with would have thought this was corny. Right now, he couldn’t even remember any of their names. He was watching Rosie. She had found a couple of wooden deck chairs and was dragging them over to the railing. He watched the way her body moved in the tight jeans. They had found some boy’s clothes in one of the bedrooms. At first, she hadn’t wanted to take anything, even though her short skirt was hardly good for hiking. But finally she had agreed. Well, the jeans made her look different—American. It was all he could do to keep his hands off her.
Looking down over the railing at the racing water below, Rosie said, “The river looks dangerous.”
“No, not really dangerous. It’s a rough ride though. Run these rapids many a time.” Mac gestured downward. “My ol’ man had a beaten up John boat. Leaked like hell.” He grinned at her. “You know, that’s the way life oughta be, just one hellava river trip…not this 9 to 5 shit. I just ain’t cut out for that kinda life.”
She sat down. “So, Mac, in West Virginia life is just one long river trip?”
“No, I guess I gave you the wrong idea, but it should be. It sure as hell should be. What do you want outta life anyway, Rosie?”
“Now? Now I just want to live. But later…yes, in Canada, I want to have children, and a nice home for them. I like kids, you see. I learned to look after small ones at the convent school.” Her large, dark eyes were smiling up at him.
Kids? Well, Mac guessed this was a good sign. But it didn’t sound like the free, wild ride through life he had in mind.
“So, Mac, what kind of job do you want in Canada?”
Job? Kids? He shifted uncomfortably against the deck railing. But this was what he wanted, wasn’t it? “I can do whatever I need to do to get by, carpentry, mechanic work, drive a truck…whatever,” he told Rosie, and lit his last cigarette. It started to rain again.
* * * *
When Jett got down to Minns’ garage on Saturday morning, he hadn’t decided whether to mention his own robbery to Nate yet. He was surprised to see Mac’s old truck sitting on its rims in the parking lot. What in hell could Mac have been doing here? What had happened to the truck? And where was the kid?
Nate was waiting for him. “What you got?” Jett asked.
“Got a Mob style hit. That’s why I called you in. I know it don’t seem likely here in the hills, but it sure as hell looks like it.”
Jett listened with growing apprehension, thinking of the increasing Mafia activity in his D.C. precinct. But it would be tough for the Mob to operate up here. This wasn’t their home ground.
Nate finally completed his long, blow-by-blow account, from the missing cash box money and the disappearance of Tanky’s handgun to the discovery of the hot Porsche. “Damn if the Porsche hadn’t been heisted up here, from some tourist. Found it in the woods, not a mile from here. Strange thing was somebody had beat in one fender. Crazy? eh? And there’s no sense talking to Mrs. Minns. She’s a lunatic.”
“Yeah, always was. Well, I’ll see what I can get together down in D.C. that could be helpful. I’ll FAX it up to you, Nate.”
Both men were silent for a while. “Eh, one more thing, Jett. This Mrs. Minns keeps accusing your cousin, Mac. And his truck is sitting out there in the lot, all four tires slashed. The investigating officers decided the killers thought it was Tanky’s truck and were making another statement. But I don’t buy that dumbass idea. Now I know he ain’t much account, but I can’t believe Mac’s involved in this mess.”
“Mac’s an asshole. But he ain’t dumb enough to get mixed up with the Mafia. When I get aholda him, I’ll find out what’s up.” Jett reached for his keys. He’d had enough of Nate Kincaid. “I’m gonna find out what Mac’s truck is doing here. You got any other suspects?”
“We don’t have no suspects right now. Tanky Minns was too smooth to go around making enemies close to home. I don’t know, though, Morgan County ain’t like it used to be. Time was when you knew all the crooks. Hell, probably related to half of them.” Nate followed Jett toward the garage door. “Now, you just don’t know. Bunch of new people moving up here from the city. Most of them are crazier than hoots. Just yesterday, a guy went up to his summer place in Briary Bottom. Called in and said the cottage had been broken into, but he claims some damn fool left a water glass full of flowers and a one hundred dollar bill. No local job, I’ll guarantee that.”
Jett stopped walking and turned around. “What did you just say?” he asked Kincaid.
* * * *
Back at the cabin, Jett tried phoning Mac, then finally called his landlady. She hadn’t seen Mac for days, but she mentioned acidly that he owed her two months back rent and hoped Jett would be good for it. “Damn boy is worthless. Tried to get him a good job in the city. Tried to get him to join the Army, but no, he don’t want no normal life,” Jett muttered as he climbed back into the Bronco and headed over to Tanky’s place again.
As he approached the house, country music blasted through the open front door. A baby wailed somewhere inside. Jett hesitated, recalling his previous encounters with Naoma back in the days when he’d been with the West Virginia State Police. Why had he come? He probably wouldn’t get anything sensible out of her anyway. Just then the screen door banged open. A large woman, twice the size of Naoma, filled the doorway. Tiny black eyes peered out under a high pile of orange curls. Wobbling double chins and flushed, puffy cheeks encased cupid bow lips. A huge, flowered, tent-like covering hid the rest of her body. She wasn’t smiling.
“Is Naoma in?” Jett asked, half-hoping she’d be out. “I’m Jett McCabe. She knows me.”
“Naoma don’t wanna see nobody, especially no cops.”
“And I sure
ain’t gonna talk to no McCabes,” Naoma yelled from inside the house. “Tell that asshole to clear out, Mother Minns.”
“You done heard her, get out,” Mother Minns tried to push the door closed.
Jett shoved his foot in the doorway. “Listen up, I’m trying to locate the owner of some recovered money. Need to know what was missing from the garage.” Jett shifted his weight, not budging from the doorway. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am, about the death of your son. I knew him well.” He grinned.
The mountain in the doorway hesitated. “You knew my Tanky?” She started to bawl loudly. “Naoma, this here guy knew Tanky.”
“Of course he knew Tanky,” Naoma yelled back. “Sonnuvabitch arrested him enough times.” But Jett saw her walking toward the door. She was wearing a bright pink spandex top, tight black jeans, and four-inch silver high heels. Hands on bulging hips, she said, “What the hell you want, Jett? Ain’t you able to see we’re in mourning here.”
She’s sure looking older, Jett thought. Now it took twice as much makeup and half as much spandex to produce the same product as a few years ago. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a blonde. Now her hair was a brassy orange, a couple of shades brighter than old Ma Minns’.
“Naoma, I just come by to try to do you a favor.”
“Ha! What favor?”
He ducked in through the doorway. The room was cluttered, but clean. A TV blared in the corner. Twanging country music blasted from somewhere in the rear of the house. The baby still wailed. Tanky’s picture, surrounded by withered flower arrangements, adorned the mantel. Jett could see that Tanky was already on his way to sainthood with the Minns clan.
“Well, eh, this here’s the thing. Certain amounts of money have been recovered, and I’m trying to trace the rightful owner. If you could just answer a few questions, it really would be a help. Let’s start with Tanky and Mac. What kinda business deal did they have going?”
“Business deal? What the hell you talking about? I don’t know nothing about no deals.”
“Why was Mac here on Tuesday night then?”
“How should I know,” Naoma started to move around the room, stopping in front of Tanky’s picture. “Tanky was good to everybody, even Mac. Give him a beer that night. That was just like him.” She blew her nose loudly. Mother Minns started bawling again.
“Was Tanky dealing with anybody down in the city? Could he have had any enemies there? Have you seen any strangers hanging around here?”
“Enemies! Strangers! You just look to Mac McCabe for an enemy. He done attacked poor Tanky with a ballpeen hammer. I told them other dumb cops all this, and ain’t nothing been done.” Naoma began wailing.
“Shit,” Jett muttered. “Listen, Naoma, I know this is hard for you. But the police report stated that the only cash missing in the garage was roughly fifty dollars from the cash box. Much more than this has been recovered, so I figure there had been some business deal in the works. Maybe something had gotten screwed up, gone sour?”
The mention of money had an instantly calming effect. “More money,” Naoma blubbered. “Well, maybe Gene Gray would know. He done some work for Tanky from time to time. Guess I forgot to mention Gene to the State Boys. Yeah, Gene stopped by on Tuesday evening.”
Jett was already edging toward the door. He’d gotten what he wanted. “O.K. Well, here’s my card if you think of anything else. Thanks.”
“Not so fast,” Naoma was right behind him. “When will I get my money? Left here with no man, me and my kids and grandkids, and poor Mother Minns here.”
“Let you know soon,” Jett shouted over his shoulder as he bolted for the Bronco. Throwing the truck into gear, he floored the accelerator and headed for Great Cacapon, a small town about six miles west of Berkeley Springs. It was time to see old Gene. He never had liked the sneaky little bastard, so this ought to be a pleasure, Jett thought as he lit a cigarette.
* * * *
Gene was skinning a large catfish near the Cacapon River, which ran behind his trailer. His short, pudgy fingers worked skillfully. Concentrating on his task, he didn’t hear Jett slip up behind him. “Morning, Gene.”
“Oh my God Almighty.” Gene jumped, dropped the big catfish, and brandished the skinning knife. “Damn you, McCabe. Sneaking up on a person like that. What the hell you want?”
They eyed each other in the lengthening silence. Gene finally bent down and retrieved the fish. Jett noticed that his hand shook. Gene’s light blue eyes were watering. His breathing was shallow and rapid. Deciding to try a long shot, Jett moved closer and smiled. “Gene, what can you tell me about Tanky Minns, Mac, and the Mafia?”
Gene’s labored breathing seemed to stop; the fish again slipped out of his grasp. “Nothing. I don’t know nothing.”
“Naoma Minns says you do. All I want is the name of your D.C. contact. Fact is, you and Naoma could both be in danger. I work in D.C. I know what these guys are like.” Hell, if they look for Mac long enough, Jett thought grimly, he, himself, could even be in danger.
Gene’s doughy complexion became paler. “Vito Delucca,” he whispered. “He runs a small specialty garage in D.C.”
Jett nodded. Things were falling into place. “What about Mac? When’s the last time you seen Mac? Anybody been asking around for him?”
Gene looked down and mumbled,“I ain’t seen him since last Tuesday night. But I heard he’s around. Honest, you’re the first one asking.”
“Yeah, well you just tell Georgia you’ll be gone for a few hours.” Jett said as he slipped the cuffs on Gene. “You need to talk to Nate Kincaid.”
* * * *
At 2:00 P.M. Jett was back at his desk in D.C. First, he requested a search on the serial numbers from the four recovered one hundred dollar bills. Then, he spent the afternoon going over data on the DeMarco family. The computer screen displayed names, birth dates, last known addresses, criminal records, etc. Jett knew many of these hoods, including DeMarco, by sight. Under “known associates,” Vito’s name popped up. The program had already been updated to include his date of death.
Jett picked up the phone and called for the homicide file on Vito Delucca. By the end of the day, he had digested most of the available information on Vito’s murder. One fact stood out, a flatbed truck with a West Virginia plate had been parked in front of Vito’s garage on Wednesday, the day of Vito’s death. Efforts to trace the registration had been unsuccessful, but two clear sets of prints had been lifted. No matches so far.
Drinking a third cup of coffee, Jett speculated on what he had. Vito and Tanky had some kind of deal going. He wrote No. l—Deal at the top of a note pad and thought of the hot Porsche found hidden near Tanky’s garage. He also thought of the Porsche’s dented fender and Naomi’s story of Mac and the ballpeen hammer. Mac was probably the runner, and one of those sets of prints was his. He added No. 2—Mac. Vito’s Italian niece, Rosa, turned up missing on the same day her uncle was murdered. He wrote No. 3—Rosa.
Homicide had labeled Vito’s murder a gangland execution. And the motive? Well, it seemed Vito had been holding out on Jimmy DeMarco. Jett wrote No. 4—DeMarco. He bet the serial numbers on the recovered money from West Virginia would match a list of serialized bills from a recent heist involving DeMarco. He completed the list with No. 5—Money.
So it was pretty clear. Mac and the girl had the money up in West Virginia, and the Mob was hot on their heels. Putting it all together, Jett realized that Mac was a damn stupid kid who didn’t know what he was into.
Jett left a call on Nate Kincaid’s office recorder. He wanted to know what, if anything, had been learned from Gene. He figured it was time to head back to West Virginia and look after his dumbass cousin.
In the Bronco, fortified with another cup of coffee, Jett tried to calculate where Mac and the girl could be. So far, he calculated, they’d stuck to places that Mac was familiar with. After all, he would naturally hide in the mountains where he’d grown up. He knew Morgan County, and this would probably work for him
and the girl if they stayed put. But that fool, Mac, had never stayed put anywhere. And when they surfaced, they’d be in danger. Jett’s mind raced over the possibilities. They’d need supplies, food, gas, etc. Did they really have the mobster’s money? This seemed unlikely. If Mac had cash, he’d be long gone. But if Mac needed money, Jett knew how he’d probably get it, and this thought scared him the most. What would flush them out? Who would they contact? What about the girl? Damn Mac and his women. Damn fool! Nothing was worth having the Mafia on your tail.
When Jett pulled off the Interstate at Hancock, Maryland, it had started to rain. He stopped at the Park ’n Dine for a sandwich and home fries. He would have much rather thrown down a couple of cold beers at the bar across the street, but he couldn’t do booze anymore. This thought triggered the uncomfortable memory of a younger Mac. Mac had helped him out several times when he had been trying to beat a serious drinking problem. With a grimace, Jett remembered one particular summer night at the cabin. Mac had sat up all night with him, helping him fend off the demons, pouring out hidden supplies of Jim Beam. Jett conceded that he owed the kid. He at least owed him enough to try to keep Mac alive. Damn stupid kid wasn’t making it easy.
Jett wolfed down the sandwich, remembering that he hadn’t eaten all day. He ordered another sandwich and a piece of pie. Looking around at the few late evening regulars and handful of travelers, he tried to work out the puzzle. Where do people go when they’re under stress, scared, and in need of reassurance? Where would these people go? He checked out an elderly couple in a corner booth. The frail, white-haired woman wore a large silver cross, which glinted in the glare of the florescent lights. “Bingo,” he said quietly.
That heathen, Mac, was out of this picture. But what about the girl? He tried to recall the paragraph from Vito’s homicide report: “Rosa Delucca, 18 years old, Italian citizen, orphan, raised in a convent school, planning to become a nun.” He added what he knew about Rosa— Left payment for anything she took. Well, the girl had a conscience, he thought. And he knew where she’d go. The Catholic Church in Berkeley Springs would be an easy stake-out.
Wicked Women and Other Stories Page 11