Feelers

by Wiprud, Brian M

  Directly across from the closet was the bathroom, and on the wall of the bathroom was a wooden cupboard. Pete set his two-by-four on the sink and began to grapple with this cabinet, to try to pull it off the wall.

  Unfortunately, the door to the bathroom opened in. Otherwise, I would have slammed the door shut and bolted down the stairs and not stopped running until I was in La Paz standing before the three-tiered Martinez fountain.

  The cupboard jarred free from the wall, white dust pluming out from where the wall anchors had burst from the plaster. Pete turned it toward me.

  “Here, asshole, use this,” he said from behind the cabinet.

  It was then or never.

  I could not kick him in the balls without having the cabinet fall on my knee. Then we would both be injured. Instead I did a high kick into the cabinet itself just as hard as I could.

  He stumbled back, his shins hit the edge of the tub, and he fell into the shower, the cabinet thudding down on top of him. I heard what sounded like his head hitting the shower wall, and a strangled yelp—that must really have hurt. Even if he was still conscious, I figured that little mishap should delay his pursuit long enough for me to make it to the Camaro and zoom off.

  I did the switchback staircase to the first floor in two jumps, turned toward the kitchen, and came to a screeching halt.

  There, just inside the door through which I had entered, was a man in woman’s sunglasses, a brown Gap ball cap, and department store duds. I did not recognize him as the man I saw standing in front of the house, or the man at the library computers, or the man in the mug shot. My immediate thought was that this was one of Pete’s henchmen, one I had never seen before. But how would he have come to this place?

  All I could think to do was say, “Excuse me.” I turned and went for the front door.

  “Martinez?”

  I was already at the front door, yanking it open, when there was a hand on my shoulder, spinning me around.

  “I’m talking to you!”

  Not a wise move on this stranger’s part, because as we know I was in Martinez Combat Mode.

  He spun me around and my knee came up fast and hard.

  A man sort of hates to do this to another man, but at the same time we know exactly how devastatingly effective this maneuver is, don’t we, Father?

  My knee found its mark. The stranger’s body jackknifed.

  “Oof!” he grunted, his jaw muscles visibly locked in bashed gonad anguish.

  There was a clunk on the floor next to him. It was a meat hammer. It seemed to have fallen from him when he contorted. A meat hammer?

  The stranger was jerking his right shoulder strangely, but I did not take time to continue my study of him. I burst through the front screen door, scrambled into the Camaro, and sped off down the street.

  Danny, of course, had been trying to move his right arm to grab his ice pick, but the contortions resulting from the explosive agony in his groin prevented him from this act. He staggered back against the wall, gasping, wincing, hearing me fire up the Camaro.

  All herky jerky, he managed to straighten up, tears streaming down his red face.

  Then he heard another sound. From upstairs. There was a crash and an unintelligible shout.

  Someone was stumbling down the stairs, roaring like a wild and rampaging ape.

  Pete the Prick turned the corner into the living room, the two-by-four in his hand. He saw in his peripheral vision someone standing against the wall. He did not know who. At this point, he was so enraged that he swung the weapon in an attempt to injure whoever it was.

  Can you see where this is going, Father?

  Danny had gotten hold of his ice pick by now.

  It went badly for Pete the Prick. But I cannot say I miss him.

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE POLICE STILL DID NOT have a clue about what was going on.

  They had found Mary stabbed, and it looked like a robbery because the cash box had been looted.

  They had found Rude Man half eaten by rats. They had yet to figure out that he had been stabbed. From what they could tell there was no sign of foul play, so an autopsy was not scheduled until the next day.

  They had found Dexter with his face caved in by a phone and stabbed in the chest. He had undergone emergency surgery for the chest wound and to try to save one of his eyes. Even though he seemed stable in intensive care, he had not regained consciousness—and the doctors were not sure if he would.

  To the police, these three unfortunate incidents had nothing connecting them.

  So the cops were searching for a tall, dark man in a turtleneck and large sunglasses, the one on the fuzzy motel security tapes, the one who had registered as Tom Roberts. They were not looking for someone in a Gap cap, large sunglasses, plaid brown shirt, chinos, and white Converse All Star low-tops. The chances of them picking up Danny were slim indeed.

  The only thing tying any of this together was the small wounds, but they were not even in the same place on the bodies. Mary got it in the eye, Dexter in the chest.

  The people like me and Frog and the barflies at Oscar’s who might have had a clue were not getting involved with the cops, and the cops had no real reason to seek us out for questioning.

  They did have one thing to go on. The guy who rented room 404 at the Luna Motel. They got a full description: tall, dark complexioned, turtleneck, sport coat, scar on lip, women’s sunglasses.

  And our friend Wolfman Charlie? He was still looking for the damn five million. That is why the bastard simply walked away from Dexter as he lay there in a smear of blood on the motel bathroom floor. Charlie headed home to Queens for some sleep, his gun a little more handy than before.

  Ah.

  But remember? The motel clerk memorized Charlie’s license plate. And the motel cameras got a picture of him and his black SUV.

  Which was why he got a phone call that woke him up.

  “Charlie. It’s AJ. Howareyah? How’s the boat?”

  Charlie blinked at his alarm clock, and at the afternoon sun in the window, unsure of what time of day it was.

  “Coming along. Almost finished. What’s up, AJ?”

  “I should ask you. Detectives in East Brooklyn are hot for you, got you on tape at the scene of the beating of a reporter. Whatsupwidat?”

  Charlie’s heart felt like it tripped and fell, and for a moment the room swam about him.

  “Tape? I don’t understand.”

  “Luna Motel. Says you was in the room where some reporter there got the shit beat out of him. He may not live. They need to talk to you, Charlie, you unnerstand? They’re callin’ here askin’ questions. I said I’d give you a call. Courtesy, seeing as how you’re a cop.”

  “I don’t understand, AJ . . .” Charlie sat on the edge of the bed, batting away sleep’s cobwebs.

  “They have your make of vehicle, your license, a witness, and the motel security tape. They say you was there, Charlie. Were you?”

  “Yes, I was at the Luna Motel. I was trying to track down Danny Kessel, you know.”

  “I know. Why else would you be in the Armpit of Brooklyn? Go on.”

  “I started to follow the reporter, because I knew he was looking for Danny. Thought he would lead me to him. So he goes to the motel, and I follow him up to a room. I knock, no answer, so I leave.”

  “Uh huhn. Well, you gotta come down.”

  “Come down?”

  “You know the drill, Charlie. You gotta tell the detectives what you know.”

  Charlie groaned.

  “When?”

  “Now, Charlie, now.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTY-NINE

  AT THIS STAGE OF THE cat and mouse, I had had enough. Pete was not about to let me alone, but for the moment, I knew he was out of my way. This was a window of opportunity I might not get again.

  A window of opportunity to get the money and make a run for it. There could be no hesitation once I had the Scottish suitcase in hand—I h
ad to hit the highway and not look back, leaving my crappy furniture to the monster toad. No way could I go back there now.

  Let us not forget, Father Gomez—I still had Danny to worry about, and at that point I had no idea I had just crushed his nuts. I had no reason to think that was Danny in the Trux place on Vanderhoosen Drive. To be brutally honest, it was the Donna Karan sunglasses that threw me. You do not expect a hardened murdering cutthroat degenerate con like Danny to be wearing giant Donna Karan sunglasses, do you, Father? I am certain your answer would be no.

  So I drove directly from Vanderhoosen Drive to the storage place off the boulevard, a renovated factory with idle brick smokestacks. I kept an eye on my rearview mirror just in case I was being followed and steered around the block a few times to be sure. I pulled in past the guard, parked, went in, and walked up three flights to my mini storage locker.

  I pulled out my keys.

  No locker key.

  I stared openmouthed at the keys in my hand, but that did not make the key appear.

  How was this possible? My keys are on a steel split ring, and none of the other keys were missing. Did I take the key off?

  Of course not, you idiot. You have looked at that key a number of times, seen it winking and blinking and all that while you fantasized about a fountain four thousand miles away.

  Last I saw it was that morning. Now it was gone. The keys had not left me at any time. Well, when I was undressed, of course, last night, I did not bring them to bed with me and . . . the shower!

  I tell you, Father, I almost fainted. But moments later I was back in the parking lot lifting the battery from the Camaro, looking for the paperwork.

  Gone. That bitch had really done some searching, yes? So much for Speedy’s father’s hiding place.

  I climbed into the Camaro and revved her up. I think I set a new land speed record between U-Stor-It and Tangles. Check next year’s Guinness Book.

  All those seemingly innocent questions about the money. Her wanting to help with my shelves so she could search my apartment. Instead of her date with Calgon, she came into my place to search while she knew I was at Oscar’s. Then that sneaky bitch Fanny stole the key to the storage locker while I bathed. Searched my car enough to find the paperwork, too.

  My phone rang. I did not recognize the number but answered just the same.

  “Morty,” a small voice squeaked over the line. “It’s Hugo.”

  No kidding.

  “Look, Hugo, I am kind of busy—”

  “You seen Frog? He’s missing.”

  “What do you mean missing?”

  “Car is gone from his apartment complex, and when I was cashing my check down at the bank, the teller said she was sorry to see Frog go. I asked what she meant, and she said he was in earlier transferring his money to another bank.”

  “So?”

  “A bank in Switzerland. Morty, I think Frog skipped town.”

  I scratched my head, my face contorted with confusion. I know because I saw my face in the visor mirror.

  “Switzerland?” I knew that the last time I spoke with him that morning he was kind of jumpy about Dexter. Where was Dexter, anyway?

  “Hugo, call me if he shows up. I am chasing something else down at the moment—talk to you later.”

  What the hell was going on? No, I am not asking you, Father, because I now know. But at the time I did not.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY

  CHARLIE BINDER SHOWED UP AT the East Brooklyn precinct as I was closing in on Tangles. He did not know how he was going to play it because he was not sure how it was going to be. Would they treat him like a fellow cop? Or like a suspect? He knew the interrogation techniques.

  There were two detectives in the interrogation room; one was white and one was Hispanic, both young. Charlie knew that was not good. It was not good because they were young and would not be as forgiving as someone of Charlie’s generation. It meant he was going to be treated like a suspect. Back in the day, it would have never gone down like this. You could get a pass on things like this if you were a fellow cop.

  “Hi, Charlie, thanks for coming down,” the Hispanic one said, trying to smile. “Want some coffee or some water?”

  Charlie tried to smile himself. Right away, there were four warning signs. The first was that the detectives made no move to shake hands. That would have signaled that they were equals, and an interrogator has to be in command. Second, they were not going to introduce themselves. Again, it helps them to be superior to the suspect—they know who you are but you do not know who they are. Third, this guy was calling him by his first name—standard way of establishing familiarity with a suspect while at the same time remaining his superior. Fourth, the coffee meant they intended to take their time.

  So Charlie put his hand out, and the Hispanic officer shook it somewhat reluctantly.

  “Charlie Binder.”

  “Detective Ruez, and this is my partner, Detective Pool.”

  Charlie forced a handshake on the other detective. Now they knew he knew how to play the game.

  “I was a detective here, you know, back when.” Charlie wistfully scanned the institutional room, table, chairs, and mirrored wall. “Interrogated quite a few people in this very room. I’ll take that coffee light and sweet.”

  The two detectives shared a look but did not move to go get the coffee. Which meant that someone behind the mirror was going to get it. Which meant that they were probably video recording the interrogation, too. Charlie knew this was serious, and the detectives were not doing anything to make him think otherwise.

  What crime had he committed, after all? Well, he knew about stolen money, Danny’s treasure, the money I had recovered. To plan to steal for his own purposes might be conspiracy, but he knew it was very unlikely the DA would ever seek an indictment on something with so little hard evidence. Finding the dead guy in the motel room—he did not believe that they could be positive Charlie went in the room. He had been careful to wipe the doorknobs and light switch. Unless they talked to that maid, the one who keyed the room for him. That could get him in trouble under some new Good Samaritan laws, if not an obstruction of justice statute—clearly he went there seeking Danny for a reason, which led into the conspiracy charge.

  Charlie had to know if they talked to the maid. So he cut to the chase.

  “We don’t need to wait for the coffee to start, fellahs. First, do you guys have any proof I went in that room?”

  Ruez looked at his partner. Pool shrugged.

  “The maid,” Ruez said.

  “Right. I need a lawyer.”

  This meant, of course, that even though the police were at least beginning to see what had happened, Charlie was going to tell them as little as possible. This would not make it easy for the cops to figure out what was going on. Or to figure out why so many dead—or nearly dead—bodies were showing up in their precinct.

  Even in East Brooklyn, three bodies in twenty-four hours was a lot of bodies.

  They would not find Pete’s body, victim number four, anytime soon. Even while Ruez and Pool were interrogating Charlie, Danny was busy at the house on Vanderhoosen Drive dragging Pete down the stairs by his feet, the head clunking on each step.

  Until the last step, where Pete’s head hit the cement with a sound not unlike a coconut falling from a palm tree onto a California patio.

  CHAPTER

  FORTY-ONE

  “WHERE IS FANNY?”

  A mousy woman in a pink tank top and clear plastic smock, with suspicious button eyes, stood before me. Her hands were in clear plastic gloves that massaged black gooey hair dye into the head of an old Italian woman in a salon chair. It looked like the mousy hairdresser was making a mud pie with a cow patty.

  Beyond these two was the majesty of Tangles. A row of pink salon chairs and mirrors lined the right wall, and turquoise pedicure thrones lined the left. Women were seated in some of these chairs in various stages of transformation. Faces were smeared with bright g
reen beauty ointments, hair was spiked in tinfoil for streaking, feet were boiling in blue liquid, and hands were inserted into buzzing electric nail dryers. The attendants were prodding, poking, smearing, filing, and rubbing body parts. I tell you, it looked more like the lair—not the liar—of some mad scientist than a beauty salon. If I simply say “Bride of Frankenstein” you will understand what I am talking about.

  “She ain’t here,” said the woman with the black gooey dripping plastic hands.

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Who are you?” She stopped massaging, and I was glad, because it made me slightly queasy.

  “Me? I am an . . . associate of Fanny’s.”

  “If you were really an associate of Fanny’s, you’d know where she was, wouldn’t you?”

  I did not care for her snide grin.

  “My name is Morty, and you are?”

  “Silvia.” Now her grin turned slightly furtive, and she began smooshing the black cow patty again, but with more force.

  From snide to furtive in a mere moment. Their minds work on so many levels at once. I believed it was time for some heavy flirting.

  “Silvia. What a pretty name.” I smiled, smiling the smile I reserve for the girls, and sometimes for my landlord. “Fanny never said there was someone as charming as you working here.”

  I know, you are groaning from my obviousness, but as I told you before, it is my considered opinion that with women it often pays to be obvious.

  She suppressed a giggle, looking sideways at me like she did not believe a word of it, but wanted to. “What’s the emergency, Morty?” She looked down at the black squishy hair, smiling to herself coyly.

  How long would I have to keep up my flirtations? I wanted to strangle her, make her mind just work on one level. Mine.

  “It is a long story, Silvia, and I would not want to bore you with it. What I would want would be to meet you some night at Octavio, yes? But I would not bore you.”

  Color came to her cheek, but her gaze remained on the squish squish squish of the cow patty in front of her.