Evan Horne [04] Bird Lives!

by Bill Moody

  I park, walk straight inside the bayside restaurant bar and bubbly flow of the Bonacelli clan and Shore Securities employees. At the bar, I order another martini.

  A disk jockey’s thumping disco to an overflow dance floor. Half the dancers are women bobbing and weaving with other women. I’d like my odds of taking one to bed later if it wasn’t for the black storm clouds hurtling down from the north. Through long windows behind the bar, I watch lightning flash the sky over Manhattan, and I can’t help wondering how big a storm Walter leaving the firm will cause.

  The world engineers me a tempest.

  When I’ve sipped my overflow glass of gin and vermouth down to transportable levels, I join the crowd of familiar faces. Another Shore broker, Bobby Gee, and I admire the size of Mr. Vic’s family and the widespread Bonacelli characteristic of large breasts. Particularly among the women.

  Someone grabs my shoulder. It’s Vittorio “Mr. Vic” Bonacelli himself, sole founder of Shore Securities. Thanks to this winter’s deal that brought me, Carmela’s now-separated husband Rags and Walter into the fold as partners, Mr. Vic’s current ownership is down to forty-nine percent.

  But Mr. Vic is our beloved leader. He’d be the boss if that number was two percent.

  “We need to talk,” he says.

  Mr. Vic drags me to a quiet eddy in the flow of music and people.

  “I want you to look out for Carmela while I’m gone,” Vic says. “I don’t want her going back to Rags.”

  One and a half see-throughs have tuned me up enough to tell Mr. Vic exactly how I feel. I have plenty to do around Shore Securities without watching over his butter-face daughter.

  “Isn’t taking care of Carmela one of Carmela’s jobs now, boss? Didn’t I just write her a big check for college graduation?”

  Great figure, Carmela. In fact, everything about her is sexy. Everything BUT HER FACE. Butter face. Oh, hell, that’s a mean joke.

  “You call fifty bucks a big check?” Vic says.

  Hey, fifty dollars was all I could afford, and I think generous considering my current financial prospects. I mean, I was barely back on my feet when I had to fork over a down payment on Vic’s darn stock.

  “Make sure you see Carmela every day,” Vic says. “She says she’s going ahead with the divorce, but she’s still nutty about him. If Rags comes back, goes ape-shit again...or you see Carmela with one puffy lip, you call my friend Tony. He knows what to do.”

  Except when he’s behind the wheel of his Jaguar, the recently married-and-quickly-separated Rags—my former sales manager—is a pussycat. Crazy, yes. But not the hand-to-hand combat type. We’ll never see him again.

  “And oh, yeah,” Vic says, “I told my mother to call you if she gets in any predicaments.”

  Now there’s a problemo. “Mama Bones” Bonacelli, among other nefarious enterprises, runs a chain of free senior-citizen exercise clubs as a front for her betting operations. For entertainment, she practices voodoo and shamanism. With Mama Bones, a predicament could easily involve the FBI, peyote buttons or flesh-eating zombies.

  “No whining about Mama,” Mr. Vic says.

  I must have groaned out loud.

  “You owe me big time for keeping you on a personal services contract until your AASD suspension is over,” Mr. Vic says. “And I’m letting you finish buying shares in the business out of your end of Shore’s profits so you can finally start building something for your kids.”

  I sigh and check the shine on my Florsheims. “You’re right, Mr. Vic. I’ll keep an eye on Carmela. Mama Bones, too.”

  “Thanks.” Mr. Vic clasps my hand. I feel a wad of paper pressed against my palm, and like a slick head waiter collecting his cash duke, I snag the paper from Vic’s hand in one smooth motion.

  Later, when I’m alone, I see Vic’s handout is a torn sheet of yellow notebook paper. The name Tony Farascio and a phone number are penciled in block letters. The seven-one-eight prefix tells me this Tony guy resides in Brooklyn.

  Wonder should I read anything into that? Vic’s emergency muscle comes from big time mob country?

  No way.

  THREE

  It’s a mournful, no-more-Walter Monday. The late winter storm that blew in Friday became a nasty northeaster Saturday, and the storm still howls wet pellets of ice and occasional snowflakes sixty hours later. Only our nickname for Shore’s newest rookie salesman—Dominic Defino (rhymes with albino) offers our bullpen any relief from a mirthless world.

  Wonder what these simultaneous telephone callers want?

  Damn Defino.

  Carmela informs me Mama Bones Bonacelli is on line one, some kind of confrontation with the Branchtown police. Oh, boy. Line two is that tight-assed cutie from the American Association of Securities Dealers, Ann Marie Talbot. Kind of a pretty-but-repressed schoolmarm type, Ann Marie wants to update me on her regulatory audit.

  I’d like to update her audit.

  I flip a coin to see who gets first crack at me. The nickel’s in my hand but I don’t look. My eyes drift to the empty desk where Walter sat for seven years. I smile remembering the time we sent phone sex into our new manager’s first sales meeting.

  “Hi, Mama Bones. What’s up?”

  “’Allo, Austin. I need-a your help.”

  Mr. Vic’s mom, Angelina Bonacelli, has lived in Branchtown, New Jersey, sixty-three of her sixty-eight years, but she still speaks English as if she’d heard our language for the first time last week. She does this on purpose, I’ve decided, to make herself sound helpless when in truth the woman is tougher than week-old tomato pie.

  I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, plop down in Mr. Vic’s padded swivel chair overlooking Shore Securities’ sales floor. “What’s the matter, Mama Bones. One of your zombies bite a cop?”

  “Up yours,” she says. “My boy Vittorio says I should call you if I need help. And I need your help. I’m under the arrest.”

  Sounds like she needs a lawyer, not a stockbroker. “Under arrest? You’re at the police station?”

  “I’m home now, but the policeman is here to take me there. He says I cheated on the bingo game.”

  “Bingo game?”

  “At the church. You know. I go every Sunday night. The policeman says the game is fixed, that I gotta go to jail. Can you believe such a thing about Mama Bones?”

  “Austin?” It’s Carmela, tugging on my sleeve. “Ms. Talbot said to tell you she’s finished the audit and that she’s leaving town. She needs to talk to you immediately. And Bobby Gee says you have to speak with one of Vic’s clients.”

  Screw Talbot, the AASD, Vic’s client and Bobby Gee. Bingo, huh? I’m really curious about this. The world of chance is Mama Bones’ oyster, and if there’s a way to cheat at bingo, she’s the one to have figured it out. His mother put Vic through four years at Rutgers playing the ponies.

  “Can I talk to the policeman, Mama Bones? Maybe I can straighten this out.”

  “Sure, smarty pants. That’s why I called. Here. It’s your friend, Jimmy Mallory.”

  I should have known. Branchtown Detective James Mallory and I coached our sons at T-ball together, and last year renewed our acquaintance when I got mixed up with a bad crowd, got my stockbroker’s license suspended.

  “Vic’s mom is not under arrest,” Mallory says on the phone. “I can’t make her understand. She has to come to the station with me, answer the charges, is all. Sign a paper, then she can go.”

  “What charges?”

  “Like she said, fixing the bingo game. Misdemeanor fraud for now. She answers the charges, we investigate.”

  “Jim, how the hell do you cheat at bingo?”

  “Arrange with the priest to draw certain numbers, split the pot with him.”

  Wow. I’ve heard Mama Bones can work you over better than the Notre Dame offensive line, but this manipulation truly ranks as awesome. She probably convinced the priest he was doing God’s work, keeping half for the church.

  “Ann Marie Talbot here.�
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  “Austin Carr returning your call, Ms. Talbot. Carmela tells me you’ve finished your audit.”

  “Yes, and I have bad news.”

  “You’re coming again next month?”

  “No reason to be rude, Mr. Carr. Frankly, it’s the kind of thing you don’t need right now.”

  Ms. Schoolmarm’s cute looking. But the tone of her voice riles the back of my neck. The pitch grates my ass. “Why’s that?”

  “Our audit turned up three different instances where your clients’ cash balances were used to reduce your overnight broker loan. The money was only co-mingled for a day, possibly because your bank failed to follow instructions, but it’s still co-mingling.”

  The lights of Shore’s big sales room grow dim. I begin to breathe through my mouth. Co-mingling is an ugly word in the securities business. If the charge sticks, and the AASD holds one of their nasty, hero-AASD-saves-the-world-from-crooks press conferences, Shore Securities will be called thieves by every media outlet in New Jersey. Branchtown’s a long way from New York City, but even The Wall Street Journal might run a story.

  “Could we discuss this in person, Ms. Talbot? I mean before you turn in that report? Co-mingling is a very serious charge.”

  “I’m headed back to Philadelphia tonight,” she says. “I don’t see that there’s time.”

  My guts twist into a tight ball. Every night, Shore deposits whatever bonds, stocks and cash we’ve collected during the day into our New York clearing bank, along with very specific instructions about what goes where, i.e., our account or individual customer’s accounts.

  “I’m returning to Branchtown next week,” she says. “You can have input at that time.”

  The bank people make occasional mistakes, putting our customer’s money in with Shore’s, co-mingling client funds with ours. We don’t know it happens until the next day, until we see a printout of what the graveyard bank shift did the night before, but then everything gets sorted and corrected the next morning by phone.

  “If the mistakes are corrected immediately, how can you call it co-mingling?” I say. “I mean, you have to find out about a mistake before you can fix it, right?”

  “I’ll try to call you next week,” she says.

  FOUR

  I am surreptitiously posed in Mr. Vic’s mahogany-paneled private office, one hand on the boss’s previously locked and out-of-bounds liquor cabinet, the other paw on Vic’s unopened bottle of forty-year-old bourbon, when I hear Carmela scream.

  I have to say, honestly, my first thought is that Carmela has seen a mouse. The scream is high-pitched, squeaky and there could be a smile on my face as I reach Vic’s office doorway to check the sales floor.

  But that’s not a mouse chasing Carmela down the center aisle of Shore’s big telephone room. It’s a rat—Carmela’s old beaux and Shore’s ex-sales manager, Tom Ragsdale. The giant rodent Rags holds a steak knife, and he’s fast, too. Probably the only way to catch him is step on his tail.

  Spotting no other available appendages, I dive for his legs. I’m not really the hero type, but Rags’ small and demented brain seems focused completely on catching Carmela, and I personally owe this rat bastard plenty. Before he turned his life over to booze, drugs and gambling, Rags actually ran me down last year with his Jaguar.

  My lunge hits target, my shoulder making perfect contact with the back and side of his knee. It’s a classic tackle, and we tumble together into a ball of fists and elbows, a crashing jumble against Bobby Gee’s desk. Vince Lombardi would be proud.

  My ears await the rush of cheers and accolades from the dwindling, late Monday afternoon sales staff as I push up onto my hands and knees. But the only sound I hear are gasps.

  Wait. Did my pants fall down?

  Turning, I see—no—Rags has jumped up faster than me. While I was scrambling to my feet, Rags grabbed Carmela, ripped a bond calculator from the top of Bobby Gee’s desk and now wraps the machine’s electric cord around the poor woman’s neck.

  “Back off, sucker,” Rags says, “or I’m going to recalculate this bitch’s yield to maturity.”

  “Tony?”

  “Yeah?”

  I decided to call Brooklyn. It’s what Mr. Vic told me to do, and except for lining up left-to-right-breaking putts, and maybe right-to-left ones as well, Mr. Vic’s past advice has proven...well, not bad.

  “My name’s Austin Carr, Tony. My partner Vic Bonacelli said I should call you if his daughter’s jilted ex-husband came back and caused trouble.”

  “Jelly what?”

  “Jilted. Carmela’s ex-husband. He’s here.”

  “Vic’s in trouble?”

  This guy Tony sounds like a mental midget. Hope it’s just a bad first impression. “No, his daughter Carmela’s in trouble. Vic’s in Italy.”

  “Right. Uh...what exactly is going on?”

  I shake my head at the phone, then glance at Rags and Carmela inside the big glass conference room. He has the door locked, the cord still tight around Carmela’s neck. Maybe I should have called the police first, but Rags looks really scary. Beady, drug-zapped eyes. Oily sweaty skin. I’m afraid he could be too much for local law enforcement-types like Mallory. Besides, Mr. Vic told me to call Tony, not the cops.

  “Hey, Carr. I’m waiting here.”

  “Sorry, Tony. I was just taking a look. Right this second, Rags is holding Carmela hostage inside our conference room. He has an electric cord wrapped around her throat. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Did he say what he wants?” Tony says.

  “A hundred grand to pay off some gambling debt. Says it’s a loan against the stock in Shore he’s signing over to Carmela as part of their divorce settlement. The split’s not a done-deal yet, so he thinks he’s got leverage.”

  “Okay, that’s good. That’s very good. Tell him someone’s on the way with the hundred thousand.”

  “You seriously want me to tell him you’re going to give him the money?”

  “I’m always serious, Carr. Now get in there, tell him what I said, make sure he knows he doesn’t get the money if he hurts Carmela.”

  Tony’s confidence is not catching, but it does somewhat relieve my first impression. He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.

  “How can I stall him for hours while you get the money, then drive down from Brooklyn?” I say.

  “Your call was transferred to my cell phone, sunshine. I’m at Clooney’s on the beach, having a drink. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Don’t worry about the cash.”

  Handsome man, Tony Farascio. Six-foot plus. That Mediterranean-dusky look, onyx-black hair with a grizzly beard that probably sprouts a five o’clock shadow soon after breakfast. But Tony also sports delicate features, a chin, nose and cheekbones like a movie star’s. A pretty boy like George Clooney.

  Standing outside the conference room, Tony shows my ex-sales manager Rags what’s inside his New York Giants sports bag, holding it up to the conference room glass. Must look like there’s a hundred grand inside because Rags pushes Carmela farther away, but steps closer himself to the door and reaches down to open up.

  Tony checks over his shoulder to make sure I’ve emptied the office of potential witnesses, then makes his move. Big Tony from Brooklyn is quicker than any rodent. As the door unlocks, Tony kicks the door in, knocking Rags back into Carmela. Tony’s inside slick as a snake, rips the calculator, then the cord from Rags’ hands.

  By the time I follow Tony inside the conference room, the skirmish is over. Tony has Rags pinned to the floor. Carmela cries, but she stands free, off in a neutral corner. Her previously neat hair sprouts black tufts the size of coffee mugs.

  Tony digs in his pocket. “Bring my car around back.” He flips me his keys. “It’s the dark blue Caddy at the curb in front.”

  Flat on his back, Rags twists an arm loose and swings at Tony’s face. Brooklyn Tony catches the flying fist and pops Rags hard with his other hand. Rags’ eyes roll up inside his head.

 
“Don’t hurt him,” Carmela says.

  “Move,” Tony says to me. “Get my car.”

  “Right,” I say. “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Please don’t hurt him,” Carmela says.

  Tony stands up. His big smile shows us a movie star set of pearly caps. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just relocate his ass. Like one of those dangerous New Jersey black bears.”

  Click here to learn more about Big Money by Jack Getze.

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview from the second Jonathan Brooks novel, The Serpent’s Game by A.C. Frieden…

  1

  New Orleans, Louisiana—August 2005

  Silence is a lethal tune—Satan’s anthem for those souls so bruised by this ruthless world that its stealthy carriage of melancholy and anger sends the mind into near-paralysis. Jonathan Brooks understood this too well. To him, silence was a ruse, oversold as peace. Hyped as longed-for solace. This morbid tune brought only maddening echoes of failed love, his soul bled dry by Linda’s caustic slurs lobbed from afar.

  Silence. Dreadful silence.

  If he’d turn on the radio it would quell its assault. He’d survive a little longer. He gazed at the worn surface of his oak desk, one palm down on it, the other still gripping the phone’s handset that he’d just slammed down to hang up. Linda’s venomous tirade still festered unpleasantly. Her voice had stirred up only anger and despair.

  “I’m not answering again,” Jonathan whispered alone, the scorching heat in his office now even more stifling than earlier. “I won’t,” he again told himself.

  But he would. She’d call again. Pumped-up on God knows what meds, she’d dialed his office twice already that morning, for no good reason—just to open old wounds and salt them with her spitefulness. And he’d hang up on her again.

  Then his cell phone rang. He’d had it. Jonathan pressed Ignore, scrolled through the contacts list, opened his ex-wife’s profile, went to her first name and changed it to “Bitch,” then to her last name: “DontAnswer.” He didn’t have the stomach for more fights. Not today, at least, and this day had barely begun.