Molly Brown

by B. A. Morton

  “You know why. You’re the one who dragged Frankie into all of this. I’m snuffling around after bent cops and Frankie’s left his stink all over the place. He knows I’ve got the snout of a bloodhound, and being the curious guy he is, he has a need to know what I know.”

  “And naturally you need to know what he knows?”

  Connell scratched his head and looked at him. “Yeah, it could get complicated. So, like I said, just stand there, look official and let me do the talking.”

  “What if things get out of hand?”

  “They’re not going to.”

  Marty raised a brow. “How long have we known each other, Tommy?”

  Connell grinned, “Okay, then we’ll improvise.”

  “We ... why don’t I like the sound of that?” replied Marty.

  “Relax. You worry too much.”

  The hub of Frankie’s swanky empire, created and maintained by dubious means, occupied the entire top floor of the building. Excellent real estate, great views but definitely too far in the clouds to jump if a swift exit was called for. Connell wasn’t unduly bothered by heights, but when the walls were floor to ceiling glass, and the cars in the street below resembled Joe’s toy cars, he thought it wise to steer a course away from the vista.

  “The name’s Connell. I’m here to see Mr. Vasin,” he announced to the rather attractive young lady at reception. He gave her one of his charming smiles, and she blushed sweetly and picked up the phone. Connell experienced a brief moment of concern at one so innocent being in the employ of one who was so patently not.

  Any further thought on the matter was quickly swept to one side however when the thickly carved oak doors at the end of the lobby opened and they were beckoned into the inner sanctum by a slender, balding gentleman who was dressed in a similar fashion to Marty.

  “Hey look, Marty,” muttered Connell, “a fellow pallbearer.”

  “Just keep on digging that hole, buddy.”

  Connell swallowed his laughter and tried for an intelligent expression. “You must be Porter. Sorry for your loss.”

  “Huh?”

  Connell glanced at his watch. Twelve-thirty. “Hey, hope we didn’t keep you waiting. Got caught up ... doing interesting stuff.”

  Porter glowered at Connell and frowned at Marty, who smiled pleasantly and kept his mouth firmly shut.

  Rising from his seat behind an oval office sized desk, Frankie swept both of his visitors with a disparaging glance as they entered and returned his gaze to Connell with a hint of a smile.

  “Tommy Connell, it’s been some time, you’re looking ... well.”

  The last time they’d met, Connell was fresh from his near death experience and recently divorced from his police career. He’d not been at his best physically or mentally, and Connell seemed to recall that raised voices and idle threats had been a major ingredient of their conversation.

  “You wanted to see me,” he said. “I’m here, so what was so important that I had to interrupt my busy life?”

  Frankie narrowed his eyes, flicking them between the two men, and smiled indulgently. He turned to Marty and extended his hand. “Frankie Vasin, and you are?”

  Marty swallowed, ignored the hand and Connell cut in swiftly. “Mr. Dexter, my associate. So, Frankie, you going to tell me what you want or are we going to stand about all day exchanging pleasantries?”

  Frankie kept his gaze on Marty a moment longer and shrugged dismissively. “Have a seat, gentleman.” He re-seated himself, lit a cigarette, took his time inhaling, and then blowing out an elaborate stream of smoke as he slowly exhaled, sat back and considered for a moment. “You’re not the only one with a busy life, Tommy, and I’ll bet you that my hourly rate is a tad bit higher than yours. Which brings me to the reason for our meeting …”

  “Hey, fire away, I’m all ears.” Connell also sat back and rested one foot casually against his knee. He drummed his fingers against the arm of the seat, increasing the beat when he caught the irritation in Frankie’s expression.

  “You wanted to sell your apartment some time ago. I’m prepared to make you an offer, a very respectable offer, an offer I would recommend that you accept.”

  “Huh?” Connell paused. He hadn’t expected that. He’d expected maybe to be warned off or even bullied off, but not bought off. He was a little insulted and just a teensy bit tempted.

  “I assume it’s still for sale. I understand your last tenants left some months ago and it would be a shame to let such a valuable asset go unrealized.”

  “How valuable?” Connell felt Marty’s disapproval and chose to ignore it.

  “Well, I’m open to negotiation. Property prices are rising, albeit slowly, but I’m an optimistic sort of man and I’m willing to go, say, twenty percent above my last offer. I hear you have a nice little spread upstate. Nice little spreads cost money, don’t they, Tommy? And I suspect, from looking at you, that you don’t have much of that.”

  Shit, that was a good offer, a very good offer, but ... “We had this discussion two years ago. I told you then I’m not about to be swindled by the likes of you, Frankie.”

  “Swindled ... that’s harsh, Tommy. I’m a businessman. I’m offering you a deal. You need money and I can supply it. The apartment’s an incidental really.”

  “Who says I need money?”

  Frankie grinned, flashed film star teeth and leaned forward through the smoke. “Everybody needs money, Tommy.” He ground out the cigarette and reached for another.

  “You know, Frankie, those things will kill you if someone else doesn’t beat them to it.”

  Connell sensed rather than observed Marty’s discomfort and resisted the urge to give him a reassuring glance. He was playing Frankie and part of the game was to bait.

  “Someone else should know better,” replied Frankie.

  Connell waved the smoke away with the back of his hand and cocked his head, “Look, Frankie, I’m a busy man. Can we get down to it? I’ve got stuff to do, places to go.”

  “I’ve already gotten down to it, Tommy. I offered to buy your apartment. I’m a property developer, that’s what I do. It’s all I do.”

  “Oh yeah, I heard you were in the car rental business. So what’s all that about, Frankie - you branching out?” Connell set both feet back on the floor and straightened himself up on his seat. It was time to stir things up a little.

  “You’ve been sniffing too hard, Tommy, and if you’re not careful you’ll end up with a habit you can’t break.” Frankie gave a smirk, like he was privy to something he found amusing. It unsettled Connell and caused a little warning bell to sound in his head, but not loud enough to make him stop.

  “You know, Frankie, the thing with letting other people play with your toys is that they’re never quite as careful as you are. They break your things, they leave a mess. They leave their shit spread all over the place and then, pretty soon, their shit becomes your shit, and so it goes. If I were you, I’d be concerned about what kind of shit was being left in my property. Jeez, these forensic guys are hot. They can turn a car inside out and tell you not only how many bodies were carried in the trunk but who put them there ... and in some cases, they can even tell you who told them to put them there.” He paused for a smirk of his own. “You see where I’m going with this, Frankie?”

  “Not entirely.”

  Connell shrugged, “Okay, let’s lay our cards on the table. I’m not a cop anymore so it’s just two guys here shooting the breeze. You know I’m interested in Gibbons and Scott. I want to know why that’s got you running for your check book?”

  Frankie shook his head, “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Tommy. You’re obviously delusional. All that trouble two years ago has got you jumping at shadows that aren’t there. You know it’s sad. I’ve been hearing tales about how you’ve been playing doggy for that prick Gesting, but I didn’t realize you were this desperate. All I’m trying to do is help you out of a fix so you can go play cowboys, or happy families, or whateve
r it is that floats your boat these days.”

  Marty shot a glance at Connell, waiting for the expected reaction, but what he got instead was amusement.

  “You know, Frankie, you’re trying very hard to get me out of the picture, and hey, if you offered enough, I might well be tempted. Like I said, I’m not a cop any more but I have this little problem ...”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah. You see, I’ve had the rent-a-cops warn me off in an unfriendly way,” he gestured to the colorful remnants of their handiwork, “and now I’ve got you trying to buy me off in a pretty obvious way, if you don’t mind me saying, and the thing is, Frankie, I’ve got this whole ‘three strikes and their out’ scenario going on in my head, and I’m thinking, okay, why not just wait to see what happens next?”

  “I wouldn’t advise that, Tommy.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you would, but as Mr. Dexter here will confirm, I rarely take advice.”

  “So where do we go from here?” asked Frankie.

  Connell got to his feet and Marty followed. “Well, Frankie, I’m not a stupid man, and I’m banking on the fact that you aren’t either, so I’m going to go away and think about your offer, and you’re going to think about giving me Gibbons and Scott.” He crossed the room and pulled open the door. “I’ll get back to you.”

  Frankie smirked at Connell’s departing back. “Be careful what you wish for, Tommy.” He snatched up the phone as the door slammed shut behind them. “Porter, get your ass in here now. Tommy Connell just made a big mistake.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Well, I think that went well,” said Connell with a wide grin as he stood, hands in pockets, watching the traffic from the relative safety of the sidewalk outside Frankie’s building.

  “You think so?” Marty grimaced. “You pissed him off. He’s not going to let that go.”

  “Exactly,”

  “Huh?”

  Connell turned and his grin widened further. “He’s going to get all jiggy and be forced against his better judgment to do something. And let’s face it, Marty, when you’re forced to do anything, you tend not to think, just act.”

  “So?”

  “So, he’ll make a mistake, or Gibbons and Scott will make a mistake, or the undertaker will make a mistake ...” He wasn’t sure which, but when they did, he’d be there to catch them doing it.

  “The undertaker?” Marty raised a brow.

  “Porter, the pallbearer. He’s going to be doing something right now to safeguard his job. He’s gotta make sure whatever Frankie’s got going down doesn’t go face down.”

  Marty brushed a fleck of lint from his suit and sighed deeply. “Oh yeah, I expect you’re right. He’s probably digging your grave as we speak.”

  Connell laughed, “He’s gotta catch me first.”

  Marty’s attention drifted over Connell’s shoulder as he caught a commotion at the curb behind him. A squad car had pulled up, releasing two officers who were showing a great deal of interest in Connell’s car. One officer relayed information via his radio as he circled the vehicle. The resulting static could be heard above the noise of the traffic. Passersby were slowing their stride, rubber-necking, checking out the action.

  “I think maybe he just did,” said Marty slowly.

  “Huh?”

  “’You been up to mischief, buddy?”

  “No more than usual,” replied Connell. “Why?”

  “So, how come the cops are heading this way with their hands on their weapons?”

  Connell turned and found himself confronted by two of New York’s finest. He didn’t know them, had never met them, but figured by their contemptuous expression they knew more than was healthy about him. They had a self-important swagger going on. The younger one maybe less so, but the older guy bringing up the rear looked like he’d spent too long in uniform and ultimately blamed his lack of career advancement on just about everyone but himself. Connell, figured maybe today the officer planned to get even for his perceived bad luck.

  “Tommy Connell?” asked the first officer.

  “Yeah ...?” he replied, keeping his eyes on the second cop, the one he figured needed watching most.

  “You need to come with us, Sir.” The young guy was a little nervous and Connell wondered why. Maybe he did look a little rough around the edges this morning, but he didn’t look scary, neither did he present a threatening manner. He was his usual affable, charming self. There was no real need for the guy to swallow repeatedly.

  Connell shot a quick glance at Marty and gave a slight shrug, negating any involvement with a shake of his head. He’d no idea what was going on but he could play along. If nothing else, he was always up for some fun and games. Marty, on the other hand, was not quite so familiar with the rules.

  “Hey, guys what’s the story? You got a problem with my car?” He stood his ground and let his hands hang loosely at his side. He didn’t want to spook them and start a war he couldn’t win.

  “Can I see your license, Sir?” said the same officer with strained politeness. A little too strained, thought Connell, as if he was anxious to do this right, to make sure he didn’t mess up. The fact the officer was concerned about protocol put Connell on alert. When cops started caring about dotting their Is, an arrest was usually in the cards and they didn’t want it compromised. He shifted his gaze to the second officer who narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip on his weapon.

  “What’s this all about?” Connell stalled. They seemed a little too intense for his liking, rather too eager for him to back down and come quietly, as if maybe they feared that he wouldn’t.

  “He asked you for your ID,” the second cop spat at him.

  “You already know who I am. You just called me by name and I confirmed it,” countered Connell. “Why do you need my ID?”

  Marty rolled his eyes. “Just give them your license, Tommy,” he muttered. “You’re causing a scene here, buddy.”

  Connell shrugged. It made no difference to him how many people stopped to gape. With any luck, someone would catch it on their iPhone and any mistreatment at the hands of the police would be on YouTube before the hour was out.

  “Sorry, guys, I don’t have it with me,” he replied with an attempt at a smile, which turned into a smirk. Despite his earlier vow to behave, he just couldn’t help himself. Even the slightest push from authority these days had him pushing right back. Of course he didn’t have any ID. It was back home in his wallet and likely being consumed by doggy gastric acid as he spoke. “Dog ate my wallet. Can you believe that?”

  They obviously didn’t, as the tension suddenly hiked and Connell quelled the unwanted sliver of fear that threaded through him.

  “I need to see your hands on the back of your head, Sir.” The officer stepped forward. His partner pulled his weapon from its holster and the small crowd gathered on the sidewalk took a collective step back.

  “Whoa, chill out guys ...” Raising his palms, Connell took a defensive step back and found himself spun around and slammed against the glass frontage of Frankie’s building. His arms were yanked behind him and he stifled a wince as cuffs were tightened severely around his wrists. The first officer leaned in, kicked his feet apart and proceeded to pat him down none too gently. Not so polite now that they had him restrained.

  “Do you have any weapons concealed on your person, Sir?” the young guy was asking and Connell shook his head, bewildered.

  “No, I don’t have any weapons. Geez, guys, what’d I do, run a stop sign? No need to get all crazy about it.”

  “You think we’re crazy?” said the second cop. “The position you’re in, you want to think real hard before you open your mouth and verbally abuse a police officer.”

  “Huh ...” Well, someone was crazy and it certainly wasn’t him. “You want to hear some abuse, I can do better than that ...”

  “For Christ’s sake, Tommy, will you just shut up?” Marty was suddenly released from immobilization by the very real threat of Connell esca
lating the situation merely by the use of his smart mouth. “Look, Officers,” he added in a placatory tone, “there’s obviously been a mistake. He hasn’t done anything wrong. We just came out of a meeting. I can vouch for him ...”

  “Leave it, Marty,” grunted Connell, his face pressed unnecessarily hard against the glass by a heavy hand at the back of his head. The second officer held his weapon in standard arms locked position and Connell took a breath and held still.

  “You think we’re all stupid, Connell?” he snorted, and the weapon quivered slightly, an indication of the cop’s anger, distaste or just general lousy humor, Connell couldn’t decide which.

  “I have no idea what this is about, guys, but I know you made a mistake. Whether that’s because you are completely stupid or because the guy who sent you here is. Hey, what do I know but it seems kinda funny to me.”

  “You got the whole force running around looking over their shoulder and you think it’s funny?” The officer pinning him against the glass pulled sharply at the cuffs and pain lanced up Connell’s shoulder. He pulled away from the pain and the officer laughed, nerves forgotten, and ground his knuckles into Connell’s spine. Not exactly a punch and it wouldn’t leave a mark, but it made him flinch all the same. “Resisting arrest, well that’s not going to do you any good, tough guy.”

  Connell exhaled, tried to make sense of the absurd situation and through the thickened glass wall caught sight of the audience gathered in the foyer of Frankie’s building. Standing nonchalantly at the back of the crowd in his black suit and tie was Porter. He smiled, inclined his head in a brief nod, and turned and got back in the elevator.

  Okay, so maybe Frankie was quicker off the mark than he’d given him credit for. It was no big deal. He just needed to suffer the indignity of going down to the station house with these guys to work it all out. He could do that. He hadn’t done anything wrong, not even a traffic violation. No matter what trumped-up charge Frankie had thrown his way, he was more than a match for the Vodka Boy. He offered up a defiant smile as he was pulled away from the wall and frog-marched to the back of the squad car. “Hey, if I’ve got you looking over your shoulder, then maybe you deserve everything coming to you.”