by Jack Getze
Standing in the doorway, he says, “The fake ruby’s gone. The front door was still open.”
Mama Bones clicks the computer mouse to make a month-by-month colored graph of the bingo take. “Somebody got big cojones breaking in here.”
“Crazy, or a drug jones. And all they got was the Tiffany box with the glass—must have heard me coming up the stairs and ran.”
Mama Bones clicks to write Father Malamud an email. “Yes, it’s-a strange. But who really cares about a piece of glass, huh?”
Gianni says, “But doesn’t it make you wonder who took it? I mean, sure, it’s probably some crackhead from another neighborhood, doesn’t know who he’s stealing from. But what if it wasn’t? What if the thief came here looking for—and thinking they would find—the real ruby?”
Mama Bones frowns. Her gaze loses focus on the computer graph. Interesting point Gianni makes there. Who doesn’t know that thing is a fake? Or wants it to be real...
“Call the boys, quick,” she says.
While Gianni pushes little buttons on his fancy black cell phone, Mama Bones drags down on the file, clicks on save and shuts down the program. She is smelling action tonight. Big time action. She stands up and stretches.
Gianni’s phone gets a ring back in seconds from his crew-wide email. He listens, then says, “Vinnie at the end of the street—the guy who took you to the airport last year—he’s sitting on his front porch, says Patricia Willis raced by minutes ago, turned left onto Willow. She’s driving a blue Ford Mustang.”
Mama Bones grabs her purse. “Get your gun and the car keys.”
For the exercise, mental break and to carefully consider what Mexican delicacy I will eat upon my arrival, I walk to Luis’ Mexican Grill for dinner. It’s a crisp fall evening, the sky washing pink and pale orange as the sun sinks. On my way, I text Beth to make sure she’s at the library.
My cell phone vibrates a few minutes later while I’m walking across Luis’ gravel parking lot. When I see it’s not Beth I come close to not answering. My phone doesn’t even recognize the incoming number. But I say hello anyway.
“It’s me,” Patricia says. “Where are you?”
“Patricia! Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she says. “Where are you?”
“I’m walking into Luis’ Mexican Grill for dinner.”
“Are you alone?”
“Yup. Want to join me?” My phone beeps from an incoming message.
“See you in five,” Patricia says.
“Wait. Is everything okay? The way you disappeared—”
The loud honking of Canada Geese headed south over Luis’ lot confuses me a second—kind of wish I was going to Mexico, too—but I realize Patricia has already shut off. I can’t believe this woman. She’s nuts. I don’t hear from her for days, then she calls out of nowhere, teases me into buying her dinner. Like we spent last night together.
I hurry under Luis’ canopy to avoid what I expect to be plentiful geese droppings. Each line in the flying V-formation of Canadas is a quarter-mile long. Checking the phone, I see there’s a text back from Beth saying she’s at the library studying, as promised. Reassured for no good reason—above all, Beth is a teenager and, according to her mother, capable of lying to me—I walk inside Luis’ searching for two empty stools at mi amigo’s bar. Funny, but my feelings for Patricia are not as strong as they were a few days ago. Some of that craziness evaporated while I was—and still am—distracted by my daughter’s safety.
A buzz of conversation and the warm smell of fresh corn tortillas steer me toward a group of open stools near the top of the horseshoe bar, directly under Luis’ most prized sombreros. I sit beneath an official Mexican Rodeo Association charro, and Patricia—if she really shows up—will dine to my right, under a black and white embroidered mariachi.
Glad to see Luis’ left arm in a sling. He wasn’t supposed to go back to work, but immobilizing the wounded limb is some concession to the healing process. With his right hand wielding a rectangular butcher’s blade the size of a guillotine, however, he still works his job, currently hacking limes into green juicy quarters.
“There has been no sign of Vargas,” Luis says. Whack, whack.
“Yes there has,” I say. “He showed up at my condo this morning while Beth was there.”
Luis rests his knife. “You and your daughter are unharmed?”
“Vargas was rather pleasant, actually. Barely threatened my life. I had to answer questions about Patricia, Mr. Vic and his stock market information, plus what little I know about that red ruby. Turns out it’s really a spinel. That’s—”
“Santo Vargas did not ask about Solana or myself?”
“No. He said he hopes his business with us is finished.”
“Hopes?” Luis shrugs, picks up the cleaver, and resumes chopping limes. The first whack seems particularly aggressive. He says, “I am surprised Vargas did not kill you.”
Haven’t decided yet if I should mention what Vargas said about his feelings for Solana. I lift a menu from between bottles of hot sauce and the chrome napkin holder, glance at Luis’ one-page list of daily specials. I made up my mind for chili Colorado on the way over, but the chili verde chicken special sounds awesome. Goat cheese infused tortillas.
A warm hand touches my shoulder. “Hi, Austin,” Patricia says. “This spot is exactly where I left you.”
Patricia sports red hair again, wearing jeans and a satin shiny blue top, the hair piled on top with teardrop sapphire earrings to match the blouse. I swear the bounce and curve of the jewels match the shape and sway of her hips. I cannot help but reach for her waist.
“You left me?” I say. “More like you ditched me. Why didn’t you say you wanted to go? I thought you’d been kidnapped.”
She touches my cheek. “Sorry, sweet talker. It was one of those spur of the moment, gosh I’m scared things. I had to run and hide.”
“Why didn’t you call?”
“I got tied up with—problems. That crazy mother of Vic’s is after me.”
“Mama Bones? Why?”
“She blames me for Vic getting shot, I guess.”
I lean in close and kiss her cheek. She smells like a blue gardenia. I’m angry she ran out on me last time, curious why she didn’t call. She had to know I’d worry. What was she up to? But when Patricia buries her lips in my neck, her tongue wet and hot, I forgive her. In fact, the craziness I thought might have evaporated surges once again. If you know what I mean.
Behind his bar, Luis directly faces Patricia. “You were rude to leave so abruptly the other night.”
The redhead stops kissing my neck.
Luis points to his arm sling. “We went to much trouble looking for you.”
“I apologize, Luis. I didn’t think—”
“Clearly,” he says. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Oh.” Patricia glances at me, takes a breath. “Just water, please, Luis. Thank you. My stomach feels a little—”
Patricia’s husky voice trails off as Luis lifts his gaze. He stares above our shoulders, his gaze focused on the entrance to his restaurant. The way his eyes narrow snaps my head around. Who would worry Luis?
Santo Vargas.
TWENTY-SIX
There’s a moment when Vargas’ entrance matches the saloon showdown scene in one of those black and white cowboy melodramas from the middle of last century, and I am reminded once again how much Branchtown resembles my image of the old wild west. Not the guns and horses. It’s the attitude: Like what’s going on now—how conversations in the barroom stop and all eyes swing to the new stranger. Hey, I could be wrong, but seems to me like everybody in Jersey is ready to fight.
My image is shattered when Vargas cracks a thin smile our way. By the time Vargas saunters to my side and flattens both of his hands on the counter, his mouth of mirth is a solid grin, and the majority of Luis’ patrons have drifted back to their enchiladas. I have to wonder what Vargas is so happy about.
Behind the bar in his arm-sling, Luis sidesteps to stand face-to-face with Vargas and those smiling purple eyes. Luis is most definitely not smiling, and by leaning forward aggressively, the owner of Luis’ Mexican Grill clearly wants to make the confrontation nose-to-nose. One-handed, Luis wants to fight.
“You dare come here?” Luis says. “After searching my home? Breaking things?”
Vargas shakes his head. “I did no such thing. You are mistaken. For me, the trouble between us is over. I know your bride Solana will never be mine again. She loves only you.”
Luis stares unblinking, speechless. I’m a bit shocked myself. The sharp clink of a fork or spoon hitting dishware sparkles against the background hum. This is still all about Solana?
“I came to your successful restaurant to tell you this,” Vargas says, “but also to finish my business with La Gran Hechizo—or the Big Mojo.”
“You spoke with my wife?” Luis says.
Guess Luis doesn’t care about rubies, the Big Mojo in particular. I sure am curious, and so is Patricia. The redhead hasn’t taken a breath since Vargas mentioned the jewel.
“Yes, I spoke with Solana,” Vargas says. “Only this afternoon, and only over the telephone. It was wonderful that Solana finally agreed to speak with me. What she told me was not so pleasing, but certainly what I needed to hear. She made me understand her feelings, both about you and...her past.”
Not a muscle moves on Luis’ face.
“You are a lucky man, Luis Guerrero,” Vargas says. “Solana is the reason I arranged to come to New Jersey. I could have easily sent another. But I hoped an apology, perhaps seeing me again and the gift of precious jewel would make her...take a new path.”
Luis is ready to bite him in the neck. “Yet despite such a reasonable purpose, you injured my friend and tried to kill him by burning his hotel room? You threatened his children by watching his home.”
Vargas’ head wags no. “I was angry when I first arrived—Solana refused to talk with me before going ahead with the wedding. I sought to provoke you through your friend, encourage a fight, to prove myself the better man. Childish? Si. I did these things. But I never spied on any woman, your home or this man’s family.”
“Do you pretend your actions have been reasonable?” Luis says.
“No, I do not. And I would already be gone from this place but for my desire to complete a bargain.”
“What bargain?” Luis says.
“Senor Bonacelli and I made an arrangement before he was shot.” Vargas wears a black leather jacket cut like a Brooks Brothers blazer. He reaches for his inside breast pocket, making both myself and Luis twitch. But instead of a gun or a switchblade, Vargas withdraws a wallet-size blue Tiffany box. “I must deliver something before I return to Nevada.”
Patricia gasps.
Vargas smiles at her, then lifts the Tiffany box lid to show us what’s inside—a blood red gemstone roughly the size of an unshelled walnut. “I brought this jewel from Las Vegas to offer Solana,” Vargas says. “But when she refused to speak with me, or postpone her marriage, I sold La Gran Hechizo to Senor Bonacelli.”
“And yet here it is, still in your possession,” Luis says. The owner of Luis’ Mexican Grill is yet to be assuaged by Vargas’ apparently honest revelations.
“By agreement with Senor Bonacelli, I kept La Gran Hechizo and left with him a glass replica,” Vargas says. “A thirty-day, risk free trial, he called it.”
“Sounds like Mr. Vic.” I touch the Tiffany box, look at Patricia. “Does this look like the stone Vic showed you, the one in the jewelers briefcase?”
Patricia shivers like a mouse ran over her shoe, then reaches in her purse. I’m not the only guy watching who sucks air when she pulls out a blue Tiffany box exactly the shape and size of Vargas’. She places the box on the bar, takes off the lid. Oh, my. Now we have two Big Mojos shining the color of dark red wine, catching light from Luis’ overheads and dazzling us with rose-tinted sparkles.
Vargas pushes his box and gem to a spot directly in front of Patricia. “Here you are, Senora Willis.” He reaches for hers. “I will take back my glass one, por favor.”
“Wait a minute,” she says.
“Forgive me, Senora,” Vargas says. “Senor Bonacelli is awake and told me over the telephone I should give La Gran Hechizo to you. I assumed he had mentioned this to you as well.”
“How do I know yours isn’t the fake?” Patricia says.
Vargas stares at Patricia. Luis and the redhead focus on the man with the tattooed neck. My eyes won’t leave the red gems. I can’t believe there are two.
“The ruby was my commission for information I gave Vic,” the redhead says. “I want to make sure I get the right one.”
“The gem is a spinel,” Vargas says.
“Whatever,” Patricia says. “The question is, how do I know you really talked to Vic, that this one is the real Big Mojo instead of the one I have?”
“Call Senor Bonacelli yourself,” Vargas says. “He awoke from his coma late this afternoon. He spoke briefly with his wife and also with two Branchtown Police Detectives, I am told, a conversation which occurred in the presence of my informant. Here is his room’s telephone number.”
Vargas hands Patricia a slip of paper with penciled numbers. She finds her cell phone and starts poking. I don’t like my Patricia is so hot to own the Big Mojo, Mr. Vic’s expensive present. The Big Mojo is no farewell gift.
“Did Mr. Vic tell the police who shot him?” I ask.
“No,” Vargas says. “He told the police he cannot remember the shooting.”
Five or six business types—sports jacket or suit, shirts with collars and ties—noisily enter the dining room from the back of the restaurant. It’s a walking Rotary Club meeting, storming Luis’ Mexican Grill through the kitchen, the whole crew probably half-baked from beers elsewhere. Besides raucous laughter, the young business types bring along cooking smells from the kitchen, particularly cilantro and roast pork.
Patricia is having trouble getting Vic on the phone. She talks to someone in an over-pleasant voice. A young couple bounce through the restaurant’s main entrance, and while I noticed their arrival from the corner of my eye, I now stare straight at them with what I hope is utter shock, fear and disbelief. Making a beeline for yours truly are my daughter Beth and boyfriend Mike. They are dying to tell me something.
Vargas twists, wants to see what I’m looking at, the shift putting big wrinkles in his black leather sport coat. “Your daughter,” he says.
“My one and only.” I wish Vargas didn’t have so much information about my family.
Mike and Beth arrive bar-side. “What’s going on?” she says.
“Too much to explain,” I say. “Hang on.”
“Vargas doesn’t really manage that construction site,” Beth says. “He has no experience. He must be in town for—”
“Okay,” Patricia says. “Vic says I should swap my Big Mojo for yours.”
“Think I’ll take them both,” a new voice says.
We all rotate our heads like a well-coached drill team. That’s me, Vargas, Beth, Mike, Luis and Patricia, all twisting as one. We should have uniforms. Behind the Rotary Club businessmen, the new speaker limps out where we can see him. It’s my old sales manager, Rags in shirt, tie and crutch, a disheveled tan suit with no left leg to accommodate an above-the-knee fiberglass cast. He’s wearing blue sneakers. His hair sticks skyward in clumps. The whole package is a little scary, if you ask me, although definitely not as frightening as the semiautomatic in Rags’ hand.
Luis and Vargas act at the same instant, Luis throwing a switchblade he’s pulled from nowhere, and Vargas charging Rags directly, a blur of muscled shoulder and death’s head tattoo. Vargas’ hands are outstretched, reaching for the muzzle of Rags’ semiautomatic.
Luis’ knife misses. Fire from Rags’ pistol stands up Vargas like a fence post.
I’m done watching. I throw myself at Beth and cover her with as much of my bod
y and arms as I can press flat against her. A second gunshot from Rags’ pistol drops Vargas to the barroom floor, and tightens the grip on my daughter. Being as gentle as I can, I lower my weight, tugging Beth to the restaurant floor, huddling us against the legs of a bar stool. I blanker her, with Mike helping me.
Silence becomes frightening. What’s happening? Where is that bastard? I raise my head a few inches. Someone steps on my neck to scoop up the jewels. Rags.
My screwy former sales manager wrenches me off Beth by pointing the gun at her head. “Get up and lead me out the back door,” Rags says. “Try to run, I’ll kill your daughter.”
“You, too, Luis.” Rags backs someone off with the gun.
I scramble to my feet and wave Luis away. I’m so scared Beth will be hurt. I’m bordering on hysteria. Rags steers me around the bar, toward the kitchen, and I can’t do anything but what he tells me. Especially once he lets go of Beth.
Luis won’t fire his shotgun because of me and the crowd. This is it. Rags has me, my worst enemy. He hauls me through the cooking area where two assistants I met at Luis’ wedding stare as we parade through. Both are fascinated with the gun resting against my head. Wire baskets of onions and peppers hang from the high ceiling.
Outside the back screen door, Rags drags me toward his old green Jaguar. It’s no coincidence that one of the dents on his hood perfectly fits my butt.
“Give me your cell phone,” he says.
“What do you want with me?”
“We’re going to make cookies,” he says.
“Cookies?”
I hand him what he wants. He tosses my cell in Luis’s green trash bin.
“Trust me. You’ll really get into it.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Driving Rags’ old Jaguar, with Rags, his broken leg and the semiautomatic riding in back, my brain is worse than scattered. I’m seeing, hearing and thinking about my world in clipped bursts of semi-awareness. Like being drunk. I’m holding together on a single fact: At least Beth is safe.