by Jack Getze
“Head for your condo,” Rags says.
“What for?”
“We’re switching to your car.”
My world is not right, and I have to do some serious internal dialoguing, talk myself back into a place where the things and people around make sense. Straighten it all out by separating the crazy whole into odd pieces I can understand.
Rags told me at Luis’ a few weeks ago he wanted Carr Securities back, that he’d regain control one way or another. But the trigger happy psychopath ruined any chance, or any kind of normal life, shooting Santo Vargas with a restaurant full of witnesses. Something changed, or Rags isn’t thinking anymore. Hell, Rags never did think much. I’ve been out-noodling Tom Ragsdale since the day he walked into the old Shore Securities. I’ve always known his plan before he did. Hope that still holds.
“The bug in Vic’s office was pure genius,” I say. “And the recordings must have turned up a lot of exciting information you didn’t expect.”
Praise always works on Rags, although it might take a while. This is not the same old Rags, the one a friend Walter and I used to torture with practical jokes. Gee, come to think of it, I could be partially responsible for Rags’ mental problems, even the drug abuse. I’d sure like to think so.
“You must have heard Patricia’s stock tip on that bug?” I say. “Why didn’t you just score big on the inside info yourself? Or have you sent a copy of the tape to the U.S. Attorney, trying get me and Vic tossed from the securities business?”
Rags doesn’t want to talk it over yet. But he’s almost ready. By staring straight ahead, ignoring me, Rags actually encourages me to proceed. For knowledge of human behavior, being a stockbroker for nearly a decade—we are essentially telephone salesmen—easily tops a degree in psychology.
“When did you decide to steal Vic’s payoff from Vegas?” I say.
The skin beside Rags’ left eye flickers. “Shore was supposed to be mine,” he says. “Mr. Vic said so, at me and Carmela’s wedding. The company would be mine today if it wasn’t for you cheating Walter and me out of our stock.”
An unbelievable take on past events. “When I bought your stock, no one wanted it,” I say. “Business was crashing. The company was charged with co-mingling client funds.”
“You told me and Walter all the clients were leaving. But you knew business was actually picking up.”
Nonsense. Like any good salesman, I merely exaggerated the benefits and downplayed the risks of our transaction. I’d better change the subject. “Have you seen Mallory lately? I hear he’s missing.”
“Shut up and drive.”
“Sure, okay. Did you try to kill Mr. Vic because he opposed you and Carmela reconciling, or because you wanted Carr Securities—or both? Was it always about the ruby? Seems like you want that gemstone pretty bad.”
Rags sniffs. “That piece of crap rock is what screwed everything up. There was supposed to be money in that suitcase.”
Mama Bones is going to catch a cold, for sure. Wet hair, the air outside cold as snow, and her head and neck stuck in this draft from Gianni’s full-of-cracks old Jeep. Noisy as a tank inside here, too. And smelly. Probably it’s the same World War II Jeep General George Patton crashed and got killed in.
“Try the heater again,” she says.
“It’s broken, Mama Bones. Honest.”
The wind whistles against her ears and her hair. Mama Bones tugs on the stuck window crank one a more time. It won’t budge. Gianni’s Jeep has a one-inch hole up there between the glass and the rag top. If she catches a cold, maybe the hospital won’t let her visit Vittorio tomorrow.
“We should-a taken a taxi,” she says.
“Right,” Gianni says. “Always good to have a stranger along for the big finish, now we finally have the real ruby and Vic’s shooter in sight.”
“I’m gonna get sick,” she says.
“Sorry, the Escalade’s in the shop.”
Mama Bones shrugs. Maybe Gianni is right. This is no time to complain. So what if she catches a cold or the flu, has to wait a day or two to see her boy in the hospital. She got lucky tonight, she and Gianni following Patricia to Luis’ Mexican, Gianni spotting Tommy Ragsdale’s Jaguar. That rotten drug-addict, ex-grandson-in-law of hers, Tommy Ragsdale, he surprises Mama Bones. She always knew he was nuts, but a cold-blooded killer? Shooting her son, Vic, and then shooting that guy Santa Claus Vargas. Twice. When Gianni told her that’s what he saw through the restaurant window, she first couldn’t believe him. Who knew stockbrokers could be killers, huh?
“Looks like they’re headed to Carr’s condo,” Gianni says.
Rags pokes me from behind with his semiautomatic, encouraging me to push his Jaguar through semi-yellow lights, fleeing pedestrians, and clearly visible stop signs. I’m going too fast as we bounce in my condo driveway. Halfway through a turn in the building’s rear parking lot, a white Mercedes flashes red tail lights too late and backs into us.
I get my foot to the brake, send the Jag into a short screech, but there’s not enough time or space. Bam. We smack the Mercedes hard enough to wrinkle the Jag’s hood, but the airbags fail. Lucky for me.
“Crap,” Rags says.
I’ve never liked Mercedes. They just ooze status or something. If I had to initiate an auto wreck, take my choice of all the cars I could smash, I’d pick a Mercedes. I unfasten my seat belt and pop the driver door. Maybe I’ll make a run for my freedom.
“Don’t get out,” Rags says. “Keep going. Back us up and go around.”
Our little accident did not dislodge my former sales manager’s grip on that gun. It’s aimed between my ears for emphasis. I re-close my door, swing around the wounded Mercedes.
“Hey, asshole!”
It’s the owner of the Mercedes, shouting as I drive by, a big guy who wears nice blue suits. I see him around the condo building lately, usually with a pretty young woman. The guy’s over six-foot, two hundred pounds, with black hair and a California tan. He’s far enough away to ignore for now. My car is parked at the other end of the lot, a half a block away.
I gun the motor and chew up the distance, pull the Jag alongside my Camry. Rags motions with the gun to wait while he opens the door. The car port’s concrete and brick back wall rises only three-quarters of the way to the roof. Through the gap, stars twinkle in a dark blue sky. The salty sweet aroma of cooking soy sauce drifts my way from the Hunan Wok restaurant next door.
Feet slapping on concrete turn my head.
“I’m talking to you!” The man in the blue suit moves fast. He must have sprinted all the way here. “You hit my car,” he says. “It’s messed up. You’re not supposed to drive away from an accident.”
I nod toward my armed companion, Rags, his crutch and the semiautomatic currently struggling out on the other side of the Jag. “This guy has a gun, so I’m doing exactly what he tells me to, okay? Worry about your car damage later.”
“Who has a gun?” Mr. Mercedes says.
“Me,” Rags says.
My ex-sales manager shows him, too, the semiautomatic rising above the Jag’s roof, the black muzzle aligning with Mr. Mercedes’ neck. Odd, but the big guy doesn’t look frightened. In fact, he shows Rags what’s already in his hand—a leather case with a gold badge and U.S. identification.
“Put down that weapon,” Mr. Mercedes says. “I’m a Federal officer.”
Rags limps around the back with his crutch, stands six feet away and aims the semiautomatic at the Federal officer’s chest. “Look in my eyes,” Rags says. “Do you see who’s talking to you? I shot two people in the last half hour. Want to make it three?”
The cop puts away his badge, raises his hands.
Rags points at me with his weapon. “Find his gun.”
I reach inside the cop’s coat. I’ve been dying to check the brand of his suit anyway. Nice blue suits are the mainstay of every stockbroker’s wardrobe. Kind of like the young single woman’s little black dress.
“My weapon’s in my car,” the cop says.
He’s wearing a Canali. I should have known. Nothing looks as good to my eye. I explore every nook and cranny of the three or four thousand dollar suit, but find no weapon or holster. He does harbor stainless steel handcuffs hooked on his belt.
“Check his ankles,” Rags says.
I lift his trouser legs, exposing socks of pure silk but no spare weapon.
Rags waves his pistol. “Get in the Camry, officer. Lie face down on the back floor and put your hands behind you. Carr, help him put his cuffs on.”
“Why are we taking my car?” I ask.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I’m flat on my back, tied up, staring through my Camry’s window at the starry night and mostly nude trees. The leaves are all gone up here in northern Jersey, dead, and sure as shootin’ I could be next. My taped hands went numb beneath me five minutes ago, and with my head stuffed under the arm rest like a lost toy, now my neck is losing feeling.
My cushion is softer, but I think the dark-haired Federal officer has it better on the floor, even though Rags has the seat way back to drive with his cast. The cop owns a bunch more head room. He and I are both gagged. His breathing sounds ragged.
I twist my hips, trying to ease the pressure on my neck. My face rubs the arm rest to cure an itch, and a corner of the duct tape over my mouth peels loose. I rub again, and again, and enough tape peels loose from my mouth, I can press the unattached corner against the upholstery. The tape sticks well to the fabric, and slowly I peel my mouth off the gag.
Did Rags really think he could shut me up? I own this bozo.
“Tell me, Rags. How did Mallory talk his way into your action?”
“Crap.”
“Did it hurt much when he threw you off the bird watching tower and broke your leg?” I ask.
Rags snaps his head over the seat to check me, no doubt making sure the tape on my wrists and ankles is still in position. That’s what I’d be checking if the guy I just gagged started talking.
“Your nose is bleeding,” he says.
“Drop me at the hospital.”
The cop on the floor hums and mumbles behind the silver tape across his mouth. I roll my shoulder and slide my hip so that my arms dangle over the edge of the seat. If the Federal officer can move at all, if he gets his head and mouth up high enough...
“What’s going on back there?” Rags says.
My fingertips touch the cop’s forehead, then his nose, and finally his taped mouth. I grip the tape edge hard with my nails. His lips peel away from my hands and the tape.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Crap,” Rags says.
“It’s Patricia Willis’ actions I am interested in,” the cop says. “Not anyone named Rags or Mallory. We believe Ms. Willis may have stolen inside information from her brother’s locked desk at a family dinner.”
“Who the hell is we?” Rags says.
“My name is Arnold Casey. I’m an Investigator for the U.S. District Attorney in New York.”
Oops.
“So that parking-lot collision was no accident?” Rags says.
“Yes and no,” Arnold says. “We’ve been watching Carr for weeks.”
Gee, how bad can the news get? Makes me almost glad Rags is going to kill me. Almost. I can’t believe that an hour ago I was enjoying a tequila, watching and listening to Vargas explain rubies, spinels and the last three mysterious weeks of my life. Things seemed pretty good. Resolved. And now this—
“You don’t want to do anything drastic, Mr. Ragsdale,” Arnold the cop says. “When I don’t check in minutes from now, every asshole in Jersey with a gun and badge will be looking for us.”
Now that is good news.
“In a few minutes,” Rags says, “you and that dickwad will have disappeared from the planet.”
Cold air whistles against her neck glands. Mama Bones’ back and shoulders are stiff as wood. She grabs onto the Jeep’s stuck window crank one more time.
Mama Bones knows what those Alcoholics Anonymous people mean when they talk about the craziness of doing the same thing, over and ever, expecting a different result. But maybe this time, at least with the window, she’ll get lucky. It could happen.
Nope. Ha. Those AA people who meet in St. Theresa’s basement every Wednesday night, drink all that coffee, they’re right this time, too. Still no dice with the window.
“Sorry about the window and the heater,” Gianni says. “But Rags is pulling off the Parkway. That should help. Exit 142, like you predicted.”
“Okay, that’s-a good.”
Not only will the wind drop, maybe Mama Bones will get something entertaining to look at while they follow Tommy Ragsdale, Austin Carr, and whoever the other big guy is they picked up in the condo parking lot.
“You were right,” Gianni says. “He’s headed for work. That left turn we just made puts us on the same street as Ragsdale’s bakery. “
“How many men you got coming?” Mama Bones says.
“Lots.”
The sign reads Aunt Lena’s Homemade Cookies Corporation, Piscataway, New Jersey. I catch glimpses of a three-story stucco wall, lines of Aunt Lena’s purple delivery trucks, and a block-long loading dock with twenty stalls, all covered by one tin roof. Rags slides my Camry under the half-acre metal cover and shuts off the engine. Arnold Casey’s labored breathing fills the back seat with a soundtrack of distress.
Pain stabs my neck when Rags drags me out of the back seat. My butt and lower back land on asphalt that smells like old engine oil. An airliner landing at Newark-Liberty hisses through the night clouds as Rags slices the tape around my feet with a box cutter. “Stand up.”
My hands are still taped behind my back, so I roll onto my knees and stagger to my feet. While I watch, Rags slides on new clothes—a green, one-piece coverall, the white and red logo of Aunt Lena’s Cookies stitched on the breast pocket. Tommy in red script above the logo.
“How nice.”
Rags shoves me, and I stumble closer to the double steel-door rear entrance. On my right is the row of twenty delivery trucks. Behind Aunt Lena’s massive cookie truck fleet, an empty lot stretches to the black horizon with waist-high, brown weeds. Room for further expansion of Lena’s cookie empire.
Rags turns his back on me to grab Arnold’s feet. On a whim, I break into a run. It’s impulsive, not the product of careful thought. My animal spirit guide must be a horse, plus I used to sprint the one-hundred-yard dash back in high school. I mean, I can run. My best time was fourteen seconds, sure, but Coach said my form was excellent.
With my hands tied, resulting in an off-kilter running motion, my normally good form does not play. Not only am I slow, but I’m unable to catch myself nor cushion my fall when I trip ten yards away. Rags’ grabs my shirt, bounces my head off the asphalt. A hive of wasps screams inside my skull.
Me stumbling, Rags nudging my back with the pistol, we troop back to my Camry. I’ve taken so much physical abuse the last two years, I should invest in new, more defensive means of transportation. Maybe an F-15 with a full complement of Hellfire missiles.
“Crap,” Rags says.
It takes me two seconds to figure out why Rags is miffed. Arnold Casey is no longer in my Camry. Rags’ head jerks this way and that. Where could Arnold have gone? His feet were taped, his wrists in handcuffs. The way he was breathing, I can’t believe he got himself off the Camry’s plush rear carpet.
Rags pulls my arm. “Let’s go.”
His semiautomatic again directing traffic, Rags hustles me to double steel doors that serve as Aunt Lena’s employee entrance. Two spotlights beam down on the cement steps from a bracket above the doors. Rags keys the lock.
Inside, he flips a switch and eight long fluorescent overheads pop on. We’re in a dressing room and break area. Steel lockers cover two walls. Three round tables with folding chairs swallow half the floor space. Candy, soft drink, and snack vending machines guard the far wall.
“We taking a coffee break?” I say.
“Shut up.”
Rags punches numbers on a wall-mounted, black keypad. The lockers across from me are dirty and old, like the kind I had in high school. Round, chrome combination locks. The air tastes of stale coffee.
He re-wraps my ankles with duct tape, forces me into a folding chair and binds my legs and my chest to the seat frame. When Rags is finished, I look like The Silver Mummy.
“Don’t go anywhere,” he says. “Ha.”
He types more numbers on the keypad, then leaves through the double steel doors, no doubt to hunt wild Arnolds. Though my head aches and the overhead lights glare like the noon sunshine in Mexico, I take comfort. At least I have a chance. Arnold extricated himself from the car, and my new pal at the D.A.’s office could be on a pay phone right this minute, calling for help.
I hear two gunshots. They’re outside, muffled by those steel doors. Chances are it was my former sales manager Rags doing the shooting, but maybe Arnold turned a trick on him. He’s a cop, right? A Federal officer. Why couldn’t he wrestle that semiautomatic away from a former stockbroker?
Another possibility, Arnold used a hidden cell phone to call the Piscataway cops, a rescue squad that has already arrived and just nailed Rags twice with their Glock nines.
The steel entrance thrusts open. Rags limps in, dragging the non-ambulatory Arnold Casey. Fresh blood colors the front of Arnold’s white shirt.
TWENTY-NINE
Mostly we humans are delusional about dying. We pretend death will never choose us, that fatal disease and natural misfortune only conclude the lives of others. Both as a society and as individuals our time is far less productive when we worry about death, so maybe the fantasy is nature’s way of supporting us. But make no mistake, delusion it is. Nobody gets out alive.
Watching Rags haul my bleeding hero Federal Officer Arnold into Aunt Lena’s break room certainly penetrates my mortality armor. The flaming crash landing my ex-wife Susan always predicted for me seems on final approach. I can smell the smoke.