The Big Bad

by Phil Beloin Jr.

"And she just happened to stop by today and see them?" I said.

  "Sure. Don’t you believe in coincidences? Or are you one of those conspiracy types?"

  "Forget it."

  "Now Kareem here," he continued, looking at Abe, "is gonna go down to the pawn shop on the first floor, buy a video camera, and take some shots of your apartment."

  Kareem left carrying two small of Irv’s dough. The videotape would be more than enough for the police to convict me, if not for murder, than failure to report a death, a class B felony in the state, a sentence of no less than ten years. I wondered if making love with a corpse was illegal. Hard to guess what the State’s thinking was on that one. It hadn’t been anything I needed to give a lot of thought to until now. I wondered if the medical examiner would be able to tell if the sex was post-mortem.

  Well, I was wrong about one thing: Irv didn’t want to kill me. He wanted me to rot in jail. In the three weeks he had been out, he had set me up perfectly. Shit, he had had three years to think about it. I had about three minutes to piece it all together as we walked into his office.

  I figured it went down like this: Mona and Lisa ask Irv to help find Eddie. Irv gives them my name and the H, saying it’s coke, telling them to save it for later, talk to Nick first, he’ll find your man if you throw your bodies at him. Irv knew they’d die violently and knew I’d have a serious mess on my hands.

  But what Irv didn’t know, I was gonna get some justice for those girls. Yeah, maybe Mona and Lisa were headed down the wrong avenue way too fast, but they didn’t deserve to die because of it. I’d make it right.

  Somehow.

  7

  Irv’s office looked just as I remembered it. Centered along the back wall was a mahogany desk, the legs curving to a hand-carved frame. The top was protected by a quarter inch thick piece of glass. Four ancient chairs that looked like Gargoyles huddled by the desk. Behind all that ornate stuff was a mini-bar and several tall bookcases holding not a single book. Across the room, Irv had a large entertainment center holding a million-watt stereo system, and hooked to the surround speakers, a big screen television.

  The rest of the room held hockey memorabilia and framed snapshots. Trophies packed the shelf space, autographed sticks lay in glass cases meant to display swords, and a pair of old skates hung on the coat rack. There were photos of Irv growing up in a Vermont town that straddled the Province of Quebec. The way Irv told it, some of the town was in the United States and some in Canada. The library, an apartment building, and several houses were in both countries. Pictures showed Irv on a frozen pond, his father teaching him how to skate and hold a stick.

  The pictures progressed around the room as Irv’s talent progressed; in the peewee leagues, high school games, the juniors, the four-year struggle through the minors, and finally the big time. The largest photo was a rectangular shot of hockey’s greatest player skating across the blue line, the puck glued to his stick. The old legend had salt and pepper hair by then, a wrinkled face, and a green jersey drenched in sweat. The inscription read: IRV, ALWAYS KEEP YOUR HEAD UP. It was signed and dated and worth more than money to Irv.

  Irv played in the pros for the Capital City Sounders for seven and half seasons. He started his career on the checking line, his speed and size matched against the other team’s best players. He killed power plays, but was never much of an offense threat, his slap shot slow in comparison and a wrister that floated as wildly as a knuckleball. The long schedule and Irv’s off-ice habits seemed to have no effect on the man. He thought himself indestructible; until a snowy Feby night, the arch-rivals in town, Irv taking a slash low on the leg; it didn’t look like much of a hit, yet the impact of stick and bone shattered Irv’s knee. At the time, Irv spent more time between the boards than on the bench, but when a stretcher took him off the ice, everyone—his teammates, the Sounder brass, the crowd, which included me—perceived him and hockey were kaput.

  You see, I had watched most of Irv’s career from the stands. Nope, I wasn’t a booster club yahoo or even a casual fan. I dug the brutality of the game, but in between all them crashing bodies, I got bored. As part of The Capital Arena’s security crew, I was behind the bench, standing outside the locker rooms, or patrolling the stands. Irv and me talked once in a while about a game or the broads in the attendance. He had seen me handle unruly fans with ease and kick some ass when needed. I’d even keep the overanxious autograph seeker—i.e. stalker—away from the players, including local favorite Irv Marquette. One night, Irv offered to buy me a beer at a bar the players went to after home games.

  Irv didn’t drink that evening, instead going with a plain seltzer, and he brought that and draft over to the table.

  "I like the way you handle the crowds, Nick," he said.

  "Ain’t no big thing."

  "Looks to me like you have fun beating people up."

  "You ain’t up for sainthood on the ice, Irv."

  "Kill or be killed."

  "Pretty much."

  "Hell, a guy should enjoy his work. For me, it’s survival," he said. "But for you, it’s almost like, I don’t know, a calling."

  I had never thought of it like that, but rather what I told Irv. "It’s what I’m good at."

  I reached into my pack for a cigarette, got it lit. Irv leaned back from the cloud of smoke, wrinkling his lip, trying to avoid inhaling my lung’s leftovers.

  "You carry—don’t you?" he said.

  Wasn’t supposed to at work. I’d put it in a locker, but right after the event ended, the holster would go back on.

  "Sure."

  "Looks like a fucking rocket."

  "Why? You need a piece or something?"

  "Listen, Nick," he said, "I was wondering if you’d do me a favor."

  "Depends on the favor, man."

  "It goes no further than this table."

  "You’re insulting me by saying that."

  Irv tasted his water, nodding. "You’re right. Forget I said that." The glass came down and he lowered his voice. "I know this man down by the ghetto, has a few peons who sell his cocaine now and then. There’s a couple of guys on the team, myself included, like to do some blow once and while."

  "What’s that to me?"

  "Thing is, I can’t get caught picking it up."

  "Nobody can."

  "Yeah, but, if I do, I’m outta the league. I’d pay you, of course, and I know with what you’re packing, no one would try and screw with you.”

  I worked on my beer thinking security was a dead-end job and the money sucked. I didn’t have the brainpower to work in an office building. So it didn’t take long to accept his offer.

  He’d give me some dough, and I began picking up his coke. It wasn’t much at first, a nickel bag or two. Any extra he would deal on the side to a teammate or a player from another team, but always some dude he knew from his years in the game. I made enough to quit breaking heads at the arena, and when the team was out of town, the Beast would visit some great pro hockey cities in the Northeast. I even went up into Canada; Montreal and Quebec.

  That bum kneecap took as many as five years off Irv’s career. He had surgery, tried rehab, but never lanced up the skates in anger again. He dove into a white powdered and self-pitied misery that could only end with his obituary featured on the cable sports channels. I still trekked out to his house in Nova, bringing him his treats, but I had trouble looking at that unshaven face, the haggard eyes, the descent into oblivion.

  "I going back to security at the arena," I said one night. I had talked to my old boss there. I didn’t want to do it, but he had said, Sure, I could always use a thug like you, Nick.

  "You ain’t leaving me, man," Irv said, pacing as fast as the coke paced through his veins.

  "I’m outta here," I said. "Go get your own shit from now on."

  I turned and walked for the door. A felt a whiz of air, then the pop, and the molding around the door exploded into splinters.

  "Don’t even think about reaching for yours," Irv said.


  Instinct couldn’t stop me. Irv took another chuck off the molding, which got my hand to freeze. "I’m missing on purpose, Nick."

  I wasn’t so sure. Up till then, I didn’t even know the pussy owed a firearm. What the hell did he need me for if he could do his own shooting?

  "Now turn around nice and slow," Irv said.

  I did, facing the long evil barrel of a .44.

  "What’s going on?" I said. "You want to look me in the eye when you pull the trigger?"

  He lowering the gun a smidge, howling with laughter. I thought he had snapped, too much coke and whiskey turning his head sour.

  "You’re fucking crazy,” I said.

  "Might just be, Nick," he said. "Go get us some beers and then sit the fuck down. I got a spiel for you."

  His idea was simply enough, but, as usual, he needed my presence and my .45. We started that night, grabbing a few street pushers, getting them to tell us who their supplies were, and within a week we had tortured our way up the line to the big bosses. We went after the spicks first—hell, most of’em were living the viva loca in jail anyway. The ones that weren’t—well, they ain’t around to complain anyway. The Asians were feisty, and Irv added manpower to our crew, an ex-player who was his team’s enforcer and a few more dudes from security at The Capital Arena. The papers, the TV, reported a gang war raging in the ghettos of the capital. Everybody took hits, but we pushed and shoved the chinks out; the survivors retreated to other inner cities, even over the border to Rhode Island. They’re still there to this day.

  The mob liked our moxie—actual word some dago used during a meet in an abandoned warehouse. Irv and I knew there was no way to get rid of them. Those goombahs were entrenched, thanks to the brilliance of the eighteenth amendment. Irv offered a percentage of our future profits. The mob said, fuck that, boys, you buy your shit wholesale from us and we’ll watch your ass.

  Irv became the honcho of the local traffic. He had stopped snorting then, focusing on more ways to soak up the folly of our fellow man. Came up with usual tired ideas, too; bookmaking, loan sharking, prostitution. I sat at his right side, collecting from misguided bettors, deadbeats, and dipping into his pool of working gals. It was a mighty time; breaking souls, chasing down the vig, a different ho every night.

  Now I ain’t no psychologist so I don’t know why it happened. I can only guess. Maybe Irv got bored. Or he had too much stuff. Whatever it was, the power high wasn’t enough to sate him—he thought he was infallible and his nose went after those white lines again. He did more and more, until his paranoia destroyed everything we had spent years running like a blue chip company.

  Irv had tried to frame me one other time before today. Money kept disappearing from his safe, and Irv thought I was stealing it. Deluded by the melted coca leaves, Irv told himself that I was trying to take over his business, pilfering as much dough as possible before I killed him. (Later he learned it was his chauffeur doing the pilfering and that guy—I was told—ain’t never gonna be found.) On my birthday, Irv got me a honey from his troupe; a redhead, the kind that gets me the hardest. She had a tiny little ass, tits that hadn’t stopped growing, and the smoothest, most freckled skin I ever put a tongue on. I was half-wasted when she knocked on my apartment door, holding a bottle of bourbon.

  The next day the cops arrested me for statutory rape. She was only sixteen. While I was in jail waiting for a bail hearing, she was strangled by an overzealous John. Irv’s plan died with her.

  The law wanted Irv. They offered me immunity—even witness relocation, a plan to dump my ass somewhere in the Bitterroots. I had never heard of the place, sounded like the countryside, and I refused. I could take care of myself when the time came.

  There was a big meeting at a big table, lots of tailored suits and dark sunglasses. I told the Federal boys where the money was buried—millions in cash hidden around Irv’s various properties. He hadn’t paid a cent in taxes on it. For ratting him out, the IRS gave me ten percent of what he owed the government. The check was for one point nine million—minus Uncle Sam’s cut naturally. I bought the bar, and spend my time drinking beer and staying away from redheads. I thought I had at least five years before Irv would get paroled.

  I figured wrong.

  8

  I sat in one of the Gargoyles, the sharp points in the wood poking me in the back. I put the cat carrier on the floor between my legs. Irv had his arms resting on the desk, his body tilted forward. Michelle stood over by the entertainment center ready for anything I might try.

  "You haven’t changed a bit, Nick, " Irv said.

  I fired up a cig. Irv hated when I smoked in the office, but he wouldn’t say shit to me about it.

  "I could always count on your weakness for tight snatch and four-year old whiskey," Irv said. "I just can’t figure out which one you like better or gets you in more trouble."

  I grunted. Hell, he was right.

  "How old was that slut anyway?" Irv said. "That little redhead you screwed?"

  "You should know. She was your whore."

  "Let’s not recriminate, Nick. It’s too predictable and boring."

  I stubbed out my cigarette. "What, we just waitin’ around for Kareem to come back with tape so you can call the cops?"

  "I’m not calling the police on you, Nick."

  "Then what am I doing here?"

  "I sent Michelle over to your way because I got a job for you."

  "Hadn’t your heard? I’m retired."

  "Yeah, living off my green."

  I shrugged. "Hey, get yourself an accountant. Pay your taxes."

  Irv ignored the cut. "This job I have is especially designed for your particular talents," he said. "And in light of your current situation, I don’t think it’s one you can refuse." Irv reached into the mini-bar behind him. "You want a seltzer water?"

  "Got anything stronger?"

  "Yeah, asshole, lemon flavor."

  The cigarette had dried out my mouth. I nodded. "Sounds good to me."

  Irv poured two glasses and I reached across the desk, taking one. The bubbly taste had a nasty tang that disturbed my thyroid.

  "I did some serious thinking while I was sitting in my cell, late at night, couldn’t sleep," Irv said. "Doing all that coke, fucked up my cognitive process. Know what I mean?"

  Wasn’t really sure, but I let it pass.

  "I should have never suspected you of stealing from me," he said.

  "I was loyal, Irv. I was always loyal."

  "I know that now. And that’s why I’m not holding a grudge. It’s bad for business. We worked years together before all this shit happened. Maybe again."

  "Then give me the tape when the penguin gets back."

  "I need the leverage, Nick. I was gonna offer you this job anyway, didn’t think you’d ever take it."

  "Bullshit."

  "Think what you want to, man." Irv drank about half glass in one swallow. "I’ve met somebody very special. Her name is Pamela. Pamela Martin.”

  When things were hopping, the only guy I knew who hit it more than me was Irv. Four or five times a day, a different broad each time. He said the coke had turned him into a fuck machine—better than any of those impotency drugs—though he had confided in me that he had trouble coming because he couldn’t feel much of anything.

  Irv handed me a color print, a shot from the waist up. "That’s her."

  A young woman stood in front of a gazebo with a sprawling estate in the background. She was knockout material. Curled blonde hair with a hint of strawberry reaching to the shoulder. Blue green irises glowing in the sunlight. A smile that fit the eyes. Firm breasts coming to a sharp point. Hips swaying out of the picture. She looked about eighteen or so, but you already know about me and the ages.

  "I met her in prison," Irv was saying. "She was in the visitors’ room when she passed by my cubicle. I was alone, my lawyer had just left, the appeal was a complete bust, and I asked her to sit. She didn’t that day, just glanced at me, but the next time
I saw her, she did stop and we talked. Her father was doing time for insider trading and she came to see him about once a week. She’d visit him first and then she would come talk to me. I told her all about myself—my hockey career, what I did after the game, how I got arrested and sent to prison. I think not being able to do coke and jailhouse counseling, forced me to be honest with myself, and to be open with her. She never passed any kind of judgment on the things I had done—her father stole more than I ever made—and she said she just hoped I’d stay clean when I got out of the joint."

  Irv’s voice had mellowed as he had babbled on about Pam. I had never heard him sound like that. On the ice and off, he was an aggressive brute who demanded and got people’s attention.

  "That is really touching, Irv," I said. "I think I’m gonna spout tears any second now."

  "Go ahead and make wise, you damn drunk." Irv finished the rest of his seltzer water and got himself another. "At some point, our relationship turned into something more than us being friends. We started exchanging letters and phone calls between visits, needing more contact than once a week. She came to my parole hearing and was waiting outside the prison when I was released."

  Irv paused for a moment, his lips trembling as if he couldn’t on. I lit another cigarette, looking at Van Gogh. He yawned and I got a whiff of fishy cat breath. Kinda gross.

  "We’re in love, Nick," Irv said.

  “Ah, Jesus.”

  But he kept right on going. "There’s not a minute in the day I don’t think about her. I’ve never felt this way about a woman before."

  "Why the fuck you telling me all this?" I said.

  Irv sat back in his chair and looked away from me. "Pam disappeared a few days ago, Nick. She hadn’t been out of my sight for more than a few hours since I got kicked. I left home to come here to take care of some business, and when I got back at night, Pam was gone. No note. No message on the answering machine. Her convertible is missing from the garage. It’s tearing me up inside not knowing where she is."

  "And I gotta find her?"