Primed for Murder

by Jack Ewing

  “They already know.”

  Mac put his hand in fatherly fashion on Toby’s arm. “You’re welcome to come with us. You’d be safe.” Behind the old man, Marta bobbed her head.

  “Thanks, but I can’t leave town yet. I have work to do.” He traded a business card for Mac’s unlisted number. The professor said he’d leave a message on his answering machine and gave Toby a code number to access it. “I’ll call later to see if you’re gone,” Toby said. “You call and let me know when you’re safely away. Keep trying.”

  He wished them both bon voyage. The old man and the young woman clung to each other as they walked Toby to the breezeway. “We’ll be packed and out of here in an hour,” Mac said, shaking Toby’s hand. Marta, grinning broadly to show beautiful white teeth, held up two fingers behind her master’s back.

  Toby scanned terrain visible through the mostly glass wall: empty fields, deserted road, his truck sitting lonely, leaning towards the yard-deep ditch. “Make it quick as you can, folks. Don’t dawdle. No telling when they might get here. Just leave all papers, film, photos in plain sight and maybe they won’t trash the place.”

  “They can have everything but the symbol-by-symbol transliteration.” Mac’s jaw had a stubborn jut. “I’ll even leave the unfinished prose version for them. Maybe that will satisfy them. I wasn’t that happy with it anyway.”

  He was bargaining with the wrong guy. Waving, Toby strode away toward his truck. Maybe Mac’s offering would be sufficient to satisfy the bad men, maybe not. He hoped nothing happened to the professor and Marta. In any case, it was out of Toby’s hands now. He’d given fair warning.

  Chapter 12

  Toby did not head straight back to Syracuse through Cazenovia. It would be just his luck to pass a carload of Giambi’s heavies—out to interrogate Mac—who would spot, chase and bag him as well. Instead, he went east a few miles, then turned north to Pratts Hollow, Peterboro and Clockville. This route added about twenty-five miles to the trip but it was worth the additional peace of mind. The bad guys wouldn’t expect this move. He hoped. It was difficult to relax and enjoy the bucolic, rolling scenery. Toby kept looking behind for signs of being followed and ahead for traces of ambush. He felt wrung-out.

  He reached Canastota without incident, and picked up the Thruway. As he sped west towards a smudge of smog hovering over Syracuse, Toby was struck by an awful thought. What if it was all a huge mistake? What if he’d panicked poor Mac and Marta, and disrupted their lives for nothing? Why take chances, especially when people like Giambi and his henchmen were involved?

  Extra miles and slowdowns for road construction ate up Toby’s free time. There’d be no shower, no breakfast this morning. He zoomed off the Thruway at Thompson Road and zipped across James, looking wistfully down the street towards his apartment, two miles away. A right onto Erie, then over to Genesee, a few false turns and he pulled up before the number he’d been given for the Colangelo residence on Wister Place.

  Toby jumped out to don coveralls and then ransacked the glove compartment, shoving notebook, tape measure, pen and color samples into various pockets. Finally, he was ready to give the house the once-over. It took up half a block, a big, wide, overbuilt, turn-of-the-century place with two extra-tall floors and a full attic. An open, U-shaped porch hugged the front and sides of the stone house, ten feet wide all around. The front yard was bordered by six-foot-high chain-link and was full of bright flowers. The back, from the three-car garage on, was fenced in eight-foot-high weatherproofed boards.

  A young woman in cream-colored slacks and lime blouse came out through a screen-door entrance that divided the porch in half. She lifted a hand in greeting and waited for Toby to ascend the steps. The woman was tiny, barely five feet tall, slender-hipped, small busted with a waist Toby could span with both hands. Her pale-skinned, China-doll face was set off by blue-black hair—fixed with a silver barrette—hanging down her back long enough to be sat upon. “Toby Rew?” She stuck out a petite hand. “I’m Dezi Colangelo. Pleathed to meet you.” Every “s” was transformed by her prominent but somehow fetching lisp. They shook briefly. Her fingers were cool and dry.

  She led the way inside.

  The vestibule behind the front door wouldn’t have to be painted: it was done all in dark, highly polished wood. Massive carved double doors when shoved apart revealed a high-ceilinged entranceway. Beside a wide spiraling staircase leading up, a long table topped by a bowl filled with fresh flowers sat on a muted Oriental rug that covered most of the wooden floor. Walls here looked to be in decent shape.

  “This won’t need painting,” Mrs. Colangelo said, confirming Toby’s first impressions.

  To the immediate right was another set of double doors, half-opened. He glimpsed a masculine television-stereo room: wood paneling, rug-covered wooden floor, black leather and dark wood furniture. Dezi pulled the doors shut. “We’ll skip this room too.”

  Left, through an archway flanked by wooden Ionic columns, a long, wide living room took up a quarter of the downstairs. It was tidy with twelve-foot ceilings, plush light blue wall-to-wall and wallpaper a shade darker with a white figured pattern. In one wall was a fireplace trimmed with white marble. Four pastel-hued flowered couches, several overstuffed chairs and chrome-and-glass tables were artfully arranged. A baby grand piano in white sat by long, narrow windows draped with gauzy material.

  “Do you play?” Toby indicated the piano.

  Dezi tapped her lip with a finger. “I might have you do the living room.”

  Toby examined the wallpaper. It didn’t look more than a few years old. By its feel, there weren’t other layers of paper beneath. “It’ll take time to strip the walls. I don’t do papering, just painting, by the way.”

  “Fine. Strip it and paint it.”

  “What color did you have in mind?”

  “Blue. Something that would work with the rug but lighter.”

  Toby got out the color samples and let Mrs. Colangelo fiddle with them while he paced the room, estimating.

  One wall held a religious shrine, with shelves bearing votive candles and a devotional beneath a picture of the Virgin.

  There were framed photos everywhere else, on walls and flat surfaces. Lots of Dezi in her wedding gown, pretty as a magazine bride. In one, she playfully lifted her gown to reveal a fancy garter on a smooth, slender thigh. Group shots, featuring various combinations of friends and relatives, young and old, with bride or groom, culminated in an arrangement of about two hundred people of all ages clustered about the newlyweds. Prominent in many was a jowly white-haired geezer not much taller than Dezi, often with his arm about the shoulders or waist of the young woman. Her father? Grandfather?

  Here, Dezi and new husband, a short, dark-haired fellow who looked uncomfortable in his tuxedo, smeared each other’s faces with chunks torn from a six-tier cake. There, the two of them enjoyed a Caribbean beach sunset. Dezi looked boyish in skimpy bikini, while her husband’s torso was a triangular-shaped mass of muscles set on sinewy legs.

  On the piano were pictures of the Colangelos starting life together: barbecue shots, horseback-riding shots, and boating shots. Then Dezi got pregnant and her slim figure bulged grotesquely. Here was the happy couple holding an infant with a head full of dark curls. The boy, at various stages from a few minutes old to eight or nine years of age, dominated the collection on one wall. And on a side table: a silver-framed portrait of somebody Toby recognized.

  “I like this.” Dezi held out a paint chip between pointed fingernails painted with pale pink polish.

  Toby noted the number of the light-blue selection and jotted in his notebook a figure representing his estimate for the room. “I see you’re acquainted with the Puterbaughs.” He thumbed over his shoulder at the photo on the table.

  “You know Sandy? A wonderful person, don’t you think?”

  Toby didn’t respond, because his opinion was different and lower.

  Mrs. Colangelo drifted towards the back of the living room
. She opened a set of French doors, “Sandy and I are very good friends. We’re in the PTA together.” That, thought Toby, could explain how Mrs. Colangelo had obtained his name. Sandy must have called her friend soon after he’d shown up with the cops. Why had she recommended him? What was she up to?

  The dining room was crowded with a long rectangular table surrounded by a dozen straight-backed chairs, as if guests were frequently expected at dinner. Two opposite corners contained built-in glass-fronted china cabinets filled with white dishes accented by gold flowers. Wheat-colored, gold-flecked wallpaper here had been poorly hung and was coming loose in places. “This room definitely needs work,” Mrs. Colangelo said.

  Toby paced it off, wrote in his notebook.

  The pantry, a 10′ x 10′ area of shelves, drawers and doors slobbered with white paint, was added to the list. So were a 20′ x 34′ tile-floored kitchen featuring expensive, oversized stainless steel stove and refrigerator, and a half-bath under the stairs.

  Upstairs, Mrs. Colangelo showed Toby a succession of four large bedrooms, two bathrooms and an office, all of which needed painting. The huge full attic was being converted into a giant combo game room-spa-bar. The floor was down and insulation and wallboard were in place. Glass in skylights still wore stickers. Couches and chairs, pool and Ping-Pong tables, video machines, jukebox, wet bar and hot tub clustered under plastic sheets, ready for installation.

  “This has to be mudded and taped before I can paint,” Toby said.

  “Can’t you do that?” She batted dark eyelashes at him.

  “Yes, though it’s not my specialty. It’ll cost extra.”

  She shrugged, unconcerned.

  They went back downstairs to sit over coffee and discuss business at a hard-rock maple table in the kitchen. Toby made a show of working up a total. “We’ve got thirteen rooms, plus the hallway upstairs, that need work. Is that right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “And I count six areas with wallpaper that need to be stripped before painting. Plus the game room: mudding, taping and painting.” Toby bumped his rates to account for generous room size. He figured four hundred apiece for rooms that just needed painting, double that for each that had to be stripped, fifteen hundred for the large game room that required prepping and added a little more because of the neighborhood. “Twelve thousand, five hundred should cover labor. Paint and other materials would be extra.”

  He held his breath. That was top dollar—he’d built in a comfortable margin for dickering. He could afford to go no lower than seventy-five. Well, maybe six thousand, plus costs. He wondered what other competitors would bid.

  Mrs. Colangelo didn’t blink. She watched him over the rim of her cup as she took a sip, holding the cup so it hid her mouth. “Would fifteen cover everything?”

  “Thousand?” Toby gulped. “Fifteen thousand?”

  She nodded. He mimicked the motion. “All right, you’ve got the job.”

  He had trouble breathing. Negotiations were never this easy or this profitable. Without offers and counteroffers he had nothing to say, nothing to do.

  “Half now and the other half when you complete the work?” she asked. He could only nod again. “When could you begin?”

  “Soon, a couple days. I have a few things to wrap up first.”

  “How long will it take you?”

  “Say three weeks. Maybe a little longer.”

  She nodded. It was acceptable. “Wait right here.” Mrs. Colangelo got up from the table in one lithe motion and swished from the kitchen. Her quick footsteps sounded on the stairs. Her soft tread passed overhead.

  It was all Toby could do not to shout with joy while she was gone. Fifteen thousand dollars! Added to what was coming from Mrs. Cratty, he could retire for the rest of summer after this job. Maybe go somewhere and relax. He could even afford to check out Mexico, the country Sandy had raved about.

  Thinking of her made Toby wonder what had happened to the Puterbaughs. Their house was on the way to his apartment, sort of. He could drive by after he left this place with a pocketful of money and check up on them, if he felt like it.

  Mrs. Colangelo bustled back, carrying an overstuffed zip-up wallet of the sort used to make bank deposits. She sat, unzipped the wallet, and with difficulty freed a fat chunk of cash six inches thick held together by wide rubber bands. Toby goggled as she worked the rubber bands loose. The stack of bills seemed to expand to twice its size in her tiny hands. “Is currency okay?” she asked, licking a thumb.

  “Sure,” Toby joked, giddy. Where would somebody get a wad like that? “Cash, diamonds, gold dust, anything.”

  Dezi looked up. “I do have pieces of jewelry I’m not too fond of—”

  Toby beat a hasty retreat, palms up in surrender. “Just kidding. Cash is fine.”

  “Will thousands do?”

  He gulped. “You have anything smaller? Hundreds? Fifties?”

  “Certainly.” Dezi riffled through the bills.

  Truth be told, he’d take it in pennies, if he had to. As long as they paid: sometimes it was a real problem collecting what was owed after the job was done. Customers could be unreasonable about the least little things. So you kissed the feet of people who wanted to give you money in advance.

  Dezi concentrated on her counting. Ten hundreds made a tidy thousand-dollar pile. Five hundreds and ten fifties made a cross of money. Toby found it hard to watch her lay aside occasional banknotes imprinted with large numbers: 500s, 5000s, 10,000s, even a crisp piece of ornately printed paper that read 100,000, with a picture of a thin-faced man with rimless glasses. The big bills looked old but well preserved, and gave off an odor of age, ink and human sweat. Dezi made a whole stack, perhaps fifty in all, of thousand-dollar bills, with a portrait of some round-faced, mustachioed man. Toby had never seen such high denominations before, hadn’t known they existed.

  He let his gaze travel lazily around the kitchen. A nice set of copper-bottomed pots and pans had cost plenty. Classy-looking European-style ceramic tiles featuring hand-painted barnyard animals surrounded modern appliances. A butcher’s block counter island dominated the room’s center.

  On one wall hung an oil portrait of the little boy he’d seen in photographs. “How old is your son?” Toby asked to make conversation.

  She paused after four thousand to look fondly at the painting. “Art’s twelve now. Already in seventh grade.”

  “You must have been pretty young when he was born.”

  “Seventeen.” Her cheeks flushed. “Now you know how old I am.”

  “I’ll never tell. You could still pass for a teenager.”

  “Flatterer.” She seemed pleased.

  “Your son’s a nice-looking young fellow.”

  “I think so.”

  “Takes after his mother.”

  She smiled with motherly pride. “Do you have children, Toby?”

  Toby smiled back at her. “Not married.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.” Her eyes were playful.

  “No, no children.” Toby glanced at the painting again. “You said his name was Art. Short for Arthur?”

  “Arturo, actually. Same thing.” She smiled. “When you’re Italian like me and my ‘better half’”—there was a hint of sarcasm in the last two words—“you can’t have a Tom, Dick or Harry. It’s got to be Guido, Carlo, or Vito.” She made an aimless gesture. “He’s named after his father but hates being called ‘Junior.’ We call him Art because my husband goes by Artie.” Dezi started counting out green bills again.

  “Your husband’s named Artie?” Toby blurted. His lips suddenly felt numb. The hair on his arms stood up and it felt like spiders were walking on his skin. Could that be the same man who was with Leo? The man at the Puterbaugh’s who killed the Mexican? By photos, Dezi’s husband wasn’t much taller than his wife but built like Hercules. He was dark-haired with spaniel’s eyes, like lots of men in Syracuse. How many were named Artie? Toby wondered what this particular Artie looked like fro
m the back, running away, as viewed at a distance, say from the top of a ladder.

  “Arturo Giovanni Colangelo.” Dezi smiled. “A real mouthful. But I’m a fine one to talk. My maiden name was Desdemona Ofelia Giambi.”

  Giambi? This just gets better and better, Toby thought.

  Mrs. Colangelo read something in his eyes. “Maybe you’ve heard of my father? Roberto Giambi?”

  His worst fears confirmed, Toby had trouble keeping a straight face. “Don’t know—what’s he do?” His voice squeaked as if he’d suddenly hit puberty again.

  “He’s semi-retired now. He once ran a number of businesses: real estate, warehouses and factories. I don’t know what-all.” Like extortion or loan-sharking, Toby thought, smuggling and contract murder.

  Dezi shrugged. “Now other people, like my older brothers and Artie are in charge. But Daddy still pulls the strings.”

  “Your hubby works for your dad? Doing what?”

  A frown marred Dezi’s marble-smooth brow. “Artie is a manager or something. I don’t pay much attention.” She sounded peeved. “Giambi men have never allowed women to take part in their commerce.”

  Dezi waved her husband out of the picture. “Artie comes and goes on business trips all the time. He often leaves in a hurry and doesn’t tell me much. He’s gone now, I don’t know where and I don’t really care. Little Art’s at camp till school starts. Seems a perfect time to paint the house.”

  “Will you be here while I’m working?”

  “Part of the time. I have to go out of town for a while and I’d like to unwind at the family home on the lake. But I’ll be here until you call.”

  They agreed that Toby would start in two days. He’d rent a steamer for the wallpaper, then buy tape, mud and paint. She’d arrange to have furniture moved or covered before he came back.

  Then Mrs. Colangelo held out a thick stack of bills. He hesitated, reconsidering the wisdom of sticking his head in the noose this job might represent. But he did what he knew all along he’d do: he’d live dangerously. Toby took the money. The cash would come in handy if he had to leave town fast.