Is Fat Bob Dead Yet?

by Stephen Dobyns

  “Stalking?”

  “That’s what he called it. So he told Céline to make you find the homeless guy, and you fucked that up as well.”

  Connor’s chill increases. “I couldn’t find him!”

  “Maybe, but Chucky’s got a whole story worked out about how you want Sal’s jewelry for yourself. That’s why you’d turn him in to the cops—you want the bling.”

  “Good grief, how much of it is there?”

  “Enough to kill for. Isn’t that the point? Right now all Chucky wants is to get the jewelry, grab Céline, and get out of town.”

  Connor experiences a pinprick of disappointment. “Are they lovers?”

  “Chucky’s not the loving type. It’s a physical thing.”

  Connor feels another pinprick. He turns toward the mini-stage, trying to see Céline, but she’s gone. A cover band has begun to play “Proud Mary,” and Connor has to raise his voice. “Did you know about Sal when I talked to you last week?”

  “Sure I did. The shooter had already been booked.”

  “Then why were you surprised when I told you about him?”

  “That’s not how it went. I was surprised about Marco Santuzza, not Sal. I thought the dead guy was Fat Bob, not Marco. And I knew that Marco being dead would mess up Chucky’s plans.”

  The great weight pressing down on Connor’s head all week is suddenly lifted, and he feels minimally buoyant. He hadn’t outed Sal after all. “Why didn’t you say this when I accused you of telling somebody about Sal? You know how guilty I felt?”

  Vasco sips his Pellegrino. “It could complicate my relationship with Chucky, and I figured you could deal with it.”

  A typical and exasperating answer, Connor thinks. “When did Chucky learn about Sal?”

  “A week ago more or less. Céline tried to sell the information to Chucky, who she’d known in Detroit. She said Sal slapped her for trying on a bracelet and chain. She didn’t like getting slapped.”

  “And Chucky paid her?”

  “I doubt it. But they must have come to an arrangement, because he’s now fucking her. Maybe he just scared her. He’s good at that.” More women are passing their table, and Vasco returns to appraising the talent.

  “So you work for Chucky?”

  Vasco gives his brother a look of token contempt. “I’d never work for Chucky. It’s not safe, and I don’t want to get too close. Let’s say I’m a consultant.”

  “But you knew that Sal would be killed. You could have told the police.”

  “That’s true. And the police would tell the FBI, and the FBI would move him to another dumb town, and after a bit Chucky would learn I was the one who went to the police. Chucky’s good at finding out stuff like that. No thanks.”

  Vasco’s actual position was still unclear to Connor. “Isn’t it dangerous for you to talk to me?”

  His brother laughed his humorless laugh. “It’s difficult. I’m trying to protect you from Chucky, but I also have to give Chucky information about you. In fact, he told me to talk to you. As I said, he wants you to leave town. Like immediately. That’s what he told me. But what he really wants is to have you killed. He doesn’t trust you not to talk to the police. Didn’t the police pull you in this afternoon?”

  “Yes, but it had to do with Bounty, Inc. It didn’t concern Chucky.”

  Again came the humorless laugh. “Chucky finds Bounty, Inc. confusing. You see that guy over by the bar? He’s one of Chucky’s thugs. No, no, more to your right. He’s got on a green jacket.”

  Connor catches sight of Jasper Lincoln from the New London historical society among the crowd at the bar. But of course Connor no longer thinks he’s from the historical society or that his name is Jasper Lincoln. The man with the apple green jacket leans back against the bar and stares at Connor: a gaze that’s blank and pitiless as the sun, as it were.

  “Jasper Lincoln,” says Connor.

  “A nom de guerre. Chucky calls him Jimbo, but I doubt it’s his real name.”

  “What’s he want?” The man is still staring at him, and Connor looks away.

  “He’s here to keep an eye on you and to keep Chucky informed of your whereabouts. And I suppose he’s keeping an eye on me as well. In any case, he saw the cops pull you out of the post office today. Chucky didn’t like that.”

  “How’d he know I was here?”

  “I told him. You see how complicated things can be? Chucky said to get you out here, and then I told Jimbo where I was meeting you. What choice did I have?”

  “You could have said something to me.”

  “I’m telling you now. I’m also telling you that when you leave here, he’ll be following you. Just be cool with it and you won’t get hurt, I think.”

  “But what have I done?” The whole business is crazy, Connor thinks.

  “Jesus, Zeco, don’t you get it? You’ve been in the way, that’s all. You’ve been in the way, and now you’ve got information that could put Chucky in jail.”

  “Even if I promise to keep quiet?”

  “Chucky’d never believe it. He’s not the believing type. So when will you be leaving town?”

  “We need to check the post office for mail tomorrow morning.”

  Vasco gets to his feet and throws some bills on the table. “Okay, we’re done. Just go immediately to that little car of yours and get seriously lost.”

  “How’d you know I had a Mini-Cooper?” Connor gets up as well.

  “Get real, Zeco. Everybody knows it: Chucky, Céline, Jimbo, all sorts of people. You’ve never been subtle in your life, and that constitutes a problem. And, believe me, I don’t want to be dragged into your problems.”

  —

  We sympathize with Vasco. His business, if it can be called that, is to be unflappable, to supply his patrons with information and keep his eyes open. He’s a consultant, a resource, and he doesn’t talk: his mouth stays shut. But mostly he must be unflappable and unconcerned about the legality of his clients’ conduct.

  What Vasco’s really like, we don’t know. He seems to have no vices except for women, and his composure and self-control appear impenetrable. He has no friends and no home except for hotel rooms, and who he is when he locks his door at night is a mystery. Does he watch television, surf the Internet, or write long letters to his great-aunt in Lisbon? We don’t know. In fact, if we were told he stands all night in his closet like a robot, humming and clicking until a radio signal sets him in motion again, we wouldn’t be surprised.

  But now his brother appears. Vasco never asked Connor to visit Connecticut. He simply called out of the blue and claimed his fraternal rights, meaning he wanted to get together. What’s worse, Connor brought Didi, Vaughn, and Eartha. He brought a circus. Vasco’s had little contact with Didi over the years, but it’s enough for him to ask if Didi is a nutcase, a loose cannon, or both. The difficulty is that Didi’s actions can’t be predicted, and so Connor’s actions can’t be predicted either. What’s Bounty, Inc. anyway? Instead of a real financial enterprise, it’s a toy to keep Didi amused.

  It was pure chance Connor visited the Bank Street cobbler just at the time Marco got mushed against a dump truck. And it was pure chance that Connor met Sal as they waited for their cars to be freed. Didi might tell Vasco, Everything happens for a reason or There are no coincidents, but he didn’t say it because he believed it. Rather, he wanted “to destabilize Vasco’s inner calm.” Destabilizing inner calm is one of Didi’s great pleasures. And this, we realize, would destabilize Chucky’s inner calm, which has a high volatility rating. In fact, we might say that Chucky has no inner calm. He has only different degrees of suspicion and anger.

  If we sat down with Chucky and explained the nature of Bounty, Inc., he wouldn’t know how to respond. He’d think we were playing a trick. And if we told him about Orphans from Outer Space, he might have a breakdown. Chucky has precise definitions about the world and those who inhabit it. They may be narrow definitions, but they’re exact and don’t allow for foolis
hness. Mistrust and paranoia are the closest Chucky comes to having an imagination. This makes him good at what he does, but it’s a niche profession with a problematic future.

  So it was important to Vasco that Chucky not learn about Bounty, Inc. This, however, made it necessary that he talk to Didi during the week, which was when Didi made such remarks as “What goes around, comes around,” remarks intended not to express an article of faith but to irritate. However, at least on Thursday, Vasco was able to warn Didi what might lie ahead Chucky-wise, and Didi began the work he described as establishing an escape hatch.

  But we get ahead of ourselves, because at the moment Connor is leaving the Scorpion Bar with a rising sense of dread. He hurries down a hallway as high and broad as an airport concourse with restaurants and shops, but it’s glitzier and no one is flying anywhere, except in the Technicolor imaginations that casinos encourage.

  Behind Connor and just exiting the barn-board-adorned Scorpion front door is Jimbo or Jasper Lincoln in that apple green sport coat, and while Connor hurries down the middle of the hallway, Jimbo slides forward along the wall. Back in the bar, Vasco still stands by the small table with the half-finished Pellegrino. His usual composure is absent, and, instead he looks thoughtful and perhaps worried. We mention this because Vasco never looks worried. But now he, too, leaves the bar and turns down the hallway after Jimbo and Connor.

  Well, we can’t describe Connor’s entire journey from the bar to his Mini-Cooper. It’s a long way, as might be expected in a place that houses fifty-five hundred slot machines, to say nothing at all of the other varieties of noisy fun. The people we pass drift this way and that, stricken with sensory overload, though no one seems to be feeling the good times advertised on TV. Escalators, elevators, hallways with Connor in the lead, and then Jimbo some distance back and Vasco some distance behind Jimbo.

  When Connor at last exits the long hallway onto the rooftop level of the parking garage, we rise above him, though we’re a little out of breath. It’s a cold night with a clear sky and many stars. Behind us we can hear, faintly, a mix of music as various bands in various venues entertain the crowds. From where we look, the tops of the parked cars and SUVs, in their orderly rows, resemble dozing, multicolored turtles. And there’s the small blue roof of Connor’s Mini-Cooper in the sixth row, tucked between two hulking SUVs near the rooftop’s opposite wall.

  Connor isn’t running, but almost. He’s probably seen Jimbo some distance behind him because of his apple green sport coat, but he hasn’t seen his brother. What we see that Connor can’t is another man standing between the Mini-Cooper and a blue Grand Cherokee Overland. It’s not quite the same blue as Connor’s car, but there’s enough of a resemblance to make the two vehicles look like a father and son waiting for what comes next, just as the man standing between them waits for what comes next. We don’t know this man, but we might recall that he’s the man who a day ago shot Otto in the arm, a wound from which Otto has nearly recovered, except for a little understandable stiffness. Otto said that the man was about forty, physically fit, and nicely dressed, and looking at him from above we can see this is true, though from our superior position it’s difficult to see his face. And he occasionally stamps his feet, not from petulance but because he’s cold.

  Now the man in the apple green sport coat hurries through the door and onto the roof of the parking garage. We may realize at this point that he, too, was at Otto’s, though he did no shooting, and that he’s the associate of the man standing between the Mini-Cooper and Grand Cherokee Overland. One man pursues and the other man waits, while Connor hurries along between them. Although we wish him well, we also feel concerned, not to say pessimistic.

  Connor is about two rows from his car when he abruptly notices the man who is waiting. He veers to his left, probably with no specific destination in mind, only wishing to escape. But as Connor turns, he sees the man in the apple green sport coat running toward him.

  Well, what’s left to say? We see Connor zigzagging between the parked cars as the two men draw closer. We could surely drag this out, because the chase goes on for another two minutes, but in the end, sadly, Connor is caught. Worse, the man who was waiting throws himself at Connor and hits him several times—once in the face and once in the stomach—while the man in the green jacket shoves Connor back toward his associate so he can hit Connor more easily without straining. And the two men are shouting. We’re too far away to hear the specific words, but they are angry and threatening. Perhaps we can imagine what’s being said.

  We’ve mentioned before that Connor isn’t a fighter, but he vigorously flails his arms, and—this is important—purely by accident he hits the man in the green jacket, the man called Jimbo, squarely in the nose.

  The thugs step back. They’re indignant. Just as Chucky felt offended when Linda called 911, so the thugs are offended when Connor refuses to suffer punishment meekly. It seems unfair, though what’s unfair to a thug might seem fair to everyone else. “You’ll regret that,” says Jimbo as he wipes blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He stares at it in wonder. Perhaps he’s never seen his own blood before and he’s surprised it’s the same color of the blood of his many past victims. But the job the thugs are meant to carry out is to exact punishment, and Connor’s refusal to accept it meekly means they must exact greater punishment. Ask the thugs and they’ll say that Connor brought this on himself.

  With a strengthened sense of purpose, they step forward, grab Connor by the arms, and drag him toward the edge of the rooftop parking garage. Connor protests by kicking his feet at the other men’s legs, but this offends them even more. The garage is several stories high, and the thugs mean to throw Connor over the side. To their minds—dim though they may be—this won’t inevitably kill him. He might land on the ground or on the sidewalk. He might land on his head or on his feet. It’s up to Fate, meaning they don’t feel they should be blamed for whatever happens.

  Fate, however, intervenes sooner than expected. Just as the men struggle to lift Connor over the side and send him on his way, there’s a gunshot, as there’s often a gunshot when a hero needs to be saved. We’ve nearly forgotten about Vasco, who stands five feet away with a small pistol. The thugs drop Connor, who falls to the concrete surface of the parking garage.

  A moment of silence follows as the four men do a little heavy thinking. Then Jimbo says, “He won’t do nothing. He’s too scared of Chucky.” They again pick up Connor, who feels stunned from his short drop, and begin to wrestle him over the side.

  There’s another gunshot, and the thug in the green jacket yelps. “He fuckin’ shot me in the foot!” He hops up and down on his right foot.

  “Your knee is next,” says Vasco.

  He tells the men to put their hands on the wall; then he tells Connor to check for weapons. Both carry pistols. Connor throws them over the wall, maybe thinking they’ll follow the same trajectory he’d have followed if Vasco hadn’t arrived in time.

  “Get their cell phones,” says Vasco. He sounds a little depressed.

  Two cell phones are thrown over the wall.

  “Chucky’ll kill both of you for this,” says Jimbo. “He’ll kill you slowly.”

  “Throw their wallets over the wall,” says Vasco. He doesn’t need to do this. He does it out of spite.

  Vasco marches the thugs to Connor’s Mini-Cooper, tells Connor to start the engine, and then, when it’s revving loudly, he jumps into the passenger seat. “Let’s go!” The thugs disappear in the rearview mirror, and Connor drives toward the exit.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “My hotel,” says Vasco.

  Connor drives down Trolley Line Boulevard and very soon pulls up in front of the Two Trees Inn. “What are you going to do?” he asks Vasco.

  “Get my suitcase.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Didn’t you hear what the guy said, little brother? Chucky will kill me. You think he was making that up? I told you to leave me alone. Now I
got about two minutes to get out of here, and maybe even that won’t be enough. Don’t wait till tomorrow, Zeco. Leave now!”

  Vasco jumps from the Mini-Cooper and runs for the door of the inn.

  “You’ll call me?” shouts Connor.

  Without turning, Vasco raises an arm. He could be waving in agreement, he could be waving Fuck you, or he could be waving good-bye. We just don’t know.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Sitting in a lawn chair on the hill between the Winnebago and the ocean, Vaughn ponders a sky packed with stars. Neither moon nor clouds are visible, and it’s about eleven o’clock. An overhead light above the driver’s seat in the Winnebago twenty feet away seems the only light in a dark world; it settles a dim glow on the back of Vaughn’s black sweatshirt and on the late Marco Santuzza’s motorcycle cap. In Vaughn’s left hand is a piece of cardboard of the sort that comes with a shirt from a dry cleaner’s. In its center is a square hole no bigger than a quarter. Vaughn’s right hand holds a yellow No. 2 pencil, and on his lap is a yellow legal-size pad of paper. He lifts the cardboard to the sky, keeps it still for a minute, and then writes on his pad. Then he raises the cardboard again, and the process repeats.

  Headlights slowly approach along the gravel access road to the Hannaquit Breachway toward the RV campground. They don’t belong to Connor’s Mini-Cooper or to Didi’s gray Ford Focus rental. We expect no one to be surprised when we say they belong to the black Yukon Denali: the ubiquitous vehicle we’ve seen before. The headlights sweep across the Winnebago as the Denali comes to a stop. Two men get out. One has a limp and walks with a cane. This is Jimbo, whom Vasco shot in the foot. Actually, his middle toe was blown off, and no trace was found when the shoe and sock were removed, apart from a little mush. So Jimbo is in a rage about life’s unfairness. He looks for someone to punish.