by Mike Faricy
“Better, much better, now, come on,” Freddy said and climbed out of the car. He was at the back door of the building pushing the button on the security system by the time I caught up to him.
The building looked like it had probably been built in the mid-fifties. A pattern of one large picture window, two medium windows, and a smaller bathroom window gave an indication of the apartment sizes. Based on the window layout I figured probably eight units to a floor.
“Who the hell is it?” a groggy male voice growled out of the speaker after Freddy pressed the buzzer a half dozen times.
“Open the damned door, numb nuts, its Freddy.”
“Freddy?”
Freddy gave me a look that suggested, what’s with everyone today, and shouted, “Just open the damned door.”
A buzzer rasped a moment later and I heard the lock click. Freddy pushed the door open and walked in. “Give me those car keys so I can get the hell out of this joint. God, I hate this place, come on, he’s upstairs,” he groaned then headed up a flight of grimy stairs.
We climbed up the stairs to the third floor. The air seemed to grow noticeably worse with each floor. The stairwell walls probably hadn’t been repainted since the place was built somewhere back in the early Eisenhower administration. A two-foot-wide patch of grime ran along the walls from over sixty years of grubby hands being rubbed along them.
By the time we made it up to the third floor Freddy was red faced and breathing heavily.
“Jesus, I don’t know how he does it everyday. Enough to give you a heart attack. Must be the thin air,” Freddy mumbled.
The hallway reeked of something not very pleasant and I noticed two white trash bags sitting at the far end of the hall. One of the bags had a long slit on one side and what was left of a stuffed chicken or maybe it was just a rat had fallen out and piled up onto the soiled hallway carpet. Unfortunately, we headed in that direction, the smell of something very rotten grew stronger with every step we took. Freddy stopped at the door next to the trash bags and tried the knob.
“Open the damned door, asswipe,” Freddy screamed then pounded on the door. The doorway across the hall opened, but then quickly closed as soon as the woman looked out and saw who was making the racket. Freddy glared across the hall for a brief moment then pounded on the door again just as it opened.
A thin, bald guy with wispy grey hair pulled back in a ponytail, a sparse grey beard and sunken eyes stood in front of us. He was wearing a strappy T-shirt that needed a serious washing and was in the process of zipping up the fly on his jeans. He had an Adam’s apple about the size of the door knob and looked like he weighed no more than a hundred-and-thirty pounds soaking wet.
“Got me waiting out here in the hall smelling your shit, come on, man, I got things to do, I ain’t got all day.” Freddy said then barged past the guy and into the apartment, I followed in his wake. Things in the apartment didn’t smell much better than the hallway.
The kitchen area off to the left was littered with dirty plates and dishes. A half-eaten plate of fried eggs with a cigarette stuck dead center into one of the yolks sat on a small table surrounded by beer bottles and empty glasses.
A rather unattractive woman with mousey hair, sharp features and a hook nose sat on a threadbare couch. She looked like she outweighed numb nuts by at least a hundred pounds and was in the process of lighting a cigarette.
She didn’t bother to introduce herself, say hello or wave, but just blew a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling then wiggled into the corner of the couch not bothering to close the red nylon robe she wore. The coffee table in front of her was littered with a bong, a number of plastic bags that looked like they’d once held dope, a couple of overflowing ashtrays, and more empty beer bottles.
“That there’s, Rachel,” numb nuts said giving a nod toward the exposed woman on the couch. Then he gave me the once over and said, “Man, you look like shit. What the hell happened?” he asked Freddy.
Freddy just shook his head and said, “Never mind. He’s gonna need the keys to your car.”
“What? My car? You gotta be kidding me.”
“Do I sound like I’m kidding, give him your damn keys.”
“No way, come on, man. It’s a classic and I’m thinking about maybe restoring it. And you want me to just hand the keys over to this piece of shit. I got news for you, he ain’t getting anywhere near….”
“Is there a problem here? Did you just hear what the hell I said? I told you to give him your car keys, numb nuts.”
“But Freddy, how in the hell am I supposed to get around? I got shit happening, man. I got people to see, places to go, you know. I got appointments and shit, I can’t just turn that vehicle over to this worthless piece of shit, it’s a vintage collectors car.”
“Give him the keys now, before I start to lose it.”
“Freddy, come on, please. You can’t do this to me, man. Tell you what,” he leaned in closer to Freddy and whispered. “You see Rachel over there, she’d dig showing you a thing or two. I could line it up for you, take her, hell go ahead and use my room, be my guest, Freddy, on the house.”
Freddy reached under his jacket and pulled out a small pistol. Then he racked a round into the chamber and started shaking his head. His face flushed and he shoved the pistol into the guy’s ribs.
“Does anyone ever fucking listen anymore,” Freddy screamed. Then he glared and hissed, “I’m not kidding here, numb nuts, give him your car keys, now or I’m going to really lose it. It’s already been a very long day for me.”
“But, Freddy.”
Freddy backhanded him with the pistol across the side of his forehead and the guy went down, knocking a floor lamp onto the coffee table in the process. Then he placed a foot on either side of the guy groaning on the carpet, rolled him over and pressed the pistol onto the end of his nose.
“Last time, numb nuts. Give me the keys, now, before I blow your brains out all over the carpet and then you won’t get your damage deposit back. You understand?” he said almost in a whisper.
“Okay, okay, Jesus just take it easy, dude, take it easy,” he half whimpered as he hurriedly dug into his jean pockets. He pulled out a set of keys and handed them to Freddy. “There, okay, you got ‘em, hope you’re happy, man.”
Freddy snatched the keys then seemed to sigh as he stood up, he took a deep breath, stuffed the pistol back under his jacket and seemed to calm down. “Better, much, much better.”
He handed me the keys and indicated the door with a nod of his head. As I opened the door Freddy said, “Nice to meet you, Rachel, maybe some other time.” And we walked out.
We could hear Rachel yelling once we were out in the hall and until we were halfway down the stairs. “You dumb shit. Now how in the hell am I supposed to get home? I knew getting together with you wasn’t going to work out for me, everyone warned me, but oh no….”
Freddy walked out the back door to the Escalade and said, “His bomb is out there on the street, in front of the building, the thing is painted blue, you can’t miss it. If I were you, I’d kind of get my ass in gear. I don’t think Tubby was kidding. You got about forty-eight hours to find this guy and return that money or we’ll have to come looking for you. I’d just as soon not have to do that.”
Chapter Ten
Freddy was right, the car was a bomb and painted iridescent blue where it wasn’t rusted. The thing was impossible to miss. A 1960, two door, Cadillac Biarritz parked on the street in front of the building and just about the size of an aircraft carrier. It sat there wheezing alongside the curb, pointed in the wrong direction with a couple of parking tickets slipped beneath the windshield wiper.
It was a convertible, with the top up, although the back of the top was torn almost all the way across and the rear window was missing. I peeked through the grimy side window and saw that the rear seat was gone as well. In place of the seat, a small mattress, without a sheet, had been crammed in the space with what looked like black hosiery attached
to all four corners of the mattress. The hosiery appeared to have been used as some sort of restraint and I tried not to contemplate the various options.
I slipped behind the wheel and prayed the thing would start. I noticed an empty half-pint bottle of peppermint schnapps hanging out beneath the driver’s seat when I settled in. I opened my door and tossed the bottle onto the boulevard then wiped my hand off on my jeans.
When I turned the key the ignition seemed to groan for a long moment and just when I thought Oh God, it fired up with a throaty roar and a black cloud of sooty exhaust rolled down the street. I checked the mirrors then pulled away from the curb and headed back over to Isabella’s.
Given its size, the car actually handled pretty well on the road, although the flapping noise from the torn top and the continual cloud of exhaust were a bit worrisome. I pulled in front of Isabella’s and after the third attempt I managed to parallel-park the car between two others.
Autumn leaves were just beginning to fall partially covering the street and the little front lawns. I noticed what looked like three unmarked police cars scattered along the block and one squad car with a cop sitting behind the wheel. He climbed out of his car and stood in the middle of the street looking bored while I took my time parking.
When I turned off the car he gave me a signal with his hand to roll down the window. “Can I help you, Sir,” he asked then gave a long uneasy stare at the bruises on my face.
“I’m here to see Isabella, I was here yesterday.”
“Could I see some identification, please?” he said then looked back and forth along the length of the car like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. By this time the cloud of exhaust had drifted across the street and was slowly dissipating.
I handed him my wallet.
“If you wouldn’t mind taking your license out of your wallet, please.”
I did as instructed and handed the license to him.
“Please wait right here, this shouldn’t take more than a minute or two,” he said then walked back to his squad car.
I could see him first on the radio, then on a cellphone. It was more like a good five minutes before he walked back, handed me my license and said, “You can go in. Sorry, we have to check everyone who goes in or out, just to play it safe. They may check you again at the front door.”
“Have there been a lot of visitors?”
“Actually, you’re the first, other than some news folks and they don’t really count. We’re supposed to keep them away and once they’ve cooled their heels out here for an hour or two they usually head off to some other story. Mind me asking what sort of mileage you get with this thing?”
“I can usually make it to the next gas station, as long as I keep an eye on it. I think I’m getting about nine miles to the gallon,” I lied. “Not what you’d call the most fuel efficient.”
“You gonna restore it?”
“I’m thinking about it, but it might be a little more work than I want to take on right now.”
He nodded, then stepped back and scanned along the length of the thing one more time. “You’d need to find two parking spaces wherever you go. It was a different world back then,” he said and shook his head.
I noticed three guys drinking coffee and staring at me from Isabella’s living room window as I made my way up the front sidewalk. The faded yellow ribbon was tied around the maple tree in the front yard. One of the coffee drinkers opened the front door before I had the chance to ring the doorbell then stood there blocking the entrance just staring at my face.
I handed him my driver’s license before he had a chance to say anything.
“You’re Haskell?” he asked and then gave a closer examination to my face before looking back at my license.
“Yeah, here to see Isabella.”
“Man, he did a job on you, better come on in,” he said, pulled the door open and stepped back.
Isabella was on the living room couch sitting in front of the TV. I noticed my empty beer bottle from last night was still on the carpet alongside the couch. I don’t think she was watching or even hearing whatever was playing on the tube. She looked exhausted and understandably stressed out. The always perfectly put together person that I knew had limp, unkempt hair, and wore the same clothes that she’d had on the day before only now more wrinkled and disheveled, like she’d slept in them, which she most likely had. Her hair hadn’t been combed and her face was devoid of makeup. The mascara that had run beneath her eyes and down her cheeks last night had been removed. In its place were deep, dark circles surrounding red, puffy eyes.
She sort of gave me a half nod and said, “Hey.”
There was obviously no use in asking if she’d heard anything, but I asked anyway. “Any news?”
She just shook her head and went back to staring at the TV, after a long moment she said, “There’s some coffee in the kitchen, I think.” She indicated the kitchen with a slight nod of her head and returned to staring blankly at the flat screen.
I walked out to the kitchen. A guy in shirt sleeves with a crewcut was seated at the counter working a crossword puzzle in the newspaper.
“What’s another word for oatmeal?”
I thought for a minute then said, “Try porridge.”
He penned that in and sat back for half a moment looking satisfied. “Yeah, that works, thanks. Hey, coffee’s over there,” he said indicating the coffeemaker next to the kitchen sink. Then he gave me a slight nod and went back to his crossword and started chewing on the end of his pen.
I emptied the pot and got barely half a mug. From the taste of the coffee it must have been on since last night. I turned off the coffee maker, took another sip then set my mug in the sink figuring I was better off without the stuff. I stepped alongside the genius with the crossword puzzle.
“Any idea what state is the “First in Flight?”
“Try North Carolina,” I said.
He penned it in and gave another satisfied look,
“Has there been any news?” I asked, keeping my voice down.
He didn’t bother to look up, but shook his head and said, “No nothing. Not so much as a wrong number.”
“Any idea where he could be?”
He slowly looked up at me and focused for the first time then said, “I guess if we had an idea, we’d probably be there. What the hell happened to you?”
“I’m the guy he coldcocked last night.”
He nodded and went back to his crossword.
I walked back out to the living room. I watched Isabella wring her hands for thirty minutes then drifted back to the dining area and asked the three guys who’d been staring out the window earlier if there was any news.
“Not a damned thing,” one of them half whispered then looked out toward Isabella staring blankly at the TV. “Kind of strange actually. We’re thinking he might be out of state, probably heading south or maybe making a beeline out to California and the wine country.”
“That’s gonna bring the Fed’s in,” said the only one of the three still wearing his sport coat.
Just then the crewcut from the kitchen got up from his crossword puzzle and came out to join us. “They’re already on their way, the Fed’s. I just got the call, they’ll be here in the next half hour.”
“Maybe they’ll have some new information, a sighting, God forbid a clue or something,” someone said.
“That would be nice, but my guess is they’ll show up with the same thing we got, nothing.”
I waited around cooling my heels until the FBI showed up. There were just two of them, in starched white shirts and dark suits. Introductions were made, I shook hands with the one in the grey suit and immediately forgot his name. Agent Osborne wore a blue suit.
“Haskell, you’re the one O’Kelly assaulted, right?” Osborne asked and then zeroed in on my battered face.
“Yeah, that’s me.”
“By the looks of things he nailed you pretty good, no offense, but you look like shit.”
/> “Thanks. You have anything new on this guy? A sighting, a phone call, some sort of bizarre history?” I asked.
“Well with all due respect, that sort of information is frankly on a need to know basis, and I’m not sure you’re exactly in the loop. When something of merit comes up we’ll make a statement to the proper sources and you can get the information just like everyone else,” Osborne said then sort of glanced around at the group as if to say “I’m in charge, now.”
“So, in other words you know as little as anyone else, which is just one big fat nothing.”
Osborne gave me a look like he was about to say something, but the guy with the crewcut spoke first.
“I think under the circumstances, Mr. Haskell could be privy to some general information. It might just prompt something he forgot to mention.”
Osborne seemed to consider this for a moment then said, “Okay, your man was in rehab until about forty-eight hours ago. No cellphone we know of, no familiar haunts, no friends he’s been with. Bit of a shadowy character here so we’re dealing with a pretty blank slate. Doesn’t seem to have accomplished very much thus far in his life.”
“You think he’s left the state?”
“I’d say it’s highly probable, the behavior at this stage would seem to suggest that’s a good possibility.”
“What behavior?”
“The fact that he hasn’t made any contact suggests he’s most likely in the flight mode. It would be a typical response.”
“Typical response?”
“Yes, an attempt to distance himself from the entire incident, in both a physical as well as a mental way.”
I waited to hear about the visit Carlos paid to Tubby’s card game, but no one mentioned it. Now I was pretty sure both the cops and the FBI didn’t have the slightest idea. A hundred grand could go a long way toward travel expenses. Old Carlos could have flown down to South America or out to Hawaii for that matter.
I was pretty sure of one thing, if I mentioned the card game, they’d immediately corner Tubby and then Tubby would cancel my forty-eight hour reprieve and just have me killed.