Thieving Weasels

by Billy Taylor

  “Yes, that’s terrible news about your mother. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow at nine fifteen, but I’ll try to drop by and see her after that.”

  I pushed End and stared up at the ceiling. Damn. Bloody gun or not, with Uncle Wonderful in federal custody there was no way I could frame him for killing Louie Jingo. Talk about the perfect alibi. There were probably a dozen people who could have vouched for his whereabouts every second of the last fifteen hours. Add to that video surveillance, police logs, and other irrefutable evidence, and my plan was totally shot. Who would have thought that getting arrested by the Feds could turn out to be a good thing?

  “Hello, son.”

  I turned, and Mr. DeNunsio was standing beside me. My first impulse was to kick his canes out from under him, but there were too many witnesses around. Instead I bit my lip and kept my feet planted firmly on the ground.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your mother,” he said. “I came as soon as I heard. How’s she doing?”

  “The doctors say it’s still too early to tell.”

  “Thank God they found her. The thing about strokes is the faster they treat you the better.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He took a step closer. “What about that other thing? Everything work out okay?”

  “Check your garbage can,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The garbage can in your room. Go look inside it.”

  His eyes grew wide. “Why?”

  “Because there’s only one glass there. Remember when you slapped me across the face? You were so full of yourself you didn’t notice I took your glass with me. A friend of mine has it now, and it’s got your fingerprints all over it. So listen up. If anything funny happens to me—and I mean anything—that glass and the gun that did the job go straight to the cops. Capisce?”

  Mr. DeNunsio glared at me.

  “So where’s the picture?” he asked after a moment.

  “I didn’t see the point in taking it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my cousin Roy saw everything. You want proof? Go ask him.”

  The paramedics wheeled my mother out of the room, and I slapped Mr. DeNunsio on the back. “Thanks for the anisette, Chaz.”

  I followed the paramedics down the hallway and straight out the front door. There was an ambulance waiting, and I watched as they rolled my mother inside. I climbed in beside her, and the paramedics closed the door and pulled out. There was an IV bag hanging from a pole on the gurney, and I followed the tube down to my mother. She was staring at me with large, questioning eyes, and I smiled.

  “Hello, Dolores,” I said.

  She blinked.

  “That’s your name, isn’t it? Dolores Spencer? Or should I say your good name?”

  She said nothing, but I could tell she wanted to.

  “Just so you know, I have it all. The license, the passport, the Social Security card. Don’t worry; it’s all in a safe place. In fact, it’s in the same place as a pair of Uncle Wonderful’s false teeth, a glass with DeNunsio’s fingerprints, and the gun that killed Fat Nicky. That’s right. If one of us goes down, we all do. Any questions?”

  She didn’t answer, and I leaned in closer.

  “And just so we’re clear, after we get to the hospital, you and I are finished. If you try to contact me in any way—and I mean so much as a birthday card—I’m giving that package to the police. Got it?”

  She still didn’t answer, and I was beginning to think that she really did have a stroke. Just to make sure I said, “And in case you’re wondering, I’m the one who stole Grandpa Patsy’s money. I’ve had it in a storage locker upstate the entire time.”

  “You son of a bitch.”

  “What’s that?” I asked, putting a hand to my ear.

  “You heard me,” she growled as she grabbed my throat. It happened so quickly I had no time to defend myself, and the paramedics in the front of the ambulance didn’t hear a thing. Her thumbs dug deep into my Adam’s apple, and I tried to pry her fingers away, but my hands were still useless from the cold. She was killing me. I couldn’t believe it. My own mother was killing me.

  Things were getting fuzzy fast. I thought about praying, but decided against it. I had chosen my path, and it was time to pay for my choices. I kept my mind focused on Claire and tried to picture what it would have been like growing old together. I saw beaches and sunsets, horses and rainbows. Yes, I know it sounds corny, but I was too busy dying to paint a Mona Lisa. Everything went black, and just when I thought my life was over, someone grabbed my ankles and pulled me out of the ambulance.

  “Are you okay?” a paramedic asked, snapping an ammonia capsule under my nose.

  “What?” I replied, still not fully conscious.

  “I said, are you okay?”

  I heard my mother scream, and everything came rushing back. I scrambled to my feet and peered inside the ambulance. A second paramedic was strapping my mother to the gurney, and she was kicking and screaming like an insane woman.

  “Will you look at that,” I said with a cough. “Is that the world’s fastest stroke recovery, or what?”

  31

  I JAMMED THE GUN I GOT AT RED LOBSTER INTO THE BACK of my pants and climbed the stairs to Roy’s apartment. My hands were throbbing and my throat felt like I’d gargled with drain cleaner, but I was alive. Or at least I was for a few more minutes. I still wasn’t sure what to do about my cousin. Half of me wanted to shoot him, and half of me wanted to give him a high five for pulling off such an outrageous scam. But what I really wanted was to get as far away from Long Island as possible, which was exactly what I planned on doing once I was finished with Royston Patrick O’Rourke.

  Music was blasting from his apartment, and I peered through the curtains to see if Jackie was in the middle of another performance. Not even close. Roy was asleep on the couch with a beer in one hand and a bong in the other. I thought about kicking my way inside but decided against it. If Roy did have a gun, the last thing I needed was to spook him. I gave the door a friendly knock, and when he didn’t answer, I gave it a not-so-friendly punch.

  “Who is it?” he yelled.

  “Your favorite cousin.”

  The door opened, and Roy appeared holding a baseball bat.

  “Hello, Killer,” he said.

  “Getting ready for spring training?” I asked.

  “This is for protection.”

  “From who? Me?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I have a gun, Roy. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

  Roy tossed the bat on the couch and said, “Then I guess you might as well come in.”

  I followed him inside, and the first things I noticed were two plastic casts on the floor.

  “How are the legs doing?” I asked.

  “Good as new.”

  “And Jackie?” I asked, collapsing on a chair.

  “What about her?”

  “Are you two, like, dating?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, she’s hot and everything, but the girl has serious anger issues.” He sat on the couch and fired up a bong.

  “So, now what?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” he asked, releasing the smoke into the room.

  “Is this thing over, or not?”

  “Of course it is. Fat Nicky’s dead.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Bullshit. I saw you cap the guy.”

  “That wasn’t Fat Nicky.”

  “Then who was it?”

  “Some nobody named Louie Jingo.”

  Roy leaned forward. “You mean DeNunsio double-crossed us?”

  “Don’t look so surprised,” I said. “It’s not like he was the only one getting double-crossed last night.”

  “Sorry about that. If it was up to
me, I would have gotten somebody else to do the job, but Dad and your mom had their hearts set on you.”

  “Just out of curiosity, when did you guys figure out I was at Wheaton?”

  “About thirty seconds after you left. We knew your good name, so it wasn’t that hard.”

  “Then why did you wait so long to come and get me?”

  “Dad was waiting for the right job. But honestly, I think your mom wanted to make you think you got away with it. Life sucks, huh?”

  “What’s done is done,” I said. “What I really want to know is whether you guys are going to leave me alone now.”

  “You’re family, Skip,” Roy said with a smile. “You know that’s impossible.”

  I reached into my pants and pulled out the gun.

  “Is that supposed to be some kind of a threat?” he asked.

  “No, it was poking me in the kidney. But if you’d like, it could be a threat.”

  Roy shook his head. “I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself, but we still have to figure out some amicable way for you to leave me alone for the rest of my life.”

  “It’s not just me. It’s the entire family.”

  “Let’s not worry about them right now.”

  Roy thought about it for a moment. “If it’s just the two of us, then maybe there is a way to work things out.”

  My face erupted into a grin. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Bikes or cars?” Roy asked, grinning back.

  “If this is a fight to the death, then we better make it cars.”

  • • •

  It took less than an hour to find what we needed. I stole a Camaro 2LS, and Roy opted for a Challenger SXT. We switched license plates, pulled the air bags, and loaded up on gas and munchies at a Citgo station. My hands were still a burning mess, but I figured the adrenalin and insanity would pull me through.

  “What’s the plan?” Roy asked, biting into a microwave burrito. “Where do you want to do this thing?”

  I checked the time on my phone. “It’s almost nine a.m. Unless you want to get civilians involved, we’ll have to find a place where there’s no traffic.”

  “This is Long Island. All we got is traffic.”

  I thought about it and said, “What about Ocean Parkway? Nobody’s going to the beach this time of year.”

  “Good idea. We can race from Jones Beach to Captree State Park. The first person to die loses.”

  Roy climbed into the Challenger, and I followed him down Sunrise Highway and onto Wantagh Parkway. Traffic was nonexistent, and we blew past the Jones Beach tollbooths, skidded around the water tower, and hit Ocean Parkway doing eighty.

  I had been dreaming of this moment for years and couldn’t wait to make the first move. I cut my wheel hard to the right and plowed straight into Roy’s fender. He gave me the finger, and I was about to nail him again when he hit the brakes. I had zero time to react and smashed into the Challenger with my gas pedal pressed to the floor. Pain shot up my neck as my head snapped forward, and I almost bit off the end of my tongue. Roy blasted his horn and was gone before I could even look up.

  “You son of a bitch,” I screamed.

  My mouth filled with blood, and I guzzled some soda and spat it out the window. As bad as my tongue hurt, my pride hurt more. I couldn’t believe I had fallen for such a sucker move. We may have been equal on bicycles, but Roy had way more experience behind the wheel of a car.

  I hit the gas and aimed the Camaro straight for him. The car inhaled the distance between us, and I was just inches from his bumper when he slammed on the brakes again. This time I was ready for him and cut my wheel hard to the left. I shot past Roy doing eighty, and in less than a minute I was a quarter mile in the lead. The Camaro shook like an unbalanced washing machine, and I prayed it would hold together long enough for me to get out of there. I’d been planning to send Roy to a fiery grave, but my new strategy was to stay as far ahead of him as possible and either outrun him or bore him to death. I was hoping for the latter when a voice came over the Camaro’s sound system.

  “This is OnStar operator Kevin. This vehicle has been reported stolen, and the police have been notified. We are currently in the process of disabling it.”

  “Wait a minute!” I shouted. But it’s impossible to size up a mark you can’t see, and I tore open the glove compartment in search of the car’s registration.

  “Are you still there?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m here.”

  “That’s great. Uh, Kevin was it?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a great name, Kevin. In fact, you’re not going believe this, but my father’s name is Kevin.”

  “You’re right,” he replied. “I don’t believe you.”

  The words ENGINE POWER REDUCING flashed on the dashboard, and the Camaro began to slow down. I checked the rearview mirror, and Roy was racing up behind me.

  “Listen,” I said. “How do you know the person who reported this car stolen was the actual owner and not some knucklehead pulling a prank?”

  I dumped the contents of the glove compartment onto the seat beside me. The registration had to be there somewhere.

  “Because he gave us his account number.”

  I slapped the dashboard and said, “Now I know what happened. I lost my wallet at a Rangers game last month, and my account number was in there. My wife must have forgotten to call you. Can we update my information now, or is that something I have to do at the dealership?” I found the registration and almost died when I saw the name on it. “I mean, what do I have to do to convince you I’m . . . Magnus Kjartansson.”

  “It’s pronounced K-JARtansson,” Kevin said with a snort.

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, it wasn’t.”

  So much for fast-talking my way out of the situation.

  I checked the rearview mirror, and Roy was practically on top of me. Worse, a cop was practically on top of him. The Camaro was losing power by the second, and my only hope of escape was abandoning the car at Cedar Beach, which was coming up fast. The turn into the parking lot was crazy sharp, and I had serious doubts that my frostbitten fingers could handle it. I hit the brakes and slapped the steering wheel with the palms of my hands. Time stood still, and I hit a divider and crashed into a boarded up parking booth. The booth exploded, and wood and wire flew everywhere as I bounced into a parking lot and slammed into a sand dune. I held my breath and waited for Roy or the cop to race in behind me.

  But nothing happened. Nothing at all.

  I got out of the Camaro and climbed onto the sand dune to see where everyone was. I shielded my eyes from the sun and saw Roy racing down the parkway with the cop on his tail. This meant either Roy couldn’t make the turn or had decided to try and outrun the cop. Either way, I wasn’t waiting around to see if they were coming back. I buried my gun in the sand, wiped down the Camaro for prints, and dashed across Ocean Parkway to the westbound lanes.

  There was very little traffic, and I slogged through marshes and sea grass until I came to the town of West Gilgo Beach. Most of the houses were closed for the winter, but a few looked occupied, and one of them even had a Honda Accord parked in the driveway.

  “Wow,” I said, not believing my eyes. “Today must be my lucky day.”

  32

  I SPENT THE NEXT TWO WEEKS LOOKING OVER MY SHOULDER and poring over the Long Island papers for news about my family. I didn’t expect to find anything about my mother, but I figured there might be a piece about Uncle Wonderful and the FBI, or Roy getting nabbed in a high speed chase. There was nothing, and unlike the rest of the world where no news is good news, in the land of thieving weasels, no news means it’s time to start checking for the knife in your back.

  My fears were finally realized on the third Monday of January. Maybe it’s just me, but if there’s any
thing more nerve-racking than seeing the woman who’d tried to strangle you appear at your school’s Martin Luther King Day Celebration I have yet to find it. But there she was, third row center, wearing a big smile and an even bigger hat, which—even I had to admit—looked terrific on her. In fact, I couldn’t remember another time when my mother looked so good, and if it was any other day, I would have been happy to see her. Sadly, this was also the day I was supposed to meet Claire’s parents, and I didn’t want my mother to do anything embarrassing, like stealing their wallets.

  Once I was able to pry my eyes off my mother’s hat I spotted two familiar faces sitting next to her: Roy and Uncle Wonderful. As flattered as I was that my entire family had come to watch our Senior Class Reading of Martin Luther King’s letter from a Birmingham jail, something told me they weren’t just there for the civil rights. I debated ducking out the back door or faking an epileptic seizure, but neither of these struck me as the kind of first impression I wanted to make on Claire’s parents, who were sitting just three rows behind my family.

  Any way you looked at it, I was trapped.

  Claire was seated at the opposite side of the stage, and there was no way for me to signal her. I didn’t think my family would do anything stupid as we stood and marched down the center aisle at the end of the reading, but I was forced to reevaluate this opinion when Roy sleazed up behind me and stuck either a gun or a roll of Mentos in my back. I was hoping it was the latter because my mouth had suddenly gone dry and I could have used something to freshen my breath.

  “Meet us at that statue of the guy and the dwarf,” he whispered.

  “It’s not a dwarf,” I said. “It’s a child.”

  “Whatever. Just meet us there, or I’ll shoot you in the ass.”

  “With all these people around? You wouldn’t dare.”

  “Do you really want to risk it?”

  “My entire life has been one endless risk. Why should today be any different?”

  “Just meet us there.”

  The statue in question was of Archibald Wheaton, our school’s founder and first president. Old Archie, as everyone called the statue, was a popular spot for late night hookups and family introductions. To the best of my knowledge it had never been the site of a murder or shooting, and my goal was to keep it that way. And just my luck, it was also where I was supposed to meet Mr. and Mrs. Benson.