by Tim Maleeny
The set lasted an hour, but Sam felt like he’d been listening forever. He could still hear the chords as Jill walked between the tables, nodding her thanks as people clapped, some reaching out to take her hand. She took her seat at the bar, as nonchalant as if she’d just returned from the ladies room. Sadie had a glass of Dewar’s already poured and waiting.
Sam nodded toward the whisky. “That explains the voice.”
Jill smiled and threw back half the glass, sucking air between her teeth. “I only drink wine before my set,” she explained. “This is my drink for winding down.” She took another long sip as Sam watched her.
“So what’d you think?” she asked.
Sam shrugged. “It was OK.”
Jill studied him for a minute, then burst out laughing, a low throaty chuckle that sounded almost as good as her singing. Maybe better.
“It was incredible,” said Sam. “Really great.”
Jill’s eyes sparkled. “Yeah, I really felt it tonight.”
“Me, too.” It was out before he could catch it, but once said, it felt surprisingly comfortable. A simple fact, plainly stated.
Jill nodded as if she’d just made a decision, then drained the rest of her drink, catching an ice cube before setting the tumbler down with a thud. Sadie smiled and took the glass away, leaving them alone. Sam hadn’t noticed she was there.
“So,” Jill said around the ice cube, “What were you saying about dinner?”
Chapter Fifteen
“I eat eyeballs.”
To illustrate the point, Zorro reached across his desk and thrust his hand into a jar of blued glass about eighteen inches high, the kind you might see in a candy store filled to the brim with jelly beans. Neither Larry nor Jerome expected to see any jelly beans. Larry grimaced involuntarily while Jerome’s eyes went wide in anticipation. But even before Zorro’s hand re-emerged, a pickled smell wafted across the room like a sigh from an open grave.
Zorro looked more like an alligator than a fox. His teeth jutted past his lips at odd angles, as if someone had gone to work with a pair of pliers but stopped midway through the torture. When he smiled, it was pure Discovery Channel.
Jerome nudged Larry and managed a stage whisper. “Bro, I don’t think the Mexican mob offers dental as one of their benefits.”
Larry hissed, which turned into nervous coughing he couldn’t control. Soon he was hacking and gasping for air. Everyone in the room watched him with morbid fascination, even Zorro, his hand still submerged in the jar. The seconds ticked by.
Larry pulled it together, his eyes watering. Zorro brought his hand to his lips.
It was an eyeball. Through the tears, Larry noticed it looked too big and suspected it was a sheep’s eyeball, considered a delicacy in the Mideast but a disgusting appetizer by any measure. Still, a great way to scare the shit out of people. Sheep eyeball or not, Larry was definitely creeped out.
Jerome was fascinated. “Does it taste like chicken?”
Zorro’s eyes glittered, black as obsidian. His hair matched, slicked back over a high forehead. Deep lines etched his cheeks and made his mouth seem unnaturally wide. Or maybe that was because of the teeth, Larry couldn’t tell. He seriously doubted Zorro was going to model for GQ anytime soon.
“It tastes like revenge, Jerome,” said Zorro. “Did you know my victims almost always have their eyes cut out?”
Larry cut in. “No—no, he didn’t know that, Zorro. What a great idea.”
Jerome gave his brother a petulant look but let it go. He was wearing a towel courtesy of their host, and some of his confidence had returned.
Zorro sucked his fingers for a moment before saying. “So Buster told me you wanted to visit and I was delighted—but confused.” His voice was pure velvet, his accent barely discernible. “You don’t come to my neighborhood, do you?”
“We’ve been busy,” said Larry lamely.
“How busy?” asked Zorro, eyes glowing. Larry met his gaze, only for an instant. Something about the way Zorro asked the question told Larry he’d better come clean before the questions got a lot harder—and the questioning got a lot more insistent. Julio stood behind them, guarding the door, and Larry could sense the giant’s hostility rolling across the room in waves.
Larry spilled his guts, talking so fast even Jerome had a hard time keeping up despite already knowing the details. When he had finished, Larry walked over to a big chair on the right side of the room and sat down, uninvited. He was spent. His bare legs bobbed back and forth, banging together at the knees and making the little robots dance.
Zorro steepled his hands in front of him, shook his head sadly.
“You had blackmail problems before and you didn’t tell me?”
Larry frowned. “You knew about Ed?”
Zorro didn’t answer, which Jerome took as a rebuke.
“We had it handled, Z.”
Zorro gave him a look that suggested no one had called him Z before, but Jerome was oblivious. Zorro turned to Larry. Larry was afraid, and fear always pays attention.
“Someone fucks with you, they are fucking with me,” said Zorro deliberately.
Larry straightened in his chair. Now we’re talking.
“This Ed person,” continued Zorro. “Did you kill him?”
Jerome pointed at Zorro. “I asked Larry the same thing, Z—but he wouldn’t come clean.”
Zorro ignored him. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is this Walter, sí?”
Larry nodded from the chair, forcing himself to look Zorro in the eyes again. “Sí.”
“Fuckin-A,” said Jerome.
Zorro said something in Spanish, too quickly for Larry to catch—high school Spanish was buried deep in his cerebellum, dormant and irretrievable. Julio grunted, turned, and stepped through the door. Zorro turned back to his guests, gesturing toward one of the chairs in front of his desk.
“Sit down, Jerome,” he said. “Relax. I’ve asked someone to join us.”
Jerome took the chair, glanced over at Larry, who looked like he’d just signed a deal with the Devil and was having second thoughts.
“This is going to cost you,” said Zorro, his voice a silk tourniquet.
“No problem,” said Larry, a little too quickly. “We can pay you tomorrow.”
“I don’t think so, Larry.” The tourniquet tightened immeasurably, cutting off the circulation in the room, making the brothers dizzy.
“Today?” asked Jerome. “You want cash today?”
“Not today,” replied Zorro. “And not tomorrow.”
The brothers looked at him and waited for the punch line.
“You see, I don’t want cash,” said Zorro. “I want a percentage.”
The remaining blood rushed from Larry’s face. “But you get a percentage, Zorro.”
Jerome nodded vigorously. “A fuckin’ big one, Z.”
Larry waved him off. “What did you have in mind?”
“Double,” said Zorro simply. It wasn’t a question.
“Double?” Jerome’s eyes bugged out. “But that’s more than fucking Walter is getting.”
Zorro nodded in sympathy. “But unlike Walter, I will never threaten to turn you into the police, eh?”
Larry tried to breathe through his nose but sneezed violently. “I dunno, Zorro, I mean—”
“—then it’s a deal,” said Zorro. “You double my percentage and I kill Walter.” He let that hang in the air a moment before adding, “Unless you’d prefer that I kill you.”
Larry swallowed. Jerome, for once, had nothing to say.
Zorro looked from Larry to Jerome and laughed, a wicked sound that sent a chill down Larry’s spine. He reached into the blue jar and proffered his hand, smiling, his teeth jutting like spikes.
“You guys want an eyeball?”
Chapter Sixteen
“That’s disgusting.”
“How do you know if you haven’t tried one?”
Sam tried to think of a suitable answer. I tried one before a
nd didn’t like it. I hate the French. I’m allergic to things that smell worse than my feet. But they all sounded like he was chicken, so he reached across the table with his dainty fork and pried a snail free of its shell.
“Tastes like a snail.”
Jill laughed. “That’s why they call them escargot. No one in their right mind would order snails.”
“Then why did you order them?”
“I wanted to see how you’d react,” she said with a wicked grin. “Besides, how do you know I’m in my right mind?”
“I heard you sing, remember?” Sam smiled briefly, just long enough for the lines around his eyes to make an appearance.
“You really liked it?”
“There’s already enough seafood at this table,” Sam said, gesturing at the shrimp, snails, and clams scattered before them. “No need for you to go fishing.”
“I just like hearing you say it.”
“It was incredible,” said Sam simply. “How long have you been a singer?”
“Not long enough,” said Jill, reaching for her glass.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing much,” said Jill. “I started singing later in life, in my twenties.”
“So?”
“So it’s a hobby I wish had been a career.”
“And you need to start young?”
Jill shrugged. “The odds are against you at any age, but these days it helps if you’re video material—you know, sixteen with a perfect midriff.”
Sam suspected her midriff looked just fine but didn’t say anything.
Jill continued, “Most of the successful acts today are performers, not singers. Their sound comes from a mixing board. I’m just an old-fashioned singer.”
“Well, you’re a damn good one,” said Sam. “What’s the day job?”
“Graphic designer. Brochures, business cards, websites. I helped the girls down the hall with their site design—Tamara and Shayla—have you seen it?”
“The website?” Sam blushed despite himself. “No, I haven’t.”
Jill smiled. “But you’ve seen the girls?”
“They’re hard to miss.”
“And what did they have to say for themselves?” asked Jill. “About our late landlord?”
“Not much,” admitted Sam. “They thought he was a scumbag.”
“They’re smart girls.”
“That they are.”
“That is why we’re having dinner, isn’t it? To talk about Ed’s fall from grace.”
“No, that’s why we’re talking,” said Sam. “But that’s not why we’re having dinner.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Jill held his gaze for an extra beat. “That’s why I wanted to eat here—it’s quiet.”
“So you don’t like French food, either?”
Jill chuckled. “I like the atmosphere more than the food, but there’s only so many options in the neighborhood. And if we went to the Mexican place, you’d see half the people on our floor there.”
Sam nodded. “Tamara and Shayla said the two brothers ate there a lot.”
“So does Walter.”
“The fat guy?”
“Yes, you could say that,” agreed Jill. “Walter could lose a few pounds.” The she added, “He tends to leer.”
“He’s never leered at me.”
“No accounting for taste.”
“So you know everyone?”
Jill shrugged. “More or less.”
“And you knew Ed.”
She leaned forward, the mote in her eye electric. “Are we getting down to brass tacks?”
Sam shifted uncomfortably. “There are no brass tacks. If you want, we don’t—”
“No, no,” said Jill emphatically. “Let’s get to it.”
“OK.”
“I’m thrilled Ed bought it,” said Jill. “Wish I’d thrown him off the balcony myself.”
Sam sat back in his chair. “Jesus.”
Jill looked defiant. “Tell me you heard something different from the other tenants, and I’ll tell you they were lying.”
Sam shook his head. “One thing this case doesn’t lack is motive.”
The waiter came and cleared their plates. They both ordered coffee and the conversation returned to idle chatter until it arrived. Then Jill said, “Ed tried to rape me.”
Sam blinked, not sure he heard her correctly. Her delivery was so flat, so matter-of-fact. But the look in her eyes told him it was no joke. As a cop he’d seen that expression too many times. He gritted his teeth.
“When?”
Jill looked at her hands. “About three months after I moved in. I was recently divorced, not going out much. Wanted to be alone. One night Ed comes to my door, tells me he needs to check a fuse. I go back to the couch, and the next thing I know, he’s on top of me.” She clenched her fists slowly, then eased the fingers open one at a time, looking up to meet Sam’s gaze.
He asked, “What did you do?”
A quick, bitter smile. “Ed didn’t realize I studied kick-boxing for fifteen years.”
Sam felt a knot in his chest loosen. “But he found out?”
“Got him off me with a shove. He stands up, hands on his hips, starts threatening me. Says I led him on.” Jill shook her head in disbelief. “That was the opening I needed…”
“To do what?” asked Sam. “Call the cops?”
“Kick him in the balls,” replied Jill.
Sam smiled despite himself. “Nice.”
“Figured it was faster than dialing 911.”
“What did Ed do?”
“Curled into a ball.”
“And then you called the cops?”
Jill shook her head. “Why bother? His word against mine. The kick ended it—I could see it in his eyes. After that, we had…” her voice trailed off, “an understanding.”
“An understanding,” repeated Sam, not sure he understood.
“Ed understood I wasn’t interested,” said Jill, “and if he ever pressed the point again…”
“Yes?”
“I’d kill him.”
Sam watched her eyes but didn’t interrupt.
Jill forced a smile. “There, you want to put the cuffs on now?”
Sam shook his head. “Not unless that’s something you’re into.”
“Don’t cops think everyone’s a suspect?”
“If this were a real case, everyone would be a suspect,” replied Sam. “But I’m not a cop, just a neighbor.”
Jill gave him a look that said she didn’t believe that any more than he did, but she let it pass.
“OK neighbor,” she said. “Let’s go home.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Where do you live?”
Larry didn’t want to answer. The little guy asking the question was decidedly creepy, not someone you’d give your home address to, even if he was a cab driver and you were drunk. Zorro with his carnivorous smile and the jolly Mexican giant, Julio, looked normal by comparison.
Not that the guy had any noticeable scars, birthmarks, or tattoos. In fact he was amazingly average, forgettable in every way. A little short, maybe, but dressed in simple chinos and plain white shirt, clothes you could buy at any Gap. A typical hair cut for a guy his age, which Larry guessed around thirty-five. A bland expression on an unlined face.
But his eyes were something else entirely. Zorro might be a scary fucker, but when this guy locked eyes with you, you practically shit yourself. At least that’s what Larry almost did until he blinked.
Zorro had the temperament of Beelzebub, but he wasn’t the Devil. Not even close. This short fucker won that contest hands down. He had the eyes of Satan, two black pools of pure sadism poured into his skull and left there to cool.
“Tell Carlos the address,” prompted Zorro, his fingers tapping idly on his desk.
Larry mumbled the street name, keeping his eyes fixed on Zorro. Jerome shifted from one foot to the other but remained silent.
“Bueno.” Zorro cl
apped, once, and the driver came through the door. He nodded at Julio, then turned his attention to Zorro, who said, “Hernando will take you and your brother home, then he will watch your building until this pajero Walter shows his face. Then Carlos will decide what to do.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Larry could see Carlos nodding eagerly and felt the excitement pour off him in waves. There was a twisted, erotic energy around him, as if he were getting aroused in anticipation of the kill. Larry tasted bile but fought the urge to gag.
Zorro must have noticed because his tone became almost soothing. “You OK, Larry?”
Larry nodded but couldn’t speak. Walter was a dead man the moment we came here. Suddenly Larry missed making sandwiches for a living.
Zorro swiveled in his chair. “Jerome?”
Jerome shrugged but avoided eye contact with everyone, even Larry. “Whatever you say, Z.”
“Amigos, go home and relax. It is out of your hands.” Zorro stood up, smiled. “From now on, there is no reason to worry.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I’m worried.”
Walter said it out loud, feeling the need to keep himself company.
“This is bad,” he added, grabbing the TV remote and thumbing the off button.
“I’m fucked.”
He threw the remote onto the couch and began pacing from the living room to the kitchen. Crumbs from popcorn, chips and Cheez-its fell off his shirt and chin with every step, crunched softly into the carpet, but Walter didn’t notice. He was replaying movies in his head, looking for some flaw in his logic but finding no escape.
He’d discovered a dangerous pattern in the drug business: Things ended badly for the drug dealers.
Not sometimes. Always.
Not for some of the drug dealers. All of them.
Not just the big fish. Every fucking fish in the pool.
Walter had seen these movies more than once, like everybody else. In the theater when they came out, then on cable again and again. He knew the top guys always got greedy, took a fall. But Walter wasn’t planning on becoming the top dog. He wasn’t Tony Soprano or Tony Montano or any other fucking Tony who wanted to be on top of the world.