Luis instantly concurs with the bar’s general disapproval.
He hops down the counter like a panther, yanks the
Herradura out of Blackie’s hand, and hits the rude jerk with a stream of hot Spanish. Nose to nose. I recognize a few choice curses. Lots of chinga this, chinga that.
Blackie’s face darkens to a Hershey-chocolate brown. His
ebony eyes set smooth and hard, like black marbles. A tiny
wrinkle forms in the center of his brow.
Suddenly Blackie’s hands flash from the bar to Luis’ vest,
bunching the material into tight balls. Me and the Vin Diesels suck air. Luis, too, is caught off guard, and Blackie takes
advantage, dropping off his stool, using his weight and the
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BIG NUMBERS
leverage of the bar to yank Luis off his feet behind the
counter.
My eyes can’t believe what they’re seeing. Luis is
suspended above his rubber floor mat, feet kicking, searching for purchase.
My jaws must be wide enough to swallow one of Cruz’s
two-pound pork burritos.
Luis slaps his back pocket. That’s when I wake-up, realize
Branchtown Blackie has made a disastrous mistake—his
hands are tied up. Luis’s are free.
El hombre Luis’ right palm, fingers and thumb are blurred
locomotion, too fast for my eyes.
Luis’s hand comes back up even faster. A snapping or
clicking sound, heavy and metallic, fills the hushed and empty restaurant. Something blacker than Branchtown Blackie runs
point for Luis’s right hand.
Blackie freezes when he sees it. Me and the Vin Diesel
twins gasp again, this time louder than the air conditioning.
Calm, relaxed, Luis touches the pointed tip of an eight-
inch steel knife to Blackie’s throat. It’s one of those big
Tijuana switchblades I used to covet as a kid, Black steer horn with chrome trim and a stainless steel blade.
Oh. My. God.
30
TEN
A blood-red flower blossoms where the double-edged point
of Luis’s switchblade presses Branchtown Blackie’s Adams
apple. Crimson drops become a trickle that runs beneath
Blackie’s shirt collar.
Sweet Jesus, Luis. Don’t kill him.
On television, last night’s Yankee crowd breaks into wild
booing. Bad call at home, I’m guessing, but it sounds like the assembled masses want Blackie killed. A Coliseum full of
Romans, thumbs down.
My heart is the creature from Alien, thumping to escape
and run loose throughout the ship. I tell myself to breathe
slowly. Remain calm.
Luis whispers something to Blackie’s nose. Probably
threatening surgery. But Blackie won’t let go, his stony face set dry and hard. Unblinking. Faccia rozzo. The manicured
little weasel has no fear. Or maybe he thinks Luis’s eight-inch switchblade is made of rubber.
A crazy scream soars above the television booing. Luis and
Blackie don’t flinch, but the twins and I shift our attention toward the back ruckus.
Through the kitchen doorway runs Chef Cruz, his fingers
clutching a microwave-sized butcher knife. Scary-looking
thing is almost bigger than Cruz, but he’s got it balanced high above his shoulder.
I prepare to duck.
Feet still off the ground, Luis waves off Cruz. The big
switchblade stays about one-quarter inch under the skin of
Branchtown Blackie’s throat.
Cruz is already around the Vin Diesel twins, his knife
tickling Luis’s hanging sombrero collection, but he stops short of Blackie, following Luis’s instructions. The butcher knife remains shoulder-high, ready to cleave.
Luis whispers to Blackie again. I can’t tell in Spanish or
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BIG NUMBERS
English. Seconds go by. Five, ten? It’s hard to tell time when the whole room is frozen, us customers staring wide-eyed like wax dummies.
Finally, Blackie lets loose of Luis’s vest. The Vin Diesel
twins and I sigh in unison as my favorite bartender’s feet
return softly to the rubber-matted floor.
Luis pulls the knife away, folds the blade, and sticks the
weapon back in his pocket.
Blackie touches his Adams apple, checks his fingers to
assess damage, the quantity of blood. It’s more than a drop or two, but Blackie’s reaction is nonchalant, as if such wounds were a daily occurrence. A shaving cut.
Luis and Blackie pin each other again. No heavy breathing.
No more whispers. Just staring into each other’s eyes like wild animals. Males with old, well-battled antlers.
Cruz spins and hurries back toward his kitchen. The twins
and I throw money on the bar, head for the exit.
Waiting on my desk at Shore Securities the next day is a
certified letter from a New York law firm, Bisker, Brasher & Bobkin. At least that’s what I think the letterhead says.
Helvetica compressed bold italic is a little tough to make out.
I recognize the font because my ex-wife’s mother picked the
same typeface for our wedding announcement fifteen years
ago and forty-two people went to the wrong church.
Woeful marketing aside, the letter boils down to this:
Unless we pay the ex-football player-slash-boat captain fifty grand he says he lost on the St. Louis hospital bonds I sold him, myself and Shore Securities will be sued for triple
damages under the Federal racketeering laws, “said parties
having displayed an organized pattern of criminal activity.”
I’m surprised my wackiest client found out about the
default so fast, but a lawsuit doesn’t worry me much. In fact the letterhead on this fancy parchment must read Brisket,
Basket & Brainless. They didn’t even bother reading Psycho Sam’s account agreement where it says all complaints must be argued before my industry association’s arbitration panel, not the courts.
32
Jack Getze
I glance up to find Rags scowling at me. The level of
animosity I sense astounds me. Honest-to-God malice, like he wishes I was dead. Wow, Rags. Sorry my camper shed rust on
your Florsheims.
“Vic wants to see you,” Rags says. “Now.”
I fold up the letter to bring with me, head for the boss’s
office. I’ll be all right. They’ve got insurance for these things.
Besides, I won Straight Up Vic eight hundred dollars last
weekend when I made a thirty-footer on the seventeenth.
Straight Up Vic is playing golf on the twenty-by-twenty
antique Oriental rug that pretty much covers the maple floor of his private office. The owner of Shore Securities putts ball after ball into one of those plastic, hole-in-a-platform
contraptions that flips the winners back at you.
So as not to interfere with his stroke, Vic’s solid lilac tie is tucked between the second and third buttons of his starched
white shirt. He doesn’t look up at me until he’s made three in a row.
“What’s with this lawsuit, Austin?”
I turn palms up. “The St. Louis bond default. This client’s
second with us. Claims I never told him this one was junk-
rated. Says he never would have bought it.”
Vic rolls another Top Flight toward the green plastic toy.
Bang. It’s a winner. A spring shoots the ball back within two inches of Vic’s tasseled black loafers. “Those puppies
generated a confirmation that said they were double-B rated, right?”
> “Absolutely. And this same guy’s bought nothing but junk
for six or seven years. He’s a yield buyer, always has been.”
Vic lines up another putt. We call him Straight Up because
he tried to get out of the forest one day with a three-wood, made solid contact, but struck a tree and lost sight of the ball.
We waited for it to land. Five seconds, ten seconds. Nothing.
Seemed like half a minute later, Vic shrugged, and started
walking. Four steps, then thunk. A ball crashes from the sky like a missile, embedding itself so deeply, Vic needed a five-33
BIG NUMBERS
iron to dig it out, confirm the ball was his. That ricochet in the forest must have gone fifty stories straight up.
“You need to take this guy to the ’Splaining Department,”
Vic says, “tell him I hate spending money on lawyers.”
I stare at the certified letter in my hand. Triple damages.
Federal racketeering laws. “This boat captain is a psycho to start with, boss. Now he’s really pissed off. Maybe I should give him a day or two to calm down.”
Vic lifts from his putting crouch for first time since I’ve
been in the room. He leans his new titanium, pro-balanced
putter against his desk and glances at a color photograph on the wall. His fishing yacht, the “Triple-A.”
“Today, tomorrow, whenever. But talk to him,” Vic says.
He stops me when I head for the door.
“Keep Rags informed, Austin. And remember I really hate
lawyers. If I have to hire one for this, I’m taking half his fee out of your commissions.”
34
ELEVEN
Outside Vic’s office, my ears go hot. I check the hallway
mirror for escaping radioactive steam. Me, pay half? Is he
kidding? I sell bonds that Vic and his Wall Street cronies
underwrite, convince my clients they’re safe, but when the
bonds go south, thanks to poor research, or worse, maybe
undiscovered fraud, Mr. Vic says I should be in control of my customers?
Straight Up my ass.
I must be giving off vibes of the wounded as I trudge
across the sales floor because Rags takes one look at my body language and decides to take advantage. He’s standing by my
desk, but now he plops his ass on it, glances covetously at my coffee. He has my phone wedged between his neck and ear,
too, talking to somebody.
When I get closer, he rips the plastic lid off my Starbucks
and puts his mouth and tongue inside like he’s performing
oral sex. Carmela should be so lucky. Vic’s unfortunate
daughter has more hair on her face than a raccoon.
Rags swallows a gulp. “Nice speaking with you, Mrs.
Burns. Remember what we talked about.”
What the hell? I snatch the phone from his neatly
manicured fingers.
“Kelly?” I say.
Rags jumps to his feet, spilling my coffee, trying to grab
the phone back. But I’m too quick for him, so now he’s
leaning on my chest with his forearm. Blood flushes his face. I haven’t been in a fist-fight since grammar school, but I’m
ready for this skinny prick. The anger and frustration inside me want to pop. Mount St. Helens has nothing on this pent-up stockbroker.
Kelly’s voice on the phone is a distant crack of thunder.
Unintelligible.
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BIG NUMBERS
“Give me the phone back,” Rags says, “or you’re fired.
Right now.”
“Screw you, you little weasel. Mr. Vic’s not going to let
you steal my clients.”
I make sure my voice rises so the last part’s loud enough
for the whole sales room to hear. A new sales manager
swiping clients could empty this place of big producers fast.
Rags’ job is to keep the big hitters happy, not push them out the door.
Rags
realizes
talk
about
stealing
clients,
just
the
confrontation, make him look bad on the floor. I can see in
his weasel eyes he’s going to back off. Smarter than I thought.
Give the jerk some credit.
He takes a deep breath. “We’ll talk later.”
Rags strolls away like refrigerated honey, slow and sweet,
the phony smile unlikely to win any Oscars, however. He
mumbles an insult in a tone so low even I can’t hear. His gaze slides off to my left somewhere, grinning at an invisible joke.
“Kelly?” I say.
“What happened? I heard shouting.”
“What did that guy say to you?” I ask.
“Tom? Your boss?”
“Yes. What did Rags say to you?”
“Well...he suggested you were less than reliable, that as
your superior, he would be happy to take over direction of
Gerry’s account personally.”
Why am I not surprised? “He’s a son-of-a-bitch.”
“Don’t let him upset you, Austin. I have that nurse coming
tonight, remember. We planned on meeting for dinner at that
Mexican place you like.”
“I like? Don’t you like Luis’s, too?”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve been there a lot with Gerry.”
“You want to go someplace else?”
“No, Luis’s is fine. I’ll have the shrimp enchiladas.”
“Great. So what time?”
“I can leave as soon as Gerry gets his morphine. Say nine?”
36
TWELVE
Monolithic and gray in the moonlight, the Navasquan
River Boat Club looks like a cemetery monument tonight, not
a swank condo. Across the street, the marina’s big yachts
heave and pitch on their tethers, lifeless and cold. Like
floating corpses.
When Kelly called me twenty minutes ago on Luis’s house
phone, told me her nurse canceled and I should drive over for grilled steaks on her condo balcony, I didn’t want to come. It just didn’t seem right knowing Gerry would be there. Makes
me nervous. But here I am, the reluctant but horny
stockbroker.
The young lobby attendant finds my name on his guest list,
points me to the elevator. My finger shakes slightly as I push PH and the button lights. I take a slow breath as the copper doors slide closed.
Why am I nervous about Gerry being in a nearby room?
Am I worried my troubled conscience will affect my
performance? Scared a drugged up Gerry’s going to wander
out of his bedroom with a pump-action shotgun? Or am I
maybe suffering male anxiety over what kind of deviant sex
Kelly has planned?
I’ve always been a plain vanilla kind of guy.
“Tie me down, Austin.”
I’m standing beside Kelly’s nude body. She’s stretched out
on Gerry’s jungle green living room sofa, her arms and legs
pointing in four directions. Her cherry gold hair is arranged on the padded arm of the sofa like a ball of sun fire. My skin tingles with desire.
“I’m fresh out of rope,” I say.
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BIG NUMBERS
Kelly’s staring at my erection. I was just getting ready to
hop on when she popped the “tie me down” line. I’m still
ready.
“Use neckties,” she says. “There should be some in the
bedroom closet.”
My love fountain droops. “You want me to go in Gerry’s
bedroom?”
S
he laughs. You have to love a woman who can laugh
naked. Spread-eagle naked.
“Gerry’s asleep in the back,” she says. “His old clothes are in the spare room, first door on your right. Check the closet.”
My erection is gone by the time I dig up two Mexican
tooled belts and two Paisley ties. Makes me feel inadequate
that she needs props, outside stimulation. What happened to
that chemistry she was talking about?
I also wonder how she thought of neckties so quickly.
Think she’s done this before?
“Tighter, Austin. So I can’t move.”
I oblige as best I can, although the slick neckties are
difficult to cinch up. I make everything work by switching to a slip knot, looping the neckties around the feet of the sofa.
It’s taken a while and I stand beside her again to admire my work.
Kelly twists and writhes against her restraints, her breasts rolling like upturned bowls of pudding. Man oh man, what a
rack. No implants that I can discern, and believe me, my eyes have gone over every centimeter.
I drop to the sofa and straddle her waist. Funny how this
kind of stuff works on you. I would never suggest anything
like this myself, but sitting on Kelly’s naked body, feeling my dick pump back into full form, I can’t deny an unusually
strong sense of excitement and sexual power.
Does this mean I’m a sick puppy?
***
38
Jack Getze
“Did you deposit my money?” Kelly asks later.
“Yup. I even brought the new account papers for you to
sign. You’re all set.”
Her left hand rises to my cheek. Her fingertips trace the
outline of my jaw. “Since you handled that problem so
masterfully, perhaps you might care for another little
challenge?”
I’m instantly curious. Every day with the redhead is a new
lesson in Scheming 101. “Like what?”
“See that painting there?”
I turn my gaze from a wisp of red hair that lies across
Kelly’s perfect temple. Above a glass display case filled with turquoise and Mexican silver objects, I see a framed picture of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen from the nineteenth
century. “All those rich happy people, strolling in the
sunshine?”
“That’s the one,” she says. “Renoir’s Pont Neuf.”
Renoir? Gerry owns a Renoir? Hanging in his Branchtown
condo? “That’s not real?”
Kelly tugs my ear. “Of course not. The original’s hanging
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 4