letting me down? Perhaps we can work something out, reach
some satisfactory compromise.”
Hey, if it’ll save my life, even keep me out of a wheelchair, I’ll sign a freaking IOU for a million dollars. Why the hell not add Psycho to my long and growing list of creditors?
“Okay, puke,” he says. “But up first, then down.”
Whoa. Suddenly I’m flying, soaring across Shore’s parking
lot, the blacktop zipping by beneath me like I was watching
out the window of an airplane.
I break the fall with two hands and a body roll, but my
crash landing still feels like I fell off a two-story roof. I start checking myself for broken bones, then change my mind.
Think I’ll hang quiet here a while on the warm, sun-drenched asphalt. Austin Carr, playing dead.
“Get up and take your beating like a man,” Psycho says,
“or I’ll kick you like a dog.”
Tough choice. In fact, I still haven’t made up my mind ten
seconds later when I hear another sharp crack of thunder. At 60
Jack Getze
least I think it’s thunder. Close enough to rattle the marrow in my bones. Maybe it’s time to say a prayer. Dear God...
“Get your ass out of my parking lot.”
Hey. The new voice sounds like Straight Up Vic at Shore
Securities’ back door, but I can’t twist far enough to confirm.
Not yet anyway. The vertebrae in my neck have been welded
into one piece of pain.
Psycho’s feet turn on the new voice. I have a very clear
picture of his black rubber fishing boots. “Who the hell are you?” he says to the guy I think is Vic.
“I’m the son-of-a-bitch who’s going to shoot your ass you
don’t get off my property.”
It’s Mr. Vic alright. My prayers have been answered. I
manage enough of a head twist to see his face. I also see his right hand holds a short-barreled revolver.
Boy am I glad I’m a good golfer.
61
NINETEEN
Twisted lines of blue smoke rise from Mr. Vic’s revolver.
Can’t honestly say I recognize that puppy from way over here, but I remember now it’s a Smith & Wesson snub-nosed .38.
The boss’s shown the weapon to us more than once in my
time, Mr. Vic firing off a blank or two in hopes of reviving what he considered a sleepy, non-productive sales staff. It
definitely got our attention, put us all back on the money
machine, although I’m a little less certain about any actual increase in sales. At least for an hour or two. I usually took the rest of the day off.
If that second clap of “thunder” was Straight Up playing
deputy sheriff, I wonder if the boss is popping real bullets this go-round, Mr. Vic quickly improvising a plan to save Shore
Securities time and money on Psycho’s pending lawsuit? How
many times did Mr. Vic say he hates paying attorney fees?
“You and that half-pint squirt gun don’t scare me,” Psycho
says.
Sam Attica is maybe the only man in the whole world I
could believe when he says that. To bring down Psycho Sam,
that .38 round would have to be perfectly placed.
Mr. Vic saying, “Than you’re even dumber than you
sound, Samantha. How come you talk like a leprechaun? Was
your daddy a fairy?”
I love my boss.
Psycho growls, a shrill gargle that rattles my chest,
piercing, like an electronic fire alarm. I try to merge with the hot asphalt as Psycho Sam Attica takes off running toward
Straight Up Vic Bonacelli.
Mr. Vic extends his arm, aiming the revolver at Psycho’s
head. I judge my position relative to the angle of Mr. Vic’s potential shot, hoping to determine if any blood and/or brain matter will splash in my direction.
Hard to tell, but I duck anyway.
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Jack Getze
Mr. Vic saying, “I just called the police, told them Samson
Attica was assaulting my employee, that my associate’s life is being threatened. That call puts the Branchtown law on my
side, Samantha, even should I now decide to put a hole in
your face.”
To illustrate the bullet’s potential target, Mr. Vic uses his left hand to touch the tip of his classically prominent Italian nose. He’s always showing people his profile, even total
strangers, claiming family ties to one of the Caesars.
Thank God Notre Dame makes its athletes actually attend
class. Psycho seems able to understand and believe what the
boss is telling him. He stops his charge. The tensed muscles around his mouth and eyes begin to slacken. He even touches
his nose.
A master salesman, Straight Up Vic understands the
awesome power of suggestion. Mr. Vic waves his revolver.
“Go on, get out of here.”
Psycho stops beside me. “Don’t think we’re done, puke. I
owe you a very physical warning.”
His high-pitched voice stabs at the throbbing mass of pain
that is my neck. “What the hell kind of warning was the one
you just gave me?”
Seems like a reasonable question, obtuse grammar aside.
I’m obviously headed straight back to the hospital emergency room where they ask for this kind of information on the
insurance forms.
“That was no kind of warning, puke. I was just saying
hello.”
What a world. What a world.
While I’m at the emergency registration desk this time,
waiting for a doctor, perhaps I should inquire about a
monthly pass.
63
TWENTY
A humming sound wakes me up that night.
Light from a hallway filters onto the straight-back chair at the foot of my steel bed. Oh, yeah. I forgot. I’m in the hospital again.
On my left, an elderly roommate has kept the water-proof
green curtain closed around his bed all night, even when I
invited him to watch the Yankee-Dodger game with me, one
of those inter-league games they play now. I think my geezer roommate might have been embarrassed by his chronic
flatulence. Not that the curtain helps much with that. Whew.
I have to remember not to eat the food here.
The humming gets louder. A strange gush of sadness hits
me behind the eyes. Wow. What the heck is that? Being such a loser, back in the hospital again? The pain in my knee and
neck? Or...that humming. It reminds of something unpleasant, doesn’t it? Some ego-bruising event.
When the memory comes, it moves quickly, like a short
film. We open inside a marriage counseling session with my
wife Susan, a scene where the shrink suggests we purchase a
vibrator as a potential cure for our sexual problem—there
ain’t any but more sex. Then cut to Susan’s telephone voice
days later, “I had four orgasms today.” Seems while I was at work one afternoon, Susan drank a few glasses of wine, took
a hot bath, and enjoyed incredible life-altering sex with our new Hitachi 3000. After that I was offered nothing but sloppy seconds. After six months of that, I needed an affair to repair.
I mean how can a guy compete with something that’s
fourteen inches long and vibrates?
I open my eyes. The hospital room is filled with gray
morning light.
A dark human shape comes into focus at the foot of the
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Jack Getze
steel bed and my head snaps off the pillow. Pain shoots down my neck.
My blood pumps with adrenaline. Who is that?
“Hello, Carr. I’m Detective Mallory, Branchtown Police.”
I sigh, take a breath. My heart begins to slow down. I
wonder if cops do these things on purpose. And I know this
guy, too, thought we were sort of friends. Mallory is one of only six detectives on the Branchtown force, a tall Irishman with graying red hair and hard blue eyes. We coached T-ball
together three years ago.
“Hey, Jim. This an official visit?”
“It’s official,” he says. “I need to ask you a few questions about the incident at Shore Securities yesterday. First, tell me in your own words exactly what happened when you
encountered your client Samuel Attica?”
“Samson, actually.”
“Okay. Samson Attica.”
I go through the whole episode ninety-nine-percent
truthfully, using enough detail to make myself comfortable
with the story. But in the end, it’s a story. Of course I could see Mr. Vic had a gun. His famous Smith & Wesson. But I’m not ratting out the boss.
“You’re telling me you didn’t see a weapon in Vic
Bonacelli’s hand?”
“He could have had a gun,” I say. “He could have had a
box of candy, or flowers. I didn’t look.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am not.”
“Why? Scared you’ll lose your job? Vic already told us he
was the shooter.”
A much younger Branchtown detective scurries into my
hospital room. It’s Mallory’s partner, I guess. The kid looks like an eighteen-year-old Eagle Scout. “Jim. I need to talk to you,” he says.
Mallory and the Eagle Scout are only out of my sight and
earshot maybe thirty seconds, but Detective Mallory is hot-
wired when he saunters back to my bed. Flushed around the
neck. Eyes brighter. Like a new user and current beneficiary of stimulant drugs.
“You own a pickup truck with a camper?” Mallory says.
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BIG NUMBERS
“Yup.”
“A yellow 1993 Chevy with lots of rust?”
“Bought it three weeks ago.”
Mallory and his young partner exchange a glance. When
my former T-ball coaching mate puts his gaze back on me,
Detective
James
Mallory
of
the
Branchtown
Police
Department thinks he’s holding a straight flush to my pair.
“Put your pants on, Carr. We’re going for a ride.”
66
TWENTY-ONE
I’m cold, shivering in the rear of Detective Jim Mallory’s
city-sponsored four-door Ford Crown Victoria. Fog shrouds a
blinking red train crossing as we approach. Our tires squeal to a halt. The wooden gate drops inches from our headlights.
Clanging bells poke my ears, and in the distance, the engineer blows his discordant horns.
Not sure whether to blame my shivering and shaking on
another sudden shift in New Jersey’s weather or the
anticipation of additional calamities. Mallory and the Eagle Scout are driving me to Luis’s Mexican Grill for unexplained reasons, and I’ve got a nasty chill worrying what we might
find.
A misty drizzle keeps the wipers busy thumping across the
windshield. Those hurricane remnants and warm humid air
have given way to a storm front out of the Great Lakes. Much lower temperatures. In the closed Ford, I smell leather, gun oil, and from the back seat’s stained rug, a feint stench of dried vomit.
A crime’s been committed at Luis’s, I was told. A bad one,
I’m guessing. Across the tracks, through the glare of the
flashing crossing lights, I can see into the restaurant’s parking lot. Three squad cars, half a dozen cops, and a circle of yellow tape surround a lump on the asphalt. The lump’s covered by a blue tarp.
The train arrives, shutting off my view. The yellow tape
and blue tarp stay bright in my head. Neon color in a wet
drab world.
“Somebody dead?” I ask.
Neither detective speaks. They keep looking straight
ahead. Ignoring me.
“Come on, tell me,” I say. “Or I’m not saying another
word until I see a lawyer.” Hey, I watch all the good cop
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BIG NUMBERS
shows. If everyone exercised their right to be silent, our
prisons would be empty.
Mallory sighs. “Someone who works at the restaurant has
been shot. A Hispanic male.”
The train passes, the gate lifts, and we pull across the
railroad tracks into Luis’s parking lot. My heart’s skipping rope, jogging and jumping at the same time. There’s a double-granny knot in my stomach. Did Branchtown Blackie’s friend
take another, better aimed shot at my favorite bartender?
When we pull up, the Eagle Scout jumps out and yanks me
from the Crown Victoria. None too gentle. Mallory’s partner
is stronger than he looks. The little dick.
The drizzling fog tastes like fish. The Catch of Yesterday.
I try walking toward the tarp, thinking they want me to
have a peek at the body, but Mallory grabs my arm. “This
way, pal.”
Mallory’s tug pulls me off balance. Stumbling backward,
my ex-favorite T-ball coaching partner slams me against a
squad car. Whoa. What’s the hell’s going on?
Mallory’s Crown Victoria blinks high beams on me. My
hand jumps up to cover my eyes.
Somewhere in the darkness, a cop says, “Put your hand
down, asshole.”
I comply, but can’t help squinting at the Crown Victoria’s
brights. My eyes sting with the glare.
“Stop making faces,” the same cop-voice says.
Finally it dawns on me. I’m in a one-man line-up, scoped
out by someone behind those lights. Am I a murder suspect?
Oh Lord, I hope that dead body isn’t Luis.
“That’s him,” a whiskey voice says. “That’s the guy what
lives in the camper.”
Sweet Jesus. The uniformed cop who called me an asshole
and Eagle Scout tug me over to Mallory’s Crown Victoria and
stuff me in the back seat. I missed the smells.
Mallory’s grinning when he sticks his head inside to talk.
“We have a witness says you were fighting with the victim.
Lots of shouting, cursing.”
My skin turns clammy, my breathing shallow. Oh, please,
not Luis. “Who’s the victim?”
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Jack Getze
“You wanna take a look?” Mallory says. “I mean, if you
admit hanging out here a lot. Knowing everyone.”
Mallory walks me over. My legs are wobbly. Trickles of
sweat run down my flanks. The foggy air closes in on me like heavy snow.
The Branchtown detective waves, and one of the
uniformed cops pulls back the blue tarp. Another train’s
coming. I hear the clanging bells. The distant horns.
Sweet Jesus. Not easy to tell who it is. The face is bashed, features smeared across a bloody hunk of meat. But I
recognize my friend by the overall size of the head, the partial hairline, the shape of one good ear.
It’s Cruz, not Luis.
I throw up on Mallory’s shoe.
It takes the Branchtown cops all day to approximate the
time of Cruz’s death, then three minutes to verify my alibi
with the hospital nurses
station. Those girls must have been able to recite the exact time of my every bowel movement.
During my wait at the police station, I tell Mallory and a
tape recorder everything I know about Cruz, Luis, and the
restaurant. But once I’m done with my two Branchtown
Blackie stories, Luis’s switchblade, my info apparently isn’t that exciting. I’m sent home with a warning to stay available for further questioning.
I call Walter for a ride. He has a dozen questions, but my
answers are one syllable or less. Poor Cruz. He probably got himself killed trying to defend the restaurant.
69
TWENTY-TWO
I wake up cold and worried. Night air leaks inside my
camper, chilling my arms and chest, yet perspiration drips in the hollow of my neck. The first two fingertips of my right
hand collect the moisture like evidence. What’s wrong? Cruz’s death? Anxious and restless about my shitty life? Or did a
nightmare rouse me? A noise?
Knuckles rap tenderly on my camper door. “Austin? It’s
me.”
I slide carefully off my bunk. Definitely a female voice, or Psycho Sam. Sounds like the redhead, actually, but why
would Kelly show up here so late? I stoop-walk to the back
and crack open the door. The Branchtown night greets me
with a cold wet kiss.
It’s Kelly alright. Her gaze shifts from my eyes to a place
above my forehead. “I thought you were kidding about the
helmet.”
I remove my headgear, toss it on the bunk. “Obviously
you’ve never lived in a camper. I was developing permanent
contusions and lacerations. You want to come in, have a
beer?”
“I...” She can’t finish, and her green eyes thicken with
sudden unshed tears. What’s wrong? Same old problem about
too many nursing responsibilities? Or a new drama? Maybe
she knew Cruz.
“Gerry’s gone,” she says.
Oh, my. I wasn’t ready for that so soon. My monster
looked almost well the last time I saw him. “Did he die
peacefully?”
“No, no,” she says. “I mean he’s gone, not dead. He left
the condo in an ambulance.”
I push aside the rusty camper door and hop down beside
my goofy redheaded lover, place my hand on her shoulder.
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Jack Getze
Kelly must be treated with love and kindness. She can’t help it she’s a ding-bat.
A three-quarter moon throws our shadows on the asphalt
and puts a frightened glare in Kelly’s moist eyes. Some kind of night bird squawks in the oak tree across from Shore
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 7