Securities’ parking lot. I pull a blanket off the camper floor and wrap it around our shoulders.
“What happened?” I say.
She spreads her fingers on my chest. “Last night after
dinner he lost consciousness. I called 9-1-1 and went with him to the emergency room. The doctor there got Gerry’s Sloan
Kettering doctor out of bed, and they decided to transfer him to a hospice. They don’t think Gerry will live more than a few days.”
I reach for her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’ll be all right.” She sniffs. “Gerry and I’ve known this
was coming.” She digs in her purse for a tissue. “It’s just
that...even if we weren’t married...well...we’ve been together a long time.”
My arms slips around her waist. The redhead presses her
hips against me.
“I don’t need all of it,” Kelly says an hour later. We’ve
moved to the penthouse condo. “Just a little. We’ll go to
Mexico, you and me. Live in the sunshine like the people in
that fancy painting.”
I kiss her neck, then gaze up at Renoir’s Pont Neuf, the
centerpiece
of
Gerry’s
collection
of
Impressionist
reproductions. “I don’t care if you take a slice of Gerry’s
assets,” I say. “And I’d love to run away with you. But in a few days, a week, a month...eventually I’d miss my kids, miss them so bad I’d have to come back.”
“You told me you don’t see your kids now.”
“Not officially. But I’m pretty successful at being sneaky.
More important, I have to maintain residence here to
reacquire visitation rights, eventually joint custody. With my ex-wife, it’s strictly a matter of cash. But I’m not giving her any wiggle room. I’ll get the money, then I’ll get my kids.”
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BIG NUMBERS
“How much?”
“Money you mean?”
“Yes. How much?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. How much?”
“A lot.”
“Come on. How much?”
“I’m not going to say.”
“Yes you are. How much?”
“Fifty-eight thousand.”
72
TWENTY-THREE
Kelly leans close and nibbles the bottom of my ear. A cold
shiver slides down my back. What happened to Gerry’s teary
eyed house mate? The grieving future ex?
“Okay, I’ve got it,” she says. “You help me slip off to
Mexico with two million of Gerry’s bonds, I’ll give you the
fifty-eight thousand as commission for whatever shenanigans
you have to go through. I wish you’d come with me, but I
guess the money will have to keep me warm.”
“Two million? I thought you said ‘a little?’”
She laughs, crinkling her nose like she does. “Stealing is
stealing, right?”
I shrug. “Not if you get caught. Prosecutors tend to use big numbers against you.”
Hours later, while Kelly sleeps, I go on Gerry’s computer,
locate the State of New Jersey internet site my reporter friend in Newark mentioned. I type Gerald Burns into the search
bar, click go.
The site shows Gerry owns many different businesses,
including a construction firm, an importing outfit, pieces of three restaurants, and a land development company. Gerry
Burns’ estate must top twenty million. Not much info I didn’t already know or suspect, but confirming the considerable size of Gerry’s estate helps me think maybe his children won’t
miss a few million in bonds.
Later, lying in bed beside the redhead, I imagine exactly
how I would steal Gerry’s money for her. It’s so simple it’s scary. Forget about those registered securities Kelly found in the safe. All I have to do is forge Gerry’s signature on a few transfer forms, vouch for their authenticity with my friendly back office. Hell, maybe Kelly can even get the sick geezer to sign them. Presto. The securities in Gerry’s account will be 73
BIG NUMBERS
transferred into Kelly Rockland’s account. In whatever value and amount I write on those transfer forms.
And wait. If I made a list of the bonds she found in Gerry’s safe, then swap two million worth of them for new bonds just as the transfer between accounts is taking place, the paper
trail would get extremely complicated. Not untraceable, but
complicated.
It could take a good accountant weeks to put together
what happened. A bad one might never figure it out.
I roll over and hug Kelly’s lilac-scented pillow. What am I
thinking? What the hell’s come over me? Am I really thinking of running away with the redhead?
No way. I’d never leave my kids.
Stealing money from Gerry’s kids and giving it to his
mistress?
I guess I am thinking about that. A little.
Risking my career, maybe jail time for the fifty-eight
grand?
Oh, yeah, I’m definitely considering that.
Too many blows to the head, Austin old boy. You must be
nuts, wacko, and desperate.
Out of recently developed habit, I cinch up the chin strap
on my blue New York Giant football helmet.
Desperate? Who, me?
Ridiculous.
74
TWENTY-FOUR
My daughter Beth tucks perfectly for the final underwater
turn, coiling her ankles, knees, and hips against the pool,
launching herself backward in flawless form, a human bullet
slicing through the water.
When I see her surface forty meters from the finish, her
competitors still engaged in the final turn, I realize my
teenager has won another race. Only the most outrageous
disaster could prevent her from winning now...and it’s not
going to happen.
“Yay, Beth!”
When my vertical leaping concludes, I turn to the quiet
woman standing beside me. Her sandals and sunglasses are
the same shade of bright red, both embedded with
rhinestones. “That’s three wins for my daughter,” I say. “The freestyle, the medley, and now the breast.”
Her lips barely move. Her gaze never leaves the water. “I
don’t talk to men wearing Speedos.”
After the ribbons, awards, and trophies are handed out,
Beth gives me a kiss of recognition as I crowd in close with other well-wishers. I’m safe because although today is Beth’s biggest athletic day yet, her mother is not in attendance.
“Three gold medals and one silver,” I say. “Team MVP.
Individual Meet Champion. Summer League Swimmer of the
Year. Not bad for a pimple-faced teenager with no
boyfriends.”
“Daddy!”
“Oh, you can’t count that skinny kid Michael who calls
the house every night.”
“Daddy!”
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BIG NUMBERS
“I am so proud of you, honey. You’ve worked so hard for
this. And you know I was kidding about the pimples, right? I mean, I don’t see one.”
“How did you know Mom couldn’t come?” Beth says.
“I didn’t know. I just got lucky. When are the state
regionals?”
“Next Sunday. At Brookdale. Are you coming?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for a million dollars.”
“Mom already warned the school. She told them she’s
hiring a
private detective to keep you out.”
“I’ll figure out something. I always do.”
Beth glances at my bare chest, then leans in close to
whisper. “Please don’t wear the Speedos.”
I stroll along the beach a few minutes later, basking in the glow of Beth’s achievements. Wow. It doesn’t get better than this. My daughter wins almost everything. Three out of four
final races. Team MVP. Individual Meet Champion. Swimmer
of the Year.
A seagull squawks in agreement. I loved sports as a kid,
baseball and golf especially, but playing the game is nothing compared to the excitement of watching your children play.
It’s crazy. Your spirit is engaged as if you were running and jumping out there yourself, sure. But your mind watches, too, torn with angst over the potential positive and negative
outcomes. The fear doesn’t go away like it does when you’re
playing. And more fear equals more excitement.
A wave crashes and rolls in, splashing my ankles with cold,
foam-topped sea water. The Speedos worked again, despite
that rhinestone bitch’s haughtiness and my daughter’s teenage embarrassment. I just strolled in from the beach, then walked out afterward like I belong. No one pays any attention to a
guy in Speedos. In fact, everybody’s afraid to pay attention to a guy in Speedos.
My camper’s in the municipal lot, up here another fifty
yards. Past these rocks. I can see my fender now, between the Corvette and the SUV with those...oh, shit...fishing poles.
“Hello, puke.”
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Jack Getze
Psycho Samson’s hand snatches my neck before I can run,
duck, or borrow an Uzi. I am thrown face first into the wet
sand, frozen again by the crushing vise around my neck.
Without lessening his monster grip, Psycho Sam somehow
throws a leg over me and puts his sweaty ass on my back.
God, how humiliating. How painful. He could at least buy me
dinner first.
I hear two kids on skateboards in the parking lot.
But I can’t shout to them. Hell, I can’t even breathe.
The edges of my vision turn dark, then black.
77
TWENTY-FIVE
Cool, white foamy seawater splashes my lips.
I taste salt, dead fish, and sudden shocking, coming-awake
fear. Why can’t I turn from the water? Everything feels
frozen—my feet, my legs, my hands, my arms. Is my neck
broken? All I can do, twist my chin in a range of three or four inches, open my eyes.
Oh. My. God. I struggle madly and ineffectively at
continental-size
restraints.
My
distant
thumping
heart
becomes the epicenter of an eight-point-five earthquake.
Psycho Sam Attica has buried me in the sand, up to my chin
just feet from the surf.
I cry out as more seawater splashes my face.
Waves break just yards away. An army of incoming ocean
swells gathers on my limited horizon, preparing to attack. The cloudless sky is an end-of-the-world steely blue.
The next breaker sends a rush of foam that covers my
mouth and fills my nose. I’m forced to hold my breath.
I don’t know how much time has passed. Ten minutes.
Half an hour. I’ve survived this long by holding my breath as the waves come in, letting the air out underwater so there’s time to grab a new breath when each foamy rush recedes.
This last wave may have done me in. I managed to suck in
half a chest full of air, but the other half was water, and it went down the wrong pipe. I’m choking.
Sweet Jesus.
What’s this? A sideways face? Lips kissing me? Blowing
warm air into my oxygen-starved lungs.
Is that Kelly’s red hair lashing my cheeks?
***
78
Jack Getze
An oxygen mask covers my nose and mouth. I’m flat on
my back, inside an ambulance, strapped to a gurney. The
siren wails.
Kelly’s kneeling beside me. Her bright green eyes twinkle
with delight as my gaze focuses on her.
“I know, I know,” she says. “Three unrelated trips to the
emergency room in four days. I’ve already called Ripley’s.”
“You mentioned your daughter’s swim meet, so I was
looking for you at the club, figured maybe we could grab
some dinner,” Kelly says later. “I waited by your camper for a long time, then I got worried. Two young boys with
skateboards remembered seeing you with a giant. A giant man
and his shovel.”
I have no idea what time it is. I know it’s dark outside the emergency-room window. Feels like I’ve watched the trees
and bushes grow up.
“But I was mostly underwater when you found me.” I say.
“How did you know where to look?”
“Your screams attracted me to the rocks. I heard a sucking
sound, and I saw something strange in the surf.”
“My head?”
“Yes, well, the top. And your ears sticking out.”
79
TWENTY-SIX
The redhead and I do a late dinner. Then I do the redhead.
Not exactly a lengthy and energetic display of affection, but it seems I get the job done.
After, at her condo in front of Jay Leno and the Tonight
Show, Kelly tells me again how she wants a piece of Gerry’s
multi-million dollar estate. How she wants it before Gerry
dies, too, before the lawyers and Gerry’s children start
pecking and clawing at every scrap of meat.
I’m bored with her schemes tonight. Pecked and clawed a
bit too much myself perhaps. Choked and shot at, that’s for
sure. Hit by a car. Thrown onto the asphalt like an empty
beer can. Mugged into a lineup by the police. Buried alive in the sand, left to drown.
I’m pissed is what I am. Pissed and ready for a fight. And I know exactly where I’m going, too. Don’t give a crap who
gets hurt, myself included. The bastards can pick on
somebody else next time.
When Leno’s over and Kelly disappears into the marble
bathroom to take a bedtime shower, I dress and walk past the fake Renoir with a salute, then out the door.
I am compelled to action, not by boredom with Kelly, but
by a strange, unsupportable certainty that my psyche must
fight back to survive.
Nothing makes sense. Rags, Psycho, and my nasty ex-wife
can have no relation to Branchtown Blackie and his minions.
But something powerful tells me my place in a bigger battle is next to Luis.
The yellow police tape is down, but Luis’s Mexican Grill is
still closed, the parking lot empty. I drive around back.
Tucked in beside the semi-permanent, tent-sized green
80
Jack Getze
garbage bin, Luis’s Jeep Cherokee rests neatly hidden from the street.
I need to play my hunches more often.
Parking beside the Jeep, I hop down onto loose gravel. My
shoes scuffle loudly in the silence of the late hour. The traffic on Broad Street is a trickle. Two birds haggle for roosting
space inside a patch of pine near Luis’s back fence. The breeze against my skin blows cool and dry.
The hood of Luis’s Jeep toasts my fingers. He hasn’t been
here more than a few minutes.
I try the kitchen entrance, the one I use when I take a
shower. The door’s open so I slip inside.
The kitchen is long and narrow with an even narrower oak
table extending down the middle. The table’s surface is
covered with pots and pans, stacks of dishes, baskets of
onions, peppers, garlic, and cilantro left out to rot. There are three bare bulbs for light. Only one is on, at the opposite end of the room.
Carefully making my way along the table, I hear voices.
Distant and muffled. I move slower, softening my steps in the dim light, making sure I don’t kick anything loose, knock
stuff off the table. The vegetables smell like garbage.
Under the lighted bare bulb at the far end of the oak table, an open stairway leads down into a cellar. Light filters up a wooden stairway. So do those voices—one loud and strong,
the other not. I check the darkness behind me and take a deep breath.
The door to the shower and dressing room are at the other
end of the kitchen. I’ve never been in this part of the
restaurant before. Never seen these shelves, loaded with paper towels and toilet tissue. Never seen this old, hand-painted
sign, “Maria’s,” leaning against the kitchen wall. Something about the sign or the name seems vaguely familiar, but it can’t be. Everything over here is new, strange.
A wounded groan slithers up from the basement.
This is what I came for, right? To do battle beside Luis? To find out what the hell’s going on with this Blackie character, settle the problem?
I grab another breath and start down the stairs.
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BIG NUMBERS
After three steps, I see a prone and disabled Branchtown
Blackie. Another four steps and my eyes capture the complete picture: Luis stands on a plastic tarp, his right hand holding his switchblade to Blackie’s throat. Only Luis’s tight grip
keeps Blackie’s head off the plastic. Blood and purple bruises color Blackie’s face. If he’s breathing, he doesn’t know it.
Luis’s gaze finds me on the stairs. I expect the tenseness to leave his gaze when he recognizes me, but it doesn’t. His body reminds me of a lion crouched over its captured prey. Staring at me, another adversary, ready to kill again to protect his food.
“What happening?” I say.
Luis blinks and the lion fades from his face. I feel my own
level of tenseness subside. Luis is a scary guy to have mad at you. Acting like a wild animal.
“It is not your concern what happens here,” he says. “You
must go.”
Luis’s words are a command, not a request. He struggles
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 8