with the harsh language, his eyes sad while the tone is more like the lion I saw seconds ago.
But my brain has been working subconsciously, and it now
tells me why Luis and Blackie are both situated on a plastic tarp. If I stick around, I will see Blackie get carved up like a Thanksgiving turkey.
“Did this man kill Cruz?” I ask.
“Leave now,” Luis says. “You have no business here.”
“What are they after, Luis? Tell me and I’ll leave. What do
they want from you?”
Luis drops Blackie’s collar. The man’s head bounces once
off the tarp-covered cement floor like a juicy apple.
My lips part in surprise as the tip of Luis’s switchblade
turns slowly from Branchtown Blackie to point directly at me.
“Leave now, Austin Carr. Leave now or you will be rolled
up in plastic and buried with this pachuko.”
Guess Luis has had enough of my questions.
Maybe he’ll tell me about all this later. Or not. Maybe Luis is actually doing me a big favor by not telling me. Do I really want to be a witness to Blackie being murdered, wrapped up
and thrown away like a bad enchilada? I don’t think so.
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I head back up the stairs.
Sweet Jesus. But I’m on his side. And Luis threatens me?
And what the heck’s a pachuko?
83
TWENTY-SEVEN
Back in Kelly’s condo, I’m ruminating over Luis’s threat to
kill me. This from the hombre I thought was my pal, the man
I share life’s little secrets with? I distinctly heard him say he would wrap me up like a chicken burrito, bury me with the
pachuko.
I’m wondering if pachuko could mean a guy who wears
black. Or who wears a pencil thin mustache. Probably not. Or maybe—and this is just a hunch—maybe a pachuko is an
asshole who acts tough.
Dressing for work, I consider what’s next. That’s the scary
question, isn’t it? What the heck could possibly come along
now and top the long list of crap already happening to me? I know it’s a jinx to even pose the question, but damn, I have to wonder. I mean it’s a question a man has to ask himself when the doo-doo stops falling on his head long enough for
contemplation.
What the hell did I do to deserve all this?
Ah, that’s a baby’s question. Bad stuff happens to people
every damn day. Really bad stuff. Look at Gerry. One day
he’s fine, the next a cancer diagnosis. The question isn’t why me, it’s why not me? Do I imagine I’m so special that bad luck can’t befall me?
You know what. That’s not the real question either. Nope.
The real question is, if a way out has presented itself, why haven’t I chosen that path? Why won’t I do what has to be
done?
Fifty-eight thousand dollars would disassemble the really
bad part of my previously listed complaints. And once I
reacquired a face-to-face relationship with Beth and Ryan, I could deal with Rags, Psycho, and all the St. Louis hospital bonds of this world by finding another job.
I understand Kelly’s desire for Gerry’s money will require
crime. It’s a major drawback to the design. If Gerry’s kids are 84
Jack Getze
only half smart, they’ll check pop’s statements after he dies and find out about any and all large transfers. Once they dig up the paperwork on my little swap and switch, and once they figure out who Kelly Rockwell is, I become a forger who
belongs in jail, or at least Kelly’s criminal accomplice.
That NJ State internet site showed Gerry’s estate probably
tops twenty million. Would his kids really miss two million in bonds? Did they even know about the stuff in Gerry’s safe?
Outside, walking toward my camper, I consider the moxie
it took for Gerry to accumulate that kind of net worth. Think Gerry was scared of a little crime now and then? Doing the
old white collar shuffle when he had to? Makes me wonder
what kind of illegal crap he was into.
On my way to meet Kelly that afternoon, the late
September storm turns Seaside County, New Jersey into a
gloomy and rainy landscape. Thirty-year-old elms and
roadside plantings of fifteen-foot rhododendrons don’t
improve my navigation skills either. Heck, I can hardly see the road, let alone 299 West Ridge Avenue.
Truth is, I should be able to find the place by sticking my
nose out the window and breathing deeply. Stockbrokers are
experienced at smelling fear, and since the place I’m looking for is a hospice, a care center for the terminally ill, the stench of dread should be formidable.
I’m here to see my monster, hopefully acquire his signature
on some transfer papers.
“Looks bad, doesn’t he?”
Kelly understates Gerry’s ghastly appearance. Bad is way
too kind. The poor guy is a freaking cadaver. Pasty gray skin, hair gone, sticky yellow goo oozing from his nose and eyes.
Tubes in every orifice.
The room doesn’t help. The smelly flowers. Drawings and
photographs of clouds. Indian spirit signs and religious
symbols on the yellow walls. Everything pale and eternal.
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BIG NUMBERS
“I don’t think he’s capable of signing those forms,” Kelly
says.
The woman is sharp. “Yes, unconscious is hard to
overcome. You want to sign for him or should I?”
“You’d do that?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“I don’t know. I figured you’d want me to do the signing
part. So you could claim you thought the signature was real.”
“Nobody’s going to believe I wasn’t part of the scheme,
Kelly. There are too many witnesses to our...friendship. Plus there’ll be the fifty-eight grand I came up with on such short notice.”
“Then why are you doing it?”
“The plan is, don’t get caught,” I say. “You’re going to
Mexico, right?”
“Si, senor.”
“Then there are things you’ll need to do when you get
there. I’ll explain and write them down later if you like. But basically you’ll be covering your tracks, making it harder—
hopefully impossible—for Gerry’s kids to find you and get the money back.”
“But what about you?”
“I won’t have anything those kids want. They won’t come
after me unless you’re involved, unless there’s a way they can get Gerry’s missing money. I’m broke.”
“You don’t have to be,” she says.
86
TWENTY-EIGHT
My hasty retreat from the hospice’s premises is delayed by
slow or broken elevators. Six guests and visitors wait for the non-functioning technology, others immediately go for the
stairs. I’m trying to figure the odds when Kelly slides her arm into mine, stands on her tiptoes to whisper in my ear. “Come with me, baby.”
Her breath is warm, moist, and fragrant. Goosebumps
form on my neck. Blood gathers in my crotch. Yes, girls, it’s that easy. “Are you talking about Mexico?” I say. “Or do you know another way out of this roach motel?”
Kelly’s nose wrinkles. Her smile lights up the dim hallway.
“Mexico. Vera Cruz, actually.” She kisses my cheek. “But I
do know where there’s a freight elevator.”
I resist an urge to press her against the wall, give her a
quick hump, and one minute later, after a brisk walk and two ri
ght turns, I’m pushing a big red button with my forefinger.
Another two minutes go by before the squeaky steel doors
slide open.
Kelly and I push inside a work elevator. It’s twice the size of the building’s regular lifts, and the walls are covered with heavy brown padding. This elevator already has two young
men inside, each protecting an apparently empty sheet-draped gurney. What’s that smell?
I’m no expert, but my eyeballs and an accidental bump of
the hip tell me these gurneys are unusually large and heavy.
Are the patients inside instead of on top?
This is a hospice.
“Are we riding with what I think we’re riding?” I ask one
of the white-uniformed young men, a Latin guy with thick
forearms—the kind of health-aid you do not want giving you
a sponge bath.
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The two aids glance at each other. It’s not the Latin guy
who’s going to answer me. It’s his taller buddy. More of a
twinkle in his eye.
“At least they have each other,” the buddy says. “This is a
ride they usually take alone.”
Kelly talks me into an early dinner at Clooney’s. The place
is always crowded, but I say yes because every single
bartender makes a good martini. It must be a Clooney’s secret training tradition. This evening I’m going to have two
Bombay-with-olives; up I think, one for each stiff I rode with on the freight elevator.
Kelly points to a table at beach level, says she wants to
watch the stormy sky through those floor-to-ceiling windows.
Stormy sky, my ass. She wants to parade all the way through
Rick Clooney’s main dining room, see who’s having dinner in
town tonight.
Rick’s a local celebrity, a skinny bald Harvard grad who
got mixed up with the wrong Italians, got arrested, but kept his mouth shut and went to prison for five years to keep his new friends clear. The beachfront restaurant was his coming
home present, and some of his old friends like to drop by now and then for a free lobster. Once a place gets a rep like that in New Jersey, you can’t keep the crowds away. There’s always
the possibility of a shooting or other free entertainment.
Gusty wind greets our arrival at beach level. Beyond the
surf, white caps toss the gray water.
Kelly has something on her mind. I hope it’s not Mexico
again. Can this woman really expect me to run away with
her? I’ve known her less than two weeks. Sure, I like her. The sex is awesome. But the truth is, I wouldn’t leave my kids for Shania Twain, the fantasy love of my life. I mean what the
hell is Kelly thinking?
We’re waiting for our drinks, Kelly saying, “You’d love
Vera Cruz. Gerry took me there on a business trip last year. I just loved the restaurants and beaches, this one nightclub. We went every night for the music. I could have danced my way
down to a hundred and fifteen pounds.”
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Jack Getze
“Feel that Latin beat, do you?” I say.
Her eyes spark. “I like a strong steady rhythm, yes.”
Whew. Sex is like salt and pepper to this woman. She
sprinkles it on everything.
The drinks arrive and I take a big gulp of my martini. The
alcohol stings my mouth and burns my throat on the way
down, churns my stomach when it hits bottom. I take a
second gulp and everything hurts a little less.
“I know what you’re worried about,” Kelly says.
“Worried?”
“You’re concerned about the money. Would I dole it out
in Mexico, put you on an allowance.”
I look up from my martini. “Kelly, I am not worried about
money or Mexico or anything like that. It’s about my
children.”
Her eyes shift from me to the storm outside. “Whatever.
But just so you know, I would be totally dependent on you as far as the money goes. You know what to do with it, how to
hide it, keep it safe. You’d be in charge. It would be like your money, really.”
I finish the martini and decide to try a new approach. I
give her the full-boat Carr grin. “Are you sure you trust me? I mean we’ve only been lovers for what, ten, eleven days? I’ve been a conniving stockbroker more than seven years.”
She smiles. The redhead does think I’m amusing. It’s a
quality in women I like very much.
“In my house that night, I loved the way you looked at the
Renoir,” she says. “It’s the same way I stare at it sometimes when I’m alone. Wanting to be like those people. Happy in
the sunshine.”
I wave at the waiter for another martini. Kelly hasn’t
touched her cosmo. She’s tougher than me, getting used to all these doctors, hospices, stiffs, and the smell of antiseptic. The trappings of death. That little visit to the hospice today was gruesome. I need medication.
Kelly saying, “That Renoir was what I thought my life
would be like when I hooked up with Gerry. But I was wrong.
I had money enough, just no one to enjoy it with. Gerry was
always working.”
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I pick up the menu.
“Oh, I’ll admit I would have stayed with Gerry forever. I
like being pampered, living well. But the man never talked to me, Austin.”
I look up from Clooney’s list of steaks. I haven’t had a
Porterhouse in six months. Lot of mac and cheese, but no
Porterhouse. “And in one week, you know me?”
She shrugs. “We enjoy a lot of the same things—good
food, champagne, art, sex. I think we would enjoy Gerry’s
money together. You share your feelings with me. That’s what I want most.”
My second martini arrives. I enjoy a long, slow, two-
swallow guzzle.
“I’m not saying we’d be together forever,” she says. “I’m
saying it would be good while it lasted.”
Okay, let’s see. On the plus side of this “Do I? Or don’t
I?” ledger is the good sex. The big money. Living in Mexico.
The end of dialing for dollars. No more Rags, Psycho, or end-of-the-month shit swaps.
Wow. That’s a long and strong list of positives.
On the minus side, I would no longer see my kids.
“Sorry, Kelly. There’s just no way.”
90
TWENTY-NINE
“ACCIDENT KILLS SHIP’S MATE”
I’m waiting for Rags to follow me inside his office and
approve Gerry’s transfer papers when my eyes find the above
newspaper headline on Rags’ desk. Hard to miss actually
because the story and the bold, all-caps headline are circled in bright red ink.
I hear Rags coming. There’s only time for a quick peek.
Seems a Branchtown charter boat’s first mate was lost at sea yesterday while attempting to land a two to three-hundred
pound Mako shark. Neither the man, the malfunctioning
equipment—a flying gaff—or the shark were recovered during
an extensive search.
“How’d you like to go fishing next weekend, Carr?”
It’s Rags, swaggering into his office. The sales manager has been all smiles, humming Sousa marches since he ran me
down in his Jaguar.
“You, me, Mr. Vic and one or two of his cronies,” he says.
“We’ll take the Triple-A out, have some fun.”
I stare at Rags, a little c
onfused, not only by the
juxtaposition of this lost-mate story and the fishing offer, but by the strange workings of my sales manager’s mind. Why
would I want to do anything with him? My gaze moves from
Rags’ happy face to the newspaper story.
“Oh, yeah. Can you believe that?” Rags says. “What a
way to go, huh?”
“I don’t understand what happened,” I say.
Rags slides behind his desk-slash-breakfast counter. He
puts a hand on his necktie to keep the silk out of the bagel with cream cheese he’s ready to consume. “Vic says it
happens once and a while with flying gaffs—this big hook
they stick in the fish to bring him on board?”
“I know what a gaff is.”
“Well, with flying gaffs Vic says you stick the hook in,
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BIG NUMBERS
then the handle part comes off and you have the fish on a
thick rope. The mate’s arm must have gotten tangled, or the
damn shark just caught him by surprise.”
My stomach turns sick and sour thinking about that ship’s
mate. Imagine being yanked overboard and towed to your
death by a fish?
Rags points his finger at me. “I get it. You see this story, then I walk in saying let’s go fishing.”
I must look pale. “Pure coincidence no doubt.”
Rags shakes his head. “Sit down, Carr, we need to talk.”
Rags pushes his poppy seed bagel to one side, then plops
into his swivel chair and props his feet up. He’s got on a
charcoal gray suit, white shirt, a black and gold regimental striped tie. He looks good, but the man is evil.
I sit in one of two upholstered, high-back chairs that face
his modestly worn desk. He’s Mr. Vic’s fourth sales manager
in seven years. I find myself staring at the barely scuffed soles of Rags’ new Florsheims.
“Oh, yeah. I forgot,” Rags says. “You’ve got that form
you want me to sign, right?”
“Right here.”
I hand him Gerry’s “Third Party Authorization to Transfer
Funds or Securities Between Accounts” but Rags puts it down
without looking, says, “Let’s get this other thing straightened out first.”
He leans back, makes a tiny A-frame house out of his
hands and fingertips. “Okay, just so you know, here’s what
happened: I read the paper this morning and was curious
about that story, so I circled it, took the paper to Vic, asked him about the flying gaff. When he’s done telling me, Vic asks how you and I are doing, if we’d made peace yet. I told him
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 9