running, but Mr. Vic’s always been square with me. He just
saved me from Psycho. Mr. Vic could need help badly.
I step back from the doorway and pick up the telephone.
The numbers glow. I press 9-1-1. When the operator asks
who’s calling, I give her Vic Bonacelli’s name and address. In case I decide later I don’t want to be here.
Describing Vic’s twisted face and torso, the crash of
breaking glass and pounding footsteps interrupts my
conversation. What the hell’s going on now?
The operator saying, “Sir?”
“Hang on a minute.”
103
THIRTY-THREE
I peek around Shore’s door jam. The pounding feet belong
to Psycho Sam. He’s barreling down Shore Securities’ long
center hallway, dragging Mr. Vic’s limp body behind him like a super-sized trash bag. Beyond Sam, Mr. Vic, and the lighted sales floor, I make out two uniformed Branchtown policemen
knocking down the front entrance.
Thank you, ringing telephone. My 9-1-1 call hasn’t had
time to register. Shore’s security company must have phoned
the cops when no one answered.
My heart doesn’t stop hammering the inside of my ribcage,
but the associated chest pain eases. My lungs suck a gasping breath.
Sam’s huge feet springboard him down the hall. A police
cruiser parked out front somewhere flashes red and blue lights behind Sam’s super-size head and shoulders, fantasizing his
appearance into a creature out of Marvel Comics.
Jesus, he’s scary big and athletic. Psycho Sam, the Captain
of Crazy. At first my gut told me to run. Now it says hide, fall back and let the cops try to prevent Psycho from fleeing with his captive. But damn. If there’s a chance Mr. Vic’s in urgent need of care, I have to stop this disappointed investor right here.
What I need is on the kitchen sideboard, and I trade the
telephone in my hand for a jar of Hazelnut-flavored coffee
creamer. The glass container feels full, heavy as a two-pound hammer.
Sam’s too close to glance around the corner again. But
judging his approach by the sound of his footsteps, the
tremble of wood beneath Shore’s waterproof kitchen carpet, I mentally picture whacking a falling oak tree with coffee
additive, then prepare to repeat the suicidal move for real.
Mr. Vic and I desperately need this glass jar inserted hard into Sam’s path. Preferably about chin high.
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Jack Getze
I gasp for air like a vacuum cleaner. My heart rate’s
already at maximum, but now the associated chest pain
returns. My timing better be optimal, my aim perfect. For
additional incentive, I quickly list the numerous injuries
suffered under Psycho’s hands: Compacted spinal disks, flayed skin on hands and knees, a newly acquired psychological fear of wet sand.
I swing the jar of coffee additive around the kitchen
corner. The collision shatters the glass, rips at my shoulder, throws up a cloud of white powder, and slams me against the
opposite side of the door jam. Did I hit Psycho Sam? Or a
twelve-car commuter train?
I sink to my haunches, stunned, seeing double through a
snowy mist of Hazelnut dust.
105
THIRTY-FOUR
Psycho Sam is all the way down, face and belly turned
skyward on Shore’s carpet. His glassy eyes reflect the
flashlight beams of the Branchtown police officers. Blood
flows from multiple cuts around Sam’s mouth and chin.
The cops advance carefully. After a few kicks, as if they
were checking a rabid dog they’d just shot, one of the
patrolmen snaps on handcuffs.
Psycho Sam woke up as the cops tried to wrestle him into a
Branchtown black and white, and now, five minutes later, the poor bastards are still trying. A handful of neighbors have
come outside to watch, and I don’t blame them. It’s quite a
show. Like trying to put a feral cat in a coffee can for a return trip to the pound.
I’m standing in Shore’s parking lot, watching this post-
midnight circus because I told the cops I needed some fresh
air. Lucky me. I’m fighting nausea and squeezing a wad of
paper towels in my palm to control the bleeding.
For his encouraging and growing street audience, Sam
tosses off two cops, jams his head back out the car window,
fights off fists, batons, and a choke hold to make sure we all see his bloody face. He yells at me. “I’ll be back, puke. To snap your chicken neck.”
I stir another teaspoon of real sugar into my artificially
creamed Maxwell House. Chemical fortification. I’m worried
about Mr. Vic, exhausted to the point my camper sounds
alluring, and Branchtown Detective Jim Mallory is so not
finished sucking my energy.
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Jack Getze
“Okay, Carr, give me your bullshit story one more time,”
Mallory says. “Start with why you gave Vic Bonacelli’s name
to the 9-1-1 operator.”
We’re still at Shore Securities, the scene of the crime.
Mallory and I plus a bald uniformed Branchtown sergeant
named Towson are seated at Shore’s round kitchen table
finishing the pot of coffee I made. If I lean back six inches, my right hip brushes the paper shredder.
“I told 9-1-1 it was Vic being attacked,” I say.
“I heard the tape, Carr. She asked who was calling, you
said Vic Bonacelli.”
It’s almost sun-up. My eyelids feel like stone paperweights.
“If I did, Jim, it was a mistake. I was looking at Vic with his head on backward. Maybe I got confused.”
Mallory doesn’t believe me. Screw him. Lots of people
make errors in that kind of situation, can’t remember details.
Let him prove I did it on purpose.
“And you were dressed like a burglar because...”
My hand has been cleaned and bandaged by the EMT
guys. They said I needed a couple of stitches, but I opted for the butterfly bandages. “George Clooney, I think. One of
those caper movies.”
“What?”
“Fashion, Detective. George Clooney wore all black in this
movie a few years ago. Presto, the all-black thing was
fashionable again. Me, I’m always behind, like most of the
American public. Heck, I was still wearing that Sonny
Crockett, white jacket, pastel T-shirt thing at the company
fish fry last summer.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Carr. But tell me
that other bullshit story, the one where it’s three o’clock in the morning, you’re dressed in solid black, including black
sneakers, and you decide to come by Shore Securities
because...”
I slurp my coffee. “I couldn’t remember if I had an
appointment in the morning or not. I live close by.” I point with my thumb toward the parking lot.
Mallory shakes his head, no. “You’re lying, Carr. You lied
to me at the hospital when you said you didn’t see a weapon
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in Vic’s hands, and you’re lying now. You were here to burgle Shore Securities, weren’t you?”
“I have a key, Detective. Look. Right here on my chain. I
even know the pass code, Vic’s birthday. Eight-twenty-one,
nineteen-forty-nine. I don’t need to wear
black to burgle
anything in this building.”
“You and Bonacelli meet a lot at night?”
“We’ve been lovers for years.”
“I’ve heard stranger.”
“Screw you.”
Jim’s partner, Eagle Scout, glides into the room with a
message for the long wild hairs in Detective Mallory’s right ear. I watch Mallory’s face as he listens, but there’s no tell in the eyes like before, no change in the line of the lips, no
muscle twitch in the jaw or neck. Maybe the Eagle Scout just lined up breakfast.
When his partner pulls away, Mallory glances at me.
“Your boss is doing well.”
“Mr. Vic’s alive?”
“That’s the word. Go see him if you want, but stick close
to home, case I have more questions later. Maybe when I
figure what you were planning to steal.”
I dump my coffee in the kitchen sink. “I am home,
remember? I live in the yellow camper out back.”
108
THIRTY-FIVE
Straight Up Vic’s in one fine mood for a guy who had his
neck turned in circles like a rotisserie chicken. They’ve
installed Mr. Vic in one of those car-wreck neck braces. His dark brown hair is combed, and his wife must have brought
him clothes because he’s wearing a flashy blue and gold
Hawaiian shirt, black silk pajama bottoms, and a pair of
deerskin slippers. The grin on his lips tells me his wife also brought him a bottle.
Or maybe he’s thinking God smiled on him. Getting up
close and personal with Psycho Sam Attica almost gave me
religion, and Vic was already a practicing Catholic. Something must have been watching over him. Sam tried to break his
neck and missed. That’s a freaking miracle.
“They tell me it was the football training saved my life,”
Mr. Vic says. “The beefed-up neck. But I figure the real hero was you and that jar of hazelnut coffee creamer. Thanks,
Austin.”
He laughs the whole time I’m pulling up a chair.
Five minutes later Rags strolls in, Dapper Dan in a light-
weight tan summer suit, white shirt, and yellow tie. He’s
smiling until he sees me, then his lips shrink and his eyebrows bunch. That nutty blister in his eye gets nuttier; the man truly hates me.
“What’s he doing here?” Rags says. He’s pointing at me,
of course. “He’s the one responsible for your injuries!”
“Take it easy,” Vic says. “That crazy guy Attica put me
here, not Austin.”
“He’s Carr’s client,” Rags says.
The words come spitting out, especially my name, and
there’s an unfamiliar shrillness in them. Uncontrolled. There is something very wrong with Tom Ragsdale today. There’s
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saliva on his lips, and like static electricity, I feel his malice charge the air. Must be off his meds.
“Carr should control his customers,” Rags says.
I’m facing the hospital room’s side wall, an unadorned
slate of pale yellow except for a poster-size dry-marker board hanging at eye level. Pre-painted squares list Vic’s nurses, therapists, and meals for the next three days. The meat loaf with fresh peas and mashed potatoes sounds good tonight.
Maybe I’ll stick around.
“True,” I say. “Ideally, I could keep Sam calm.”
“See,” Rags says. “He admits it!”
“Also ideally,” I say, “Shore Securities wouldn’t sponsor
sales contests and pay extra commission on bonds that default in a year. I’ve already heard of six lawsuits.”
Vic knows I’m right. He says nothing. But Rags’ gaze turns
shiny and hot. Out there. The saliva on his lips begins to
bubble and foam. I wonder why Vic and his daughter
Carmela never noticed this craziness before. To me and most
other Shore salesmen, Rags’ shortage of sanity has been
obvious a long time.
Of course, I’m prejudiced. I hate the bastard.
Rag’s right hand slides into his coat pocket. What’s he
have in there? Adrenalin pumps through me. His hand clears
the pocket, showing us that his fingers are wrapped around a snub-nose revolver. My heart races, each pump bringing the
gun into sharper focus. I can’t believe he wants to shoot me.
Mr. Vic’s snatch-move from the bed is quick, grabbing
Rags’ wrist, pushing the revolver back inside Rag’s pocket.
Vic has stretched out his body as well as his hand to grab
Rags, making it easy now for Vic to use his weight keeping
Rags’ arm tied up.
I travel quickly around the bed and wrestle the gun from
his fingers.
Mr. Vic makes a call, then sends me to Sea Bright to dump
Rags’ gun from the Highway 36 bridge. I drive over the
Navasquan River, like Mr. Vic said, but I keep the gun. Might come in handy if Psycho Sam comes for me again.
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Jack Getze
When I get back to the hospital half an hour later, Rags
has left. Vic is sleeping.
“Where did Rags go?” I say.
Vic rubs his eyes. “Rags is on his way to the marina. He
and Carmela are going to take a vacation, use my boat to
motor out to the Hamptons, spend a week or two docked at a
friend’s cottage.”
I pull up a chair, “You think that’s all Rags needs? Rest?”
“I’m hoping,” Vic says. “What do you think he needs?”
I shake my head. “A lobotomy.”
I’m on my way out when Detective Jim Mallory fills the
doorway, motions for me to sit down. My heart picks up
tempo again thanks to the bulge in my back pocket and the
loud bump Rags’ revolver makes hitting the chair.
“I’m going to be putting an armed guard outside this
room,” Mallory says. “And Carr, you can park your camper
at the police station if you like. The desk sergeant will show you where. I’ve already spoken to him.”
“Why now?” Vic says. “There’s hasn’t been a guard on me
all morning.”
Detective Mallory lifts a fist to his mouth and coughs.
“Sam Attica escaped.”
111
THIRTY-SIX
Kelly and I spread her newly delivered bonds like a giant
map of the United States. State of California general
obligations on the extreme left, New York City G.O.s in the
upper right edge, Iowa, Kansas, and Louisiana IOUs smack in
the middle.
It’s a fortune in green, rose, and earth-toned parchment,
each one a federally tax-free municipal bond registered in the name of Kelly Rockland. On the bid side, each piece of paper is worth between one and two hundred thousand. Two-point-two million, all total.
Broadcast before us like this, the securities pretty much
conceal Kelly’s antique French dining table except for a spot near the faux Canadian border where Kelly and I made room
for a Sterling silver ice bucket. Neither of us wants to keep getting up for the champagne.
“How much is here?” Kelly says.
Shall I give her face value, today’s bid value, or the retail price she paid when I earned a commission on the purchase
side? Each number requires considerably detailed and
overlapping explanation.
Kelly saying, “They sure don’t look valuable. More like a
collection of old deeds...just paper...one match and poof.”
&
nbsp; What a thought. “Easy, girl. That paper’s worth almost
two and a half-million dollars.”
“I thought you said Gerry’s bonds were worth two-point-
three million?”
“Two and a half face, two-point-three in current market
value.” Two-point-two on the bid, actually, the one hundred
thousand difference being my and Shore’s commission.
The blank look on Kelly’s face makes me grin. Or maybe
it’s the champagne. I’m starting to forget about Rags, Psycho Sam, and my pain-wracked body. Starting to enjoy myself.
Kelly will be gone soon. I’ll miss her, the great sex, the
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Jack Getze
restaurants. But I’ll have my fifty-eight thousand plus thirty-six percent of the one hundred thousand commission. A little salary for all my hard work.
I’ll be able to pay off the ex-wife, rent a new apartment.
The courts will then lift the restraining order. Beth and Ryan will once again come for weekend visits.
“Two-point-five is what the bonds are worth when they
mature,” I say. “Two-point-three is what you paid on the
open market.”
She blinks once. Twice. That dull blank look is still there. I know the gaze well. I’ve been selling stocks and bonds for
seven years. Everybody gets that face when I try to explain
why bond yields and prices move in opposite directions.
“Pretend I’m holding two bonds, Kelly, one that pays four
percent interest a year and a second bond that pays five
percent. Which one do you want?”
“The one that pays five percent.”
“Of course. So does everyone else. That’s why one bond
can be worth more than another in the open market. The
bonds with old interest rates fall or rise in value to match the current yield market.”
Kelly offers me her champagne glass for a refill. “I get it.
So Gerry has at least some bonds in the portfolio whose
interest rates are below market?”
“You catch on fast.”
Her smile crunches up her nose. “Oh, I still have a few
questions.”
She opens another bottle of Bollinger, saying, “So if these
bonds are registered to me, why won’t Gerry’s kids track me
down and serve me with an injunction? It doesn’t matter
where I am, right, the bank that collects and mails the bond interest is in the United States?”
I love the shiny little bubbles in my champagne. But they
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 11