Come on, Father Paul, hurry up. Kelly’s looking at me like
I’m mumbling out loud again. These people may be gathered
for Gerry Burns’ last rites, but this graveyard party’s starting to feel like my funeral.
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“Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the
spirit shall return unto God who gave it.”
We all recite the Lord’s Prayer. When that’s over, Father
Paul gives a nod. Kelly and Gerry’s two grown children pick
roses from the supply provided, toss one each on the coffin, then join the kids’ spouses and children. The family seems
very friendly with Kelly.
My feet find an out-of-the-way patch of plastic grass, and I check faces as people pass. Some drop a rose on Gerry’s
coffin, others don’t. There’s a small contingent of mourners not coming down from the shade of that oak tree. A dozen or
so men...
Those guys in the sunglasses look familiar. That one beefy
dude’s wearing a plastic cord underneath his collar and an ear piece. The Feds? Hell yes, there’s Special Agent Tomlin.
My palms grow clammy.
What is this? A cop convention? Just to the left of Tomlin,
I see Detective Mallory of the Branchtown force and the Eagle Scout that always—
Oh. My. God.
It’s Rags. Back up under the blood-sucking oak tree, a
camera around his neck. He’s supposed to be sailing for the
Hamptons on Mr. Vic’s Triple-A, but instead he tried to visit Burns at the hospice, and now he’s sneaking into Gerry’s
funeral, still trying to prove my bond transfer was wrong.
Maybe catch me and Kelly in a lip-lock with the camera.
I especially hate it that Rags is one-hundred-percent correct about the bond transfer. First time Rags has been right about anything since he weaseled the sales manager’s job.
Look at that. This whole scene is surreal. Behind Rags,
checking out Kelly and Gerry’s kids, there’s Blackie’s pal, the guy who used to have a goatee. He’s clean shaven now but I
recognize the gold chains. What the hell reason could he have for being here? Following us before? Revenge for Blackie’s
death? Or just a desire to finish that fight with me and Luis?
It’s a bad dream, this funeral. There’s no logic. I can’t
make sense of it. Like there’s some big joke everybody knows but me.
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Maybe I could pitch this tale to Hollywood as a new
reality TV show. Which villain will successfully destroy
Austin Carr under the spreading arms of this vampire oak
tree? Rags? Blackie’s pal? The cops? Hell, Psycho Sam must
be around here, too. Somewhere.
In my proposal, I’ll call the show Roots of Evil.
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FORTY
The monster oak can’t follow, so the nightmarish quality
of Gerry’s burial stays behind when we leave the graveyard.
Thank God. Unfortunately, the ugly realities—Tomlin,
Mallory, Rags, and Blackie’s pal who used to wear a goatee—
can and do tail us out of the parking lot.
Our limousine leads a longer procession away from Holy
Trinity’s churchyard than we did arriving. The one piece of
good news: I haven’t seen Psycho Sam’s dirty Mariner SUV.
“Where’s the driver taking us?” I say. “Back to the hotel?”
“Unless you wanted to go for a drink,” Kelly says.
I shake my head, no. “It’s just that we have company.” I
nod my head toward the back window.
I watch Kelly turn to look. A feeling comes out of
nowhere, some crazy response to stress and fear, I guess. I
want to kiss the nape of Kelly’s perfumed neck. Right where
the wispy red hairs grow wild and long.
“Who’s following us?” she says.
“The Feds from last night, that Branchtown Detective, Jim
Mallory. And I think I saw my sales manager’s Jaguar back
there as well.”
“All three of them? Why?”
“Who knows? And there’s actually a fourth car behind
that, I think. I was in a fist fight with some guys last week at Luis’s Mexican Grill. One of them—”
Kelly saying, “I don’t care about your fights, your sales
manager, or that hump local sheriff. But I sure as hell don’t want that bastard Tomlin getting his hands on my bonds.”
I like the bonds used to be Gerry’s, but now they’re Kelly’s.
She stole them fair and square. Finders keepers, losers
weepers. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. What’s mine is mine, what’s yours is ours. People have a million excuses for crime.
“Did you put those puppies in the hotel safe?” I ask.
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“They’re in the trunk. The green airline carry-on.”
“And my money?”
“It’s in the carry-on with the bonds,” Kelly says. “Fifty-
eight thousand, cash.”
I take a long breath. It’s going to be lots of fun seeing my ex-wife’s happy face when I pay her what I owe. It’s going to be positively wonderful to play again with my children. “We
should get our stuff from the hotel, then lose these cops.”
“Or just buy new clothes in Mexico,” she says. She grins at
me. “I’m think I’m going to miss having a hot tub right in our room.”
I pat her arm. Strange priorities, this redhead. Me, I’m
worried about the Feds pulling us over, finding the bonds and the money, locking us up. “You’re not leaving town until
tomorrow, right?” I ask.
“Eight-thirty in the morning.”
“Do you want to check in to another hotel? I guess you
could stay with me in the camper. It’s smelly, but cozy.”
“My stewardess friend Betty lives near the airport. I’ve
made arrangements to stay with her. She said there’s plenty of room for you, too.”
Do I need another night of hot sex? “Or I could drop you
off. Maybe we should say our goodbyes tonight.”
The redhead shows me a world-class pout. Her lower lip
must be sticking out two inches. “It’s our last night. I wanted another chance at talking you into coming to Vera Cruz with
me.”
Now she loses the pout, gives me the full-boat Kelly smile,
wrinkles around the nose. “It’s not too late, you know.”
I knew this was coming. Funny thing is, right now some
little voice inside is saying yes, go with her. I guess a small piece of me feels like running away.
Bet I know which piece.
I sigh out loud. Would my kids be better off in the long
run if I wasn’t around, confusing them about “normal” and
“broken” families? Struggling with this divorced father crap the way I do can’t be a good example for Ryan. Beth either.
What crap? “I can’t leave my kids, Toots. We’ve been over
this.”
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“Just a week. Come with me, stay five or six days even,
then I’ll put you back on a plane myself, send you home to
Ryan and Beth.”
Maybe the time to disappoint her would be after I put that
fifty-eight thou in my pocket. “Let’s ditch these cops, then we’ll talk about it.”
The redhead’s still grinning at me. Waiting, confident.
Knowing I’m going to fix this police tail like I’ve fixed
everything else—t
he cash, the safe, the transfer, the follow-up details in Mexico.
The only thing I can’t fix is me.
“Let me have your cellphone,” I say.
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FORTY-ONE
We brake to a stop. Kelly hands the limo driver five one
hundred dollar bills for the day’s work. The money’s crisp
and new, and I watch the driver’s ruddy thick fingers encircle the cash with a certain tenderness. I understand. I haven’t had my hands on that much money since Susan won the
attachment on my paychecks.
Special Agent Tomlin’s black Chevy Suburban slides to the
curb a hundred yards behind us. I see Rags’ Jag and the Chevy Impala belonging to Mr. Former Goatee behind Tomlin.
Mallory’s Crown Victoria must be stuck at a light.
I tell the chauffeur how we want to play it and he pops the
trunk for me. Kelly and I climb leisurely into the sunshine. I take my time lifting the green carry-on, too. Oh, boy, does it feels heavy.
On a carefully coded, prearranged queue, both Kelly and I
will drop the relaxed attitude and execute Plan A. Run like
hell. I’ve got the suitcase in one hand, the redhead in the
other.
“Now,” I say.
We scurry up concrete steps into a theater lobby. It’s
Saturday afternoon. The place is hopping with kids at
matinees, boys and girls wrestling, giggling, and running
circles around two dozen stressed-looking adults.
The smell of buttery popcorn tempts my nose. We hurry by
movie posters on the wall, six-by-four-foot teasers for
upcoming big-screen attractions. Space ships. Super heroes.
Sexy women. Lots of guns and pointy things. A child wails
down the dark hall of viewing rooms.
At the back of the lobby, Kelly and I push through red-
trimmed glass doors and dump the theater crowd for the food
court. The smell of pizza, burgers, and soy sauce blends into a heady, hunger-producing cloud.
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BIG NUMBERS
I chose the theater lobby as our starting point because it
serves as an entrance to Seaside County’s largest mall.
I use the cellphone once more deep inside the shopping
center. Five minutes, the man tells me.
Damn. Kelly and I have to kill more time without getting
spotted. I saw Special Agent Tomlin once, when he and three
associates first pushed through the red trimmed glass doors
and looked for us in the food court. The redhead and I were
in the middle of a crowd, just leaving the food area, and I
don’t think Tomlin or his men could have seen us, Federal
agents or not.
However, since there are only four ways out of that food
court, I figure Tomlin and his men split up, took one route
each, and whichever one was assigned to the lucky trail—past the Verizon store, then left toward the restaurants—well, that guy is no more than ninety seconds, two minutes behind us.
We’ve got to keep moving, and we have to stay out of open
areas where he might see us.
God knows where Rags, Mallory, and Mr. Former Goatee
are. Probably following Tomlin.
I pull Kelly and the green carry-on through as many
crowded spaces as possible, including two wide-open
restaurants and a noisy bar with the Mets game blasting. The Yankees must have been rained out.
Tomlin or his man will have to check every face in these
crowds before moving on. I figure each busy establishment
gives us an extra sixty seconds.
I get an idea. We’re right where I wanted to be, at the
mall’s north entrance, near a Mexican joint I tried once but never went back because the food sucked. But instead of
walking outside, looking for the taxi I called, I pull Kelly inside the Go Gonzales restaurant.
A young woman of high school age offers to seat us. I say
great, could we have something close to the kitchen.
“Excuse me?”
“The kitchen. We love the smells.”
The hostess throws me an “Okee-dokee, dummy” look,
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Jack Getze
grabs two menus, and heads off through a rather surprisingly loaded restaurant. Geez, look at all the people eating this
crap. What the hell do New Jersey people know about chili
Colorado and carnitas?
At our table, I pretend to fuss with the suitcase, Kelly with her purse. Eventually the hostess leaves. We are not here to eat. I nod to the redhead and we push through stainless steel saloon doors into a hot kitchen. Must be eight, ten guys
running around like crazy in here, all with towels on their
heads, rags tied around their wrists. They’re too busy to show us anything but curious glances.
I spot the back screen door and push Kelly toward it, then
all the way outside. Through the open door, I can see the
same giant circular mall parking lot in which we left the limo.
Due to our lengthy walk through the shopping center,
however, we’re now on the opposite side, maybe half, three-
quarters of a mile away from the theater.
I walk through the door behind Kelly, but the suitcase
catches on a thick rubber threshold, and I have to stop, turn, and free it. Sure hope that taxi I called is where I told him to be. Five minutes should be up.
The redhead screams.
I look up and gasp. It’s Psycho Sam. He’s got Kelly by the
neck.
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FORTY-TWO
When the nut job sees me, Psycho Sam flings Kelly to the
pavement like a ketchup-stained napkin. The redhead
crumples on the asphalt, limp and motionless. My heart
catches, then warps to fast forward. Did he break her neck?
The redhead groans, pushes up on one hand. Thank God.
She sits, coughs, lifts a hand to her throat. I know she’ll be okay when she begins to sniffle.
Psycho Sam’s coming at me like a guy who used to play
football for Notre Dame. Arms wide, weight evenly
distributed so he’s balanced and ready to spring whichever
way I run.
Sorry, Sam. I’m not running this time.
I snap Rags’ Smith & Wesson out of my inside coat pocket and point it at the big man’s nose. I’m so pissed what he’s
done to Kelly, I almost pull the trigger. Almost. I don’t think I’d have much trouble convincing a jury I thought my life was in danger.
“Think that pea-shooter’s gonna stop me?”
“One in the head, one in the heart might slow you down.”
“You ain’t good enough to hit my heart, and my brain’s
even smaller than that. Ha, ha, ha.”
Actually, Sam might have a point. Not concerning the size
of his organs, but my ability to prevent his advance. Thirty-eights aren’t really known for their major stopping power,
and this three-hundred-pound maniac might need more
caliber than average. Like a Cruise missile.
How did Mr. Vic talk him down that day? All Mr. Vic had
was a .38.
Don’t remember. But I do remember what Psycho Sam’s
gorilla-like hands feel like around my throat. I make an
impulsive and startling decision. Even I’m surprised when
words of surrender flow from my mouth.
“No need for violence, Sam. I’ve got your money.”
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Jack Getze
He frowns. Sam’s chest is maybe five feet from mine. Big
as a barn d
oor. Hell, I probably could shoot him in the heart from here. But am I really going to kill this man—any man—
for fifty-eight thousand dollars? Money that’s not even mine?
My finger eases off the trigger.
“Did you say you got my money?” Sam asks. “All fifty
thousand?”
“In the green suitcase. Every dollar.”
“Let’s see,” he says.
“I can’t believe you gave that man your money,” Kelly
says.
“Me either.”
The taxi showed up as we were unzipping the suitcase. We
tossed Sam’s money on the ground, had the taxi driver bring
us to my camper, and now Kelly’s nestled in beside me in the front seat. She looks wildly out of place in her funeral dress and jacket, that hat and hair-do. We’re on our way to her
friend’s house near the airport.
“Why did you give him the extra eight thousand?” Kelly
says. “You said he only lost fifty.”
“Interest. Mental anguish. I wasn’t going to argue at that
point. He wanted to count.”
“Just so you know, I don’t have that much cash left,” Kelly
says. “I can’t give you any more, at least now.”
“It’s better this way. I didn’t have to kill anybody, and
we’re both still alive. He was absolutely right, you know.
There’s no guarantee a couple of bullets would have stopped
Psycho Sam.”
“I guess I could send you some money from Mexico,” she
says.
I take Kelly’s directions and turn off the Jersey Turnpike
one exit south of Liberty Newark airport and head east into
an industrial area of rusted buildings and abandoned dock
property. We’re approximately forty-five miles north of
Branchtown, across the Hudson River from New York City.
“Better yet,” she says, “I’ll pay you another fifty-eight
thousand if you come to Mexico with me.”
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Now there’s an offer. My mind starts working on that, and
a question just pops out before I consider all the
ramifications. “How long would I have to stay?”
Oops. That didn’t come out right. The words play harsh
even on my stockbroker’s ears.
“Forget it,” she says.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean that the way it
sounded.”
Big Numbers (Austin Carr Mystery Book 1) Page 13