there. Or my esophagus is playing host to a polka party for
June bugs and beetles.
“Who do you think’s going to hear your whimpering
pleas?” Gerry says. “Flipper?”
Nice guy, this Gerry Burns. A warm-hearted individual
spreading cheer and goodwill wherever he goes. Probably
works weekends with handicapped children. Reading them
Harry Potter. The son-of-a-bitch. Stoke that anger, Austin. It may come in useful later on when you need to get physical.
“Do your kids know you’re alive, Gerry? Those kids and
grandkids I saw at your funeral? Or are you ditching them
along with the IRS?”
His footsteps clamber down the stairs and approach my
bunk. Suddenly I can see him as he squats beside me, shows
me his face. I smell gin on his breath. Malice flickers behind his glacier-blue eyes. I see my monster’s right fist holds
something shiny as the hand rises beside me, punches my left cheekbone.
Pain explodes behind my eyes. My blurred vision fills with
dots and neon-bright red and green spirals.
Something builds a wall around my consciousness with
coffin-size black bricks.
Sharper pain wakes me up, a searing burning heat on my
right arm. Jesus. I’m on fire.
My body convulses in reaction, flailing against the
bulkhead. I’m gasping for breath as my eyes open.
Gerry’s kneeling beside me, smoking a cigar, the
circumference of which perfectly matches the round, still-
smoking ashy wound on my right forearm. The pain cuts
across every nerve in my body.
“Oops,” he says.
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My nose gets a whiff of my own crisped flesh, flipping my
stomach like an Asian virus. I wretch a tablespoon of clear
bile onto the yellow bedcover.
Gerry saying, “You were so busy thinking about Kelly’s
pussy, the money, the fact that you might not have to sell
stocks and bonds anymore, you never even considered your
new girlfriend could have another motive.”
I hate it when guys I hate are right.
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FORTY-SIX
A crackling sizzle scratches quietly at my ears. The smell of burning raw meat snaps open my eyes, gooses the heart rate.
What the hell’s cooking, me? Another flesh-branding session
with the Cigar Meister?
I shake my foggy, throbbing head and try to focus on the
movement I sense close by. Oh, my. Look at my redheaded
Jersey Jezebel doing the dance domestic there in front of the miniature stove, frying up some dinner inside a twelve-inch
pan. Poking at the hissing meat with a flaming red spatula.
I don’t remember Kelly coming back down the stairs.
Could I have been daydreaming? Or coming in and out of
consciousness? The pain in my forearm is so bad I can’t
believe sleep was involved. The burning sensation is still there.
“Hi, Austin,” she says. “I thought you were going to sleep
through dinner.”
Well that answers that question. Some people get going
when the going gets tough. Me, Austin Carr, I like to pass
out. The KO-Kid.
Jezebel’s changed into designer jeans and a V-necked forest
green sweater, white deck shoes. I can’t think of anything to say. Can’t decide if I want to call the redhead names, pump
the bitch for information, or just stare like Dickhead of the Year at those bra-less bouncing jugs under the green sweater.
Complicating my decision is the memory of those luscious
bare breasts and the white bow she’s wearing now in her hair.
The bow really makes me hot.
“Not talking to me?” she says.
I grunt, still unable to make a decision.
“I cleaned up that burn for you,” she says. “Put Neosporin
on it.”
Gee, Kelly, that’s wonderful. So nice I have a friend like
you. Really appreciate the caring concern. In fact, I’m getting 146
Jack Getze
a little love-glow all over thinking about how generously
you’ve been taking care of me.
Although now that I consider all the facts of our
relationship, seems to me I did an even bigger number on
myself. Hell, I remember feeling pity figuring Jezebel as the poor, over-taxed nurse.
An astute observer of the human condition, that’s me.
Austin Carr. A professional people reader. Trained by
telephone sales as a master supplier of people’s inner desires.
Full-boat grin my ass. An infamous, a full-boat Carr fuck-up is what I am.
The clue should have been, as it always is, that the redhead gave me a boner. When will I learn this simple lesson? Never ever make decisions with a hard-on. Were I King, boys would
be taught this important subject as early as the fifth grade.
Whenever it came up, so to speak.
Jezebel spins away from the stove, wiggles closer to my
bunk. She clenches that red plastic spatula in her dainty right fingers like it’s a sword, or a magic wand. Is she going to cast a spell, or whack me?
“Look, Austin. I understand you’re mad. But I’m a
working girl. I’ve been collecting paychecks from Gerry for
twelve years, longer than Luis. Part of that two million in
bonds you swiped from his account is my retirement bonus.
You want to call me nasty names, feel free. Get it out of your system, especially if it makes you feel better. Nothing you say is going to bother me one little bit.”
“Fuck you.”
I didn’t plan such a lame curse. Like a wake-up morning
hard-on, my banal epithet just popped out there all on its
own. Dickhead independence.
Kelly smiles. “Oh, Austin. You’re so articulate.”
“Fuck you.”
She bounces back to her pan of frying meat, which I decide
must be cheeseburgers as I see on the tiny counter a package of round sesame seed buns and slices of Kraft American, fresh tomato, red onion, and lettuce. The redheaded bitch is
probably planning a little survivor’s picnic as they watch me drown.
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Kelly saying, “I don’t know if I can stand any more of this
witty, urbane dialogue, Mr. Carr. Maybe you should just stop sugar coating it, tell me how you really feel.”
She throws her head back and laughs. Her eyes shut and
her red hair shakes the way it does when my Jersey Jezebel
makes love.
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FORTY-SEVEN
I take a slow breath. Scary feelings grip me. I want to
choke Kelly and kiss her at the same time.
There’s some kind of physical pull on me I didn’t fully
understand until this very minute, a feeling I’ve had before in my life, but only two or three times. The “magnet thing,” I
call it. Jezebel’s drawing me to her like a circling tether ball around the pole.
Can’t believe I didn’t feel this before. Or maybe she always did this to me and I was too distracted with all the other crap going on in my miserable life—losing my visitation rights,
Rags, Psycho, poor Cruz.
Damn. These feelings do not bode well for my million-to-
one shot at survival. Come on, Austin. Lose the emotion, use this time alone with her.
Jezebel reaches for a king-size, red and yellow bag of
potato chips, rips at the packaging, pours the
contents into an orange mixing bowl.
More than sizzling burgers, the crisp whisper of tumbling
fresh potato chips makes me want to share in their dinner.
Can’t believe I’m hungry. Wonder if I’ll be alive when the
chips are served.
I take another long breath. “How come Gerry’s so pissed
at me? I understand using me for the transfer like you guys
did, but I don’t quite fathom the torture part.”
“That’s better,” Kelly says. “Finally starting to get a grip, are we?”
“Come on. What the hell did I do?”
She shrugs. “He wasn’t planning on burning you, I’m sure.
He told me you said something nasty about his children.”
His children? “I asked him if his kids knew he was still
alive. That’s nasty?”
Her head tilts back. “God. No wonder he burned you. It
killed him he couldn’t tell his children about faking his death.
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He actually cried because they had to attend his funeral. But he couldn’t put his children in jeopardy by telling them the truth. It would make them accessories.”
Jezebel swipes at her forehead with the back of her hand.
Must be hot at the stove. “The whole plan, collecting
everything he could for this move to Mexico, it’s all for those two kids. He’s the proudest father I’ve ever seen. He’ll contact them and explain himself after he sets up shop in Mexico. Or wherever he ends up.”
That last bit sounded like it might have been a lame
attempt at cover-up. Mexico, huh? I’m guessing Vera Cruz,
Luis’s hometown. “Why is he so proud of his kids?”
“They’re both doctors. Went to Princeton pre-med
together. Then Harvard Med. Both of them interned at
Columbia-Presbyterian, both are now doing their residencies
at John Hopkins. They’re only the second brother-sister act
there ever.”
Jezebel flips three burgers in the frying pan. She handles
the spatula better than I would have thought, but I guess the redhead can handle just about anything. She sure as shit
handled me. Me and my full-boat Carr grin. Should I worry
she flipped only three patties, not four? Or maybe Luis
doesn’t like hamburguesas.
“Well, kids or not, he’s still running from the Feds, saving his fat ass,” I say.
The redhead doesn’t look up. “Sure. But when he found
out the IRS was onto him, getting close, his goal became
preserving what money he could for the son and daughter.
The IRS was going to seize everything, even if Gerry’s lawyers tied up the criminal cases.”
“But all he got out of his Shore Securities account was the
two million you said is partly your retirement. There was
another two or three-million in stock and cash.”
She peeks over her shoulder. “No. The rest was transferred
from that Shore account to his Panamanian bank two days
ago. You’ve been too busy to check the papers on your desk.
Besides, can’t you see what’s over there in the corner?”
I strain my neck to follow her eyes. There’s some kind of
package under that brass porthole, tucked between the blond
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Jack Getze
wood bulkhead and the bunk opposite mine. Something
wrapped in a thick blue and yellow baby quilt. Oh, my. I can make out eight to ten inches of a familiar and very ornate
gilded picture frame.
“That can’t be real,” I say.
It’s the Renoir, the painting I’ve been admiring for two
weeks. All those rich happy people, strolling in the sunshine.
“Oh, it’s real,” Kelly says. “Gerry thinks it could be worth a hundred-million, but since it was stolen from a private
collection, public auctions are out. In Mexico, or wherever, brokered by a worldly art dealer he knows, Gerry’s got a
buyer for twenty.”
If I could whistle, I’d whistle. Although something’s
bothering me about this...yeah. Wait a minute. “The other
night, when those agents broke into your condo, I saw them
impound everything, the Renoir included.”
“The FBI impounded a very expensive fake,” she says.
“Gerry’s got a couple.”
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FORTY-EIGHT
When I’m done rubbing my loosened but sore wrists, and
finished being surprised, I pull a chair up to the table, snatch a bun, a slab of greasy meat, slices of American cheese, red
onion, and lettuce. This is no time to skimp on burger
toppings. Could be my last meal.
Good old’ Gerry. He must have felt bad burning me
because a few minutes ago he freed my hands, invited me to
sit and eat with them. The mood seems pretty much friendly,
too, although I’m slightly offended when my monster now
tells that Jezebel redhead Kelly to aim Luis’s government-issue semiautomatic at my face.
Kelly saying, “I’m hungry, too, you know.”
Gerry swallows a mouthful of fried burger. “You got two
hands, right?”
“Yes, but I need both of them to hold the Colt. It’s heavy.”
“Here,” Gerry says. “Give it to me.”
The transfer is never made. A loud thumping noise
interrupts, turns all our heads. The yellow-blanketed bunk I was lying on before is not a bunk anymore. It’s a newly
revealed hideout with its hinged lid—the thin mattress—
swung up against the bulkhead. That’s what made the
thumping noise.
Guess who’s now standing inside this suddenly exposed
hideout, pointing a gun at the three of us? It’s Mr. Former
Goatee, the same guy who fought with me and Luis at the
restaurant. The same man who followed Kelly and me from
the burial service to the shopping mall. The same hombre who obviously knew the whereabouts of this boat and eluded
Gerry and Luis to stow himself away.
His eyes are the color of roasted coffee beans and slightly
buggy, wildly shifting back and forth between me and Gerry.
His glossy black hair is pulled into a small ponytail this
afternoon, and his squared jaw is set hard, trying to look
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Jack Getze
tough. I’d believe him if it weren’t for the beads of sweat
checkering his forehead.
Is Luis in on this move?
Kelly fires the Colt semiautomatic. Whoa! The noise is
stunning, knocking me back from the table, numbing my ears
and mind. Inches from Mr. Goatee, a piece of bunk lid the
circumference of a coffee can explodes in splinters. My ears ring like it’s Sunday morning and I’m inside a church bell.
Mr. Goatee fires back and Jezebel’s right shoulder is
slammed by the bullet. The blow spins her backward against
the counter and the stove. A spreading patch of red blooms on her green sweater. The Colt clatters to the floor. Jezebel
slumps and tumbles beside the gun.
Gerry sticks his hands in the air like a bad western movie.
Not a bad idea, though, especially to avoid a gunshot wound
like Kelly’s. I raise my hands just like Gerry.
Mr. Goatee lifts his legs and feet out of the storage space, one at a time, his weapon leveled at a spot between Gerry and me. The gun in his hand is a revolver. Small caliber. Cheap
and chromed. A Saturday night special. Seagulls squawk
&nbs
p; somewhere near the boat.
The diesel engines power down to an idle. The three of us
stagger as the bow falls in the water and the slant of the floor changes. What do you want to bet Luis heard the gunshots
and is headed downstairs right now to check it out?
Mr. Goatee reads the boat action the same way I do. He
waves his pistol, directing Gerry and me around like an armed traffic cop. He’s in a hurry to make us sit on the opposite
yellow bunk, out of his line of sight to the stairway. Can’t blame him for that. Luis is going to barrel down those stairs any second.
Kelly groans, clutches her shoulder. Blood flows between
her fingers. At least she’s conscious, always an encouraging sign for us friends and family.
What the hell did I just say? Things are happening too fast.
I’m confused. Do I want Kelly to get better? Or watch that
bitch Jezebel bleed to death?
When Mr. Goatee has Gerry and me where he wants us—
sitting together on that opposite bunk—he crouches against
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the far bulkhead and points his cheap chrome gun at the top
of the stairs.
Sounds like Luis is up there, but he’s not in a big hurry to come down. My ex-favorite bartender is no dummy. And he
can’t be part of Mr. Goatee’s surprise either, or this guy
wouldn’t be aiming his revolver at Luis’s expected point of
entry.
Without showing himself, Luis calls down. “Senor Burns?
Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” Gerry says. “It’s Nestor. He shot Kelly.”
“Shut up,” Mr. Goatee says. He briefly aims the gun at
Gerry’s head.
Nestor, huh? Too bad. I was starting to like calling him
Mr. Goatee. Wonder why he shaved the beard off, anyway?
Even finally ditched those gold chains? I thought the goatee made him look distinguished, worldly. Like the dragon
tattoos on his forearms.
“Stand up,” Nestor says to Gerry.
Gerry’s a little shaky getting to his feet. He was Mr. Spry a few minutes ago. Maybe the excitement’s getting to him.
Nestor locks an arm around Gerry’s neck and drags him into
the center of the cabin, cuddles him between the yellow bunk beds. He touches the muzzle to Gerry’s neck, Nestor saying,
“Luis? Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“I am holding a gun at el patron’s neck.”
“Why?” Luis asks. “Because you and others believe you
have been cheated? You will destroy yourself by threatening
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