Missing Amanda

by Duane Lindsay

  That’s when they kicked in the door and dragged him off.

  “Lemme have my pants,” he wailed as they tossed him, naked and terrified into the back of a Chevy. He tried to sit up and a meaty hand smacked his head. He fell back, dizzy and gagging with the reflex to throw up. His mind chanted, “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” in endless repetition. They were going to kill him!

  He tried pleading with them, but it was like talking to hulking statues. His face pressed against the vinyl and somebody slapped him every time he tried to sit up. Through the side of his mouth he kept trying to talk.

  When the car finally stopped, Mario’s heart stopped with it. Wherever they were, he knew, was where he was going to die. He heard the doors open and a pair of hands grabbed at his waist, pulling him backwards from the car. They dropped him and a rough voice said, “Get up.”

  He scrambled to his feet and shivered despite the morning’s heat. They were standing outside the ruins of an ancient gas station at the edge of some country road. A rusting sedan sat on blocks and the gas pumps were twisted metal with faded paint. The silence of the outdoors was strange to his city ears. A tiny breeze played over his naked body, stirring his chest hair.

  They shoved him roughly and he crab stepped over the rough gravel and broken glass to the door. His feet were bleeding when they pushed him into the wrecked interior where a raw wood counter divided a tiny room with unpainted wooden shelves on the walls. The shelves were bare. A three-year-old calendar with a picture of a white kitten hung crooked on a tack.

  They kept shoving and he entered the old service area, little more than a dirt floored stud walled garage. A greasy workbench covered one wall. In the center of the floor was a wooden kitchen chair. Wordlessly they pushed him to it and made him sit. Then they stood, arms folded over massive chests, silent and expressionless while Mario’s life ticked away.

  It was at least three hours later when a car arrived, tires crunching on the drive. Mario wanted to cry. He had to go to the can and knew they’d only laugh if he asked. So, he crossed his legs and endured, picturing every possible way they could kill him.

  A moment later he heard the door scrape open and a shadow fell across the doorway. Tony Scolio, dressed as if he was going to the opera, stepped inside and Mario fainted.

  When he woke up the chair was alongside the workbench and his hand was in the vice. And the vise was being closed. He screamed with pain and nearly fainted again. An open palm smacked him and he gasped back to attention.

  “Wait,” he shrieked. “I can tell you where they are.”

  The vice stopped, though the pain didn’t. His arm was twisted to get his hand in position and it felt as if his shoulder would pop out from the strain. It made his face contort as he looked at Scolio upwards and sideways.

  “Go on.”

  “I can tell you.”

  “I said go ahead.”

  “You won’t kill me?”

  “I will kill you.”

  Mario closed his eyes to the pain.

  “And you’ll tell me anyway,” Scolio said.”

  *

  It was nearly seven in the evening by the time Tony Scolio got back to the city and prepared his men to attack the Hilton. All the way he kept muttering to himself about what Mario Caputo had told him. “The Hilton,” he said aloud, shaking his head at the audacity. “No wonder we couldn’t find them.” He felt a grudging admiration for whoever it was who’d thought of the idea. It was brilliant.

  But it made the planned raid difficult. The Hilton was rich man’s land. They wouldn’t allow anyone to just invade their turf and they had money and connections that dwarfed even his own. Whatever political or police connections a Tony Scolio could call up, the rich folks who lived at the level of the Hilton could call up twenty. If he bribed a commissioner, the manager of the Hilton would call the Mayor.

  Again, he was struck with the cleverness of these guys. It made him want to laugh, knowing that they’d be dead in a matter of hours. As dead as Mario Caputo, he thought, and just as unpleasantly.

  He dressed four of his best musclemen in tuxedos, making them look like the world’s nastiest penguins. He called his second in command, Lucius Formby, and told him what he was doing.

  “Tony; is this wise?” asked Lucius.

  Scolio pictured him, standing in his office talking into the telephone. Thin as a stork and elegantly attired, Lucius Formby would be the one who fit right in at the Hilton. In fact, Scolio decided, that was where he should be.

  “We’ll meet there at eight,” he said, cutting of any further objections. “And of course, I’ll be there. Do you have any idea of what these guys have cost me?”

  “More than you do, sir.” Lucius was always polite and as sincere as an alligator. Scolio knew he was just waiting patiently for him to die. “It isn’t a good idea for you to be there personally, sir.”

  “But I’m going to be, anyway. These bastards have messed with me long enough.”

  “It isn’t about pride, sir,” suggested Lucius. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Just be there.” Scolio hung up the phone.”

  *

  They met in the bar, six well-dressed men clearly up to no good. Scolio was smoking a cigar as they crammed into the elevator, trailing thick clouds as they walked down the hall. He waited to one side as a muscleman prepared to smash the door.

  “Do it,” Scolio commanded. He looked like a volcano about to erupt.

  The door flew open and they streamed into the suite, fanning out with guns drawn. Lucius stayed behind to close the door against any interruptions while Scolio waited in the parlor next to the table. There was a package wrapped in brown paper neatly placed in the center, edges carefully aligned. Tony peered at it, around the room, back at the package again. Something about it disturbed him. He picked it up, surprised at its weight.

  The musclemen returned from the other rooms with baffled expressions, guns hanging at the end of long arms, faces dull with confusion. Scolio began to feel nervous, as if a shoe was about to drop.

  “They ain’t here,” said one of the muscles.

  “Tony, let’s get out of here,” said Lucius from the doorway.

  Instead Scolio began to unwrap the paper. He had to turn the bundle over and over to unwind it and he dropped pieces of paper on the floor as he went, like peeling an onion one layer at a time. His worry increased as each piece fell like a dead leaf to the plush carpet. Finally, the last of it fell away, revealing two slim blocks of metal.

  Scolio turned them over and gaped in shock.

  Counterfeit plates. His eyes were bulging as the door banged open and four men in cheap suits burst into the room, each with a badge in one hand and a gun in the other. They swarmed around Lucius and surrounded Scolio at the table.

  “What?” Scolio gasped. He drew himself up and tried again more forcefully. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  “FBI,” barked a thin man with a bushy mustache.

  “What do we have here?” He took one of the counterfeit plates from Tony’s numb hands.

  “Those aren’t mine, “Scolio protested. He was just getting an idea of the trouble he was in. Nothing his lawyers couldn’t fix, of course, but these were the feds. It would take a lot of time and money. A lot of time and money.

  One of the feds said, “Thanks Lucius; you can go now.” Lucius Formby opened his mouth to speak and Tony Scolio roared with fury. Betrayed? By his own man? Bellowing, he dropped the other plate on the fed’s right foot and pulled his gun.

  Lucius screamed, “No, Tony! I didn’t. I swear-” Tony Scolio shot him. He managed to get three rounds into the totally innocent man before all four federal agents shot him to pieces.

  Chapter 42

  It’s almost over

  Cassidy’s apartment, after the Hilton, was dark cramped and hot. As Jefferson Davis, Paul E. Smalls, Lou and Monk settled into the tiny living room, Cassidy went to the kitchen to get drinks. The little refrigerator smelled so
ur and the freezer was clogged with frost, but she yanked out the two metal trays and filled glasses with ice.

  What a dump, she thought in amazement. And I lived here. She gazed out the tiny window that overlooked the fire escape and marveled that she’d been content here, more or less. Now, after a month of pampered luxury, she couldn’t wait to get out.

  Monk came into the kitchen with a handful of packages that he dumped on the little table. He called back to the others. “Come on. It’s time to settle up.” The men ambled in, accepted drinks from Cassidy and jockeyed for the chairs. Monk had one, Paul E. got another. Lou gallantly allowed her the third. He and Jefferson leaned against the doorframe or the wall, drinks in hand, waiting.

  The smell of scotch was strong as he opened bags and boxes and set cash and jewelry on the table. “We’re reaching the end here,” Monk said. “If he’s lucky or smart, Mario will disappear. If he’s not...”

  “He’s dead,” said Paul E. Smalls and they all considered it. Death, at this point, wasn’t a pleasant drifting off in your sleep, or a quick bullet. It would be prolonged and painful. Silently they all considered the probable fate of Mario Caputo.

  “If they get him he’ll talk. If they don’t, eventually someone will catch on to the Hilton gag and they’ll go over there. I’m figuring it will be Tony Scolio.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I sent an anonymous note to him. He should have it by now.”

  Paul E. shook his head. “I don’t get it. Why do you want that place found?”

  “Because I left the counterfeit plates there.”

  “I’m still not following.”

  “And I called the feds and tipped them.” He smiled, feeling smug.

  As they digested this they began to consider Monk with new respect.

  “Je-sus. What a nasty mind you’ve got.” Lou beamed as if he’d invented Monk. They all began to relax around the table and the conversation became looser, more casual. “Y’know, we might actually get away with this.”

  “You think?” asked Paul E. Smalls.

  “Not really, no.”

  The bags were empty, the table full. Monk said, “I’ve counted it. There’s two-hundred-thirty-seven- thousand dollars. The best a fence would do on the necklace and stuff was another fifty. Given our notoriety, I couldn’t exactly shop around, so I took it. That’s a total of two-hundred-eighty-seven. We divide by six—”

  “Why six?” demanded Paul E. Smalls.

  Monk looked around, counting. “Because there’s six of us.”

  “Caputo don’t count,” said Jefferson. His voice was surprisingly firm. “He walked on us.”

  “That’s right,” agreed Cassidy. “And I didn’t like him anyway.”

  “He killed those guys,” Paul E. Smalls argued.

  “You said so.”

  “And he’s probably dead,” said Lou. The idea didn’t seem to bother him. The method did; he wouldn’t wish that on anybody. But Mario Caputo was a louse.

  “You’re saying the split should be five ways?” Monk asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Sure,”

  “Of course.”

  “Damn right.”

  Which ended the eulogy to Mario Caputo.

  “Okay. The shares, divided by five are...” he began the calculation in his head.

  “Wait,” Paul E. interrupted again. “Why five?”

  “There’s five of us here.”

  “Why does Cassidy get a share? I mean, no offense, Cassidy.”

  “Offense taken,” Cassidy said loudly.

  Paul E. turned to Monk to avoid Cassidy’s expression. “She shouldn’t get a share. She wasn’t out there. She’s just been hanging around the hotel.”

  “She’s done a lot,” Lou insisted. He actually had no idea of what Cassidy had been up to but he knew she was part of this. She shot him a quick glance of thanks and returned to demanding that if anyone shouldn’t get anything it should be Paul E. himself.

  “What?” He squeaked. “I did more than any of you.”

  “Monk did more than any of us. Without him we’d be nowhere.”

  “Fine, but I’m next. You shouldn’t even be talking. You’re just a broad.”

  That was enough. Cassidy, with a rebel yell, launched herself at Paul E. Smalls. Taken by surprise, he fell over his chair and crashed to the floor with a furious Cassidy pounding at his head. Lou began to step forward, then reconsidered. She seemed to be doing fine. Paul E’s head hit the linoleum four times—five—Jefferson winced—and the floor started to bang as the downstairs neighbor hit her ceiling with a broom. A faraway voice shouted, “Stop that or I’m calling the cops.”

  Hastily, Lou pulled a still spitting Cassidy off the subdued Paul E. Smalls. Jefferson helped him back to his seat and Monk continued as if nothing had happened, “divided by five is fifty-seven thousand four hundred dollars.” To defuse the situation and let Paul E. save face he added, “I’ll take expenses out of my share.”

  “Fine,” said Paul E. sullenly

  “Sure.” Jefferson smiled widely at Cassidy. “More money than I ever seen before.”

  “More than any of us have ever seen.”

  “Lou?” asked Monk.

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “All right.” Monk began splitting the pile into smaller piles, handing each their share as he did. He made sure Paul E.’ s was first. When he was done he said, “There’s a few other things that have to be done.” They paused from admiring the money to pay attention, except for Lou who kept counting.

  “First, it’s time we disband. The damage we needed to cause has been done. The police will keep the mobs busy, and there’s no need for us to risk anymore to stir things up. Jefferson, Paul, you should get out of town for a while.”

  “How long, do you suppose?”

  “I’m thinking forever,” Monk said seriously.

  “Right.”

  *

  “I miss room service,” said Cassidy. Her big radio was playing Perry Como, the night had fallen and they sat on the sofa comparing the apartment to the Hilton. It didn’t compare well. All of them were considering that fifty-four thousand dollars wouldn’t support that lifestyle very long. They also remembered that there was no food and they couldn’t go out on the street. It promised to be a long night.

  “Lou?” Cassidy said. “Thanks for sticking up for me. With Paul. Saying I deserved the money.”

  “You do,” Lou said. They were silent for a while.

  Lou was thinking about supper. Monk was thinking about what was about to happen. Cassidy was thinking about money.

  “Monk?”

  “Yeah, Cassidy.”

  “Uh, I don’t know how to bring this up, but,” she paused to find a way to make naked greed sound more noble, “what about the two million?”

  “I was hoping you’d forgotten that.”

  She gave him a look. “Forgot? How could I forget?”

  “I guess not.” Monk sighed. He looked over at Lou who was listening. “The fact is Cassidy, that the two-million-dollar part never worked out. The money we got is all we got.” He held his hands out, palms up and empty. “Sorry.”

  Cassidy opened her mouth to speak and left it open.

  No money? No more Hilton, no more luxury suite, good clothes, jewelry? No more not working? “No room-service?” she asked softly.

  “I guess not.”

  She looked pitifully at Lou. “We risked our lives for this. All we get is fifty-four thousand lousy dollars?” Forgotten amid this disaster, was the fact that just a month ago, fifty-four thousand dollars was ten years wages. Cassidy wasn’t in the mood for irony.

  She got up and fled the room. Monk looked at Lou and said again, “Sorry.”

  Cassidy ran as far as the bedroom. She looked at the faded bedspread, the cheap copy pictures on the walls. The wallpaper was dim with age and peeling at the seams.

  She entered the bathroom and stared at the tub.

  The bro
wn stain from the leaky faucet made her shudder. When she stretched out her arms she could touch all four walls. In the small wood framed mirror, her reflection stared at her. Depressed, she tore off her diamond earrings, tossing them on the sink next to the dried out white soap. She looked back at her reflection and gently touched her ears. Yes, they were bare.

  She returned to the bed and sat down. Her shoulders slumped as she considered the future. She cried for an hour before getting up and walking slowly to the door. She came into the darkened living room and saw Monk asleep on the floor, curled up in the same grubby grey blanket he’d brought here when this all started. Lou was sitting in the chair smoking. The only light was from the streetlights outside.

  She pulled over a kitchen chair and sat next to Lou.

  He didn’t move, just watched her in the silence of the room. She leaned forward to talk quietly, not wanting to wake up Monk. “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Me too.” His voice was small and intimate.

  Cassidy felt her heart breaking. “I,” she shook her head and felt tears on her cheeks. “I can’t do this.”

  “Do what, Cassidy?”

  “Be poor. I can’t do it. I’ve been poor all my life. I loved it at the suite. I loved the clothes and the food and...” her voice trailed off.

  “And...?”

  “And the excitement. And being with you.” She stopped, waiting or his reply.

  “But it’s not enough,” he said. “I’m not enough.”

  Her heart tightened another notch. She felt it would explode at any moment. “No,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay, Cassidy; I understand. You’ve got to do what you gotta do. If you need money more than me...” he let the thought fade away.

  “It’s not like that!” Cassidy cried softly, knowing it was exactly like that. Again, she felt how shallow she really was. She liked Lou; really, she did. She thought she could even love him. “I can’t live like a pauper anymore.”