Flood Abatement

by James Norton

  “Right, but his list of enemies goes on for miles. I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Jones made a note.

  “Anyway, Smith was blackmailing a string of people. She could be one of his.”

  “This isn’t much.”

  “She made a strong bid. It looked like she was prepared to keep going. She acted as if she had the money to drop on an expensive piece that she could never show to anyone, like the Double Eagle.”

  “Rich, sixty-ish, Omaha.” He puffed out his cheeks. “You gotta give me something else.”

  “She wanted to look dowdy. You know, old maid thing, but it didn’t work. She was still a handsome woman, probably a knock-out in her day. She acted a little decrepit, but she moved quickly when she left.”

  “Could she be younger?”

  “No the hands were right. And, she held them a certain way, elegant.”

  “Socialite, blackmail, maybe some brushes with the law.” He stood unsteadily. “Not much, but … well, maybe, … maybe, I’ll do some digging and get back to you.” Jones drained his glass and stood. “Where can I catch a cab?”

  As the cab pulled away, Bernie wondered if he’d ever see the drunk again. Well, you get what you pay for. And free was free, if you didn’t count the bottle of bourbon. The sour smell of the man caused Bernie to think about cleaning up his place, but it passed quickly.

  Chapter 107

  Bernie was in a race against time. On the ride home from physical therapy, it occurred to him that in two hours his entire left side would cramp from the exertion and he needed a drink, now. He looked over at the cabby. “Drop me at the High Hat on Brady Street.”

  The short trip from the cab, over the slush puddle at the curb and the three steps to the door were a challenge, but he made it to a table by the window. “Double Rusty Nail,” was his order to Celia, the lone waitress. The bar’s smoky interior was refreshing to him when compared to the monotonous surroundings of his own house. She brought his drink then took a chair in the sun across from him.

  Bernie raised his glass to her, said thanks, then took a slug of the scotch and Drambuie. He looked at the girl through the liquor as it ran down the inside of the glass. She was a good looking brunette with issues. If the purple hair and nose piercing along with the black t-shirt and jeans were calculated to make her look repellant, it was a failure. “What’s up, kidd-o?” He set the drink on the table.

  “Got a new tat,” she said.

  She was eleven years younger than him and he liked her brass. “Cool, mind if I ask where?” He sipped the liquor.

  She pointed to her hip. “Shooting star.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  She tapped his hand sharply. “You wish.”

  “Yup.”

  “How’s your leg?”

  “Terrible.”

  “I’ll stop by later and show ya.”

  Bernie’s eyes got big.

  “With your bad wheel and a couple a Nails you’ll be as safe as a kitten.” She stood and winked. “See ya later.”

  Bernie was surprised that his leg didn’t hurt after the first double which was actually six shots of booze. The bar was warm and he began to doze. He jerked back to consciousness as the chairs on either side of him scraped out. Leon and Stan joined him.

  Stan punched him on his bad leg. “How’s our old buddy doin’?”

  Bernie tried to stand, but Leon grabbed his belt from behind and pulled him down. “Hey! Hey! Don’t rush off. We just got here. We got lots to talk about.”

  After two deep breaths Bernie looked at them. “What the hell are you talking about? The whole thing went bust. There isn’t any money for anybody. You got that?”

  Stan poked him in the chest. “Somebody owes us. You’re the only one around. So we figure it’s you.”

  Bernie turned toward Leon. “What don’t you guy’s get about this?”

  “Yeow,” Stan yelled.

  Celia hit him with her tray a second time. “Leave him alone, asshole.”

  The barman came toward them with a baseball bat in his hand. Stan and Leon bolted out the front door. On the sidewalk Leon held up a set of keys and waved it. Bernie felt his coat pocket and knew they were his. The pair of tormentors danced through the traffic on Brady and up Astor toward his house. He stood, but collapsed when he attempted to move his injured left leg. Shit, they were going to trash his place.

  Celia picked him up and put him back in his chair. “C’mon, let’s get you home.”

  Bernie leaned his head back. “That won’t do much good in my shape.” He could watch them break into his house from the front window of the High Hat.

  She opened her purse to show him a .32 revolver, a 9mm automatic, two cans of mace and a pair of brass knuckles.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s give it a try.”

  Ten minutes later Bernie, in a gray overcoat, and Celia, in a black down jacket, stood on his front porch and listened to the sounds of breaking furniture inside.

  She opened her purse. “What ya want?”

  Full of Dutch courage, he pulled the 9mm and a can of mace. She took the other can and the revolver as she dropped the purse on the porch. They stepped through the door into a scene of carnage in his living room. Leon stuck his foot into Bernie’s television screen. Celia pointed her pistol at him and touched her left index finger to her lips. Bernie headed toward the kitchen where the sound of breakage gave Stan away. When Celia approached Leon, he lunged at her and she Maced him, eyes and open mouth. He squealed like a stuck pig.

  The kitchen went silent. Leon continued to scream on the living room floor as he crawled toward the front hall. Bernie stepped gingerly toward the swinging door that separated the front of the house from the kitchen. Stan opened it half way and stuck his head out. Bernie took a hop and two steps to lay his shoulder and full weight into the door where he caught Stan’s neck between it and the jam. Bernie lost his balance and fell to the floor.

  Croaking a “Gawk,” Stan fell to his knees. Leon continued to scramble away. Stan stood and staggered past Bernie who maced the home trasher’s leg. Stan stumbled forward and picked Leon up by the shoulders as they went out the front door. Silence reigned for not more than three-seconds until both men screamed.

  At the door, Celia saw the men sprawled on the sidewalk entangled in the shoulder strap of her huge purse. Bernie reached her side and aimed the 9mm automatic at the pair. The booze helped him pull the trigger, but nothing happened. Celia took the gun from him while Stan and Leon scrambled over a snow bank, dashed up the sidewalk and around the corner.

  “You are one lucky son of a bitch,” she said.

  “What?”

  “The safety was on. If you’d a shot either of them the cops would have put you in the can for sure.”

  Bernie sat down in the open door. He knew she was right. If he shot them inside, he could claim self defense. Outside it would have been manslaughter at the least. His house was trashed, but he felt lucky.

  Celia sat down next to him. Their breath condensed around them as they panted from their effort.

  She went to the sidewalk to retrieve her purse and its contents. “You look terrible,”

  “I feel like shit.”

  She came back and sat. With a smile she took his chin and turned it toward her. “Want ta see my tattoo?”

  Bernie began to laugh. He fell back into the house and laughed until he couldn’t catch his breath. Between pants and giggles he said, “Sure, I’d be honored.”

  Chapter 108

  The broken contents of Bernie’s living room and kitchen stood stacked on the snow drift between his sidewalk and Astor Street along with his garbage. His biggest hope was that it would not snow before the garbage collectors came past or the junk would sit on the curb until the spring thaw.

  Sam called a few favors to get him some new, if ill matched, furniture. The cherry on the sundae as the television Milt, Sam’s brother, provided. Still in the box from
the factory, Bernie was not allowed to ask the lineage of the name brand piece.

  Five days later Bernie was enjoying a bowl of Frosted Flakes while seated in his new recliner. Julia Child was making Coque a vin on public television when the door bell rang. The trip from the living room to the front door was slow, but doable. Bernie’s wounds were healed and the physical therapy helped his mobility, just not as much as he wanted. He kept his breathing shallow in a vain effort to avoid the pain.

  He stopped sucking at a splinter in his left ring finger long enough to take a good look at his caller. A woman in tan slacks and a long black wool coat stood at the doorway. She was about as tall as he was, with gray creeping through her brown hair. Bernie thought she looked familiar.

  “Mr. Keagan?” she inquired in a rich contralto.

  “Yes.”

  She offered him a bare hand. “I’m Virginia Costello. May we come in?”

  Bernie took the hand and looked past her to see a black man of a similar age standing at the edge of the porch. Her companion was dressed in a dark blue top coat with a similarly colored suit beneath. “What is this about?” Bernie asked.

  Virginia turned to the side as her companion pulled Camden Jones up the stairs to the porch. “This,” she said.

  Jones looked the worse for wear. His left eye was swollen shut and he held his bandaged right hand in the crook of his other arm. The light of recognition came to Bernie. “The lady from Omaha, sure come in.” She showed more panache than the woman he remembered skittering out of the hotel room shortly before the shit hit the fan, but the same perfume, Chanel.

  The couple marched in with their trophy in tow and made a place for themselves on the couch among his discarded potato chip and cookie bags. Bernie took a seat on the corner of the grouping. Jones dropped into the recliner.

  Virginia continued to pile up the magazines as she spoke. “Mr. Mitchell, would you get me a glass of water?”

  The black man stood. She handed him the pile of refuse and he went off to the kitchen.

  Virginia looked at Bernie. “You’re not much of a housekeeper.”

  “I’ve been laid-up. And, I don’t get many callers,” he lied.

  She held up a Penthouse. “Not much of a deep thinker either.”

  “My subscriptions to US News and World Report just expired.”

  Mitchell came back with a tumbler of water and handed it to the woman. “Real mess in there.”

  She took two swallows of her drink and addressed Mitchell. “Let’s see what we can do about that.”

  “Hey,” Bernie said as the pair left him sitting in the living room. He limped after them.

  Jones followed. “Wait, wait, can I get a drink?”

  By the time Bernie and Camden got into the kitchen, Virginia was washing dishes and Mitchell was putting trash into grocery bags. “Hey!” Bernie reiterated.

  Virginia didn’t look up. “Nice comeback, Mr. Keagan. Sit down. We can talk about Mr. Jones.”

  Bernie took a seat on one of the folding chairs from his Aunt Gracie’s hand-me-down card table which was now his kitchen set.

  “Could I get a drink?” Jones repeated. Bernie pointed to a cabinet and the reporter retrieved a bottle of bourbon.

  Virginia walked over and picked up four dirty glasses. “Why did you send this person to make inquiries about my business?”

  “Because I couldn’t. I need to know your connection to Rhonda Lapinski.”

  Virginia nodded at Mitchell, who grabbed Jones and dragged him into the front room with the booze.

  “We’ll get to that later. Are you in love with her?”

  Caught off guard by the question, he was silent for a few moments. “She’s dead.” He hated the words. In his gut he either didn’t believe them or didn’t want to believe them.

  “That wasn’t the question, but your answer is sufficient.” The woman wiped her hands on a dish towel then sat in the chair across from Bernie. “We were friends. Not the kind that took tea together. We did favors for one another when the opportunity arose. My appearance at the auction was part of such a transaction.”

  “Super, does the name Knickerbocker Smith come into play here?”

  She tensed. “Yes.”

  “He was blackmailing you, and Rhonda did what?”

  “She helped me out.”

  Bernie raised his eyebrows.

  Virginia said, “When my brother was a young man he killed a clerk in a filling station robbery. Smith kept photographs of the crime. Rhonda got them for me.”

  “I’m so glad for you and your brother.”

  She stood. “He became a priest and was assassinated in Guatemala. He atoned for his crime hundreds of times. Smith would have dragged his name through the dirt for financial gain. I would have done anything to get those photos from that piece of scum.” She took a breath. “Huh, I never thought of it before, but Rhonda saved that fuck’s life.”

  “So what did you do in return?”

  “I told her I would help her sell the coin.”

  Bernie considered her statement and listened to the kitchen clock tick. “You told her you’d buy it.”

  “Doesn’t make any difference now. The government has it.”

  “If it came to it, were you willing to shell out the big money for the coin?” Bernie asked. She looked at him and kept silent. Well, ‘nough said? His gut told him it wasn’t. “I knew Rhonda since we were kids. We could go get a bite to eat someplace. I could tell you about her.” He didn’t know if that was the right thing to say, but somehow he felt it was.

  She glanced at Mitchell standing in the doorway, then back to Bernie.

  He saw stress in her eyes. “I’ve got nothing but time.”

  Mitchell said, “We need to get going.”

  She stiffened and looked at her black companion. “Yeah…, yeah, we should go.” Her voice became hoarse.

  Bernie watched the couple leave. There was something else about the woman, but he could not put his finger on it. He went in to check on his guest and poked the body on his couch. “How ya doin’, Jones?”

  The drunk looked up at him with one eye. “Ah! It’s you. Where the hell am I?”

  “Milwaukee, my house.”

  “Hm, swell, where’s your john?” The grizzled reporter got to a seated position with a shaky effort. “Where’s your john?”

  Bernie coaxed and carried Jones up the stairs to the large bathroom. After a silent hour he found the reporter sleeping peacefully on the tile floor. The sound of water running began shortly after three that afternoon. His house guest made it down the stairs just before five.

  “He lives,” Bernie said.

  Sweating some and shaking a lot, a bathed Jones took a seat in the nearest chair. “Got a drink?” he asked around the cigarette dangling from the left side of his mouth.

  “Any preference.”

  “A large glass.”

  Bernie returned with a glass and a new bottle of bourbon. Jones downed three fingers in two gulps.

  “Okay, I’m good,” the reporter said as he grabbed the bottle from Bernie’s hand. “Where the hell is that piece ‘a work and her thug?”

  “Gone to Omaha.”

  “She’s not the worst of the bunch. John Pelegraso is plenty hot. That senator is crazy mad. Some big Colombian drug money is sniffing around.”

  “Sounds like a Pulitzer in the making.”

  “For anyone who lives long enough to write it.”

  “I though you were supposed to be the ‘fearless reporter’ type.”

  “But, not the ‘stupid reporter’ type.”

  “Tell me.”

  Jones poured himself a large drink and downed half of it. “It’s all innuendo and third hand, but it’s probably the truth because of the large number of threats I received.”

  “Who threatened you?”

  “Everybody.”

  “The mob? The Colombians?”

  Jones drank the rest of the bourbon, then looked at the empty glass. “
And, all three branches of the Federal government.”

  Bernie got up and walked around the living room.

  “Hey, you’re doing pretty good,” Jones said.

  “Don’t tell anyone. Being a crip gives me an edge. Okay, big question. Where is Rhonda Lapinski?”

  “That is a big question. She seems to be at the heart of this whole thing. Right now, nobody knows or nobody’s saying.” Jones put the glass on the coffee table. “My guess is that if she ever surfaces again, she’s dead.”

  Before Jones took the next Grayhound bus back to Chicago, he told Bernie never to contact him again.

  “Now what?” Bernie dialed his favorite pizzeria on Brady Street.

  Chapter 109

  Rhonda used him. He loved her and she hadn’t trusted him enough to take him into her confidence. The thought crept into his half-conscious brain before he opened his eyes

  Gray light shone through the front windows where Bernie lay in the recliner. He decided he needed a shower. Sitting in the tub, he let the water splash down on his now only slightly discolored body. The heat was not loosening his muscles, but it still felt good.

  She’d kept him in the dark. To protect him? But, he still almost got killed. He’d have done it for her. He’d been willing to risk jail for her and her scheme. “God damn it, Rhonda!” The water was getting cool. He got out.

  His mind continued to race over her actions. Did she love him or was he just a schmuck? He needed to get dressed and get something to eat. He looked at his wrinkled fingers. Today he would wear a suit and go to Sam’s office.

  The day he got shot was the last time he looked in his bedroom closet. He guessed it was close to four months since he’d opened the door to look in there, let alone thought about the contents. Half dressed in a navy suit and white shirt, he didn’t notice the box tucked in the back until he reached for a pair of shoes. He could just make out the “50 cal.” on the ammunition can. Yup, it was the container he and Rhonda dug up in Nana’s basement. The one that held the coin collection.

  Bernie pulled it out and sat on the lone chair in the bedroom while the sequence of events rushed through his mind. The top of the can was closed and latched. He rapped on a side with his right knuckles. The can gave off a hollow metallic bong. He opened it - empty. No surprise. The surprises were in the wooden box. Surprises in the wooden box, the one next to the couch. Were there any more surprises in there?