I nosed my red 1958 Jaguar XK150 into one of the diagonal parking spaces out front, strolled in, snap-brim Panama fedora in hand, and paused in the doorway for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. I wore the new white linen suit I'd had made for me in Paris, a lavender shirt, polka-dot bow tie, and a pair of perforated spectator balmorals. Lulu was sporting her linen touring cap.
Bruce hollered to me from a booth in the back, turning snooty heads left and right. He was not much for couth. But you would not want to go up against him in court. The man was three parts pit bull and one part wild boar. And always rumpled. The Izod shirt and baggy shorts he had on looked as if he'd been sleeping in them all week.
He and I ordered BLTs. Lulu opted for a tuna melt, hold the toast, and kept her distance from Bruce. He sprayed a lot when he ate.
"As your attorney,” he advised me between huge, open mouthfuls of his sandwich, “my feeling is Merilee has very little to worry about from this yutz. Should she have reported the accident at the time? Yes. Did she behave irresponsibly? Yes. But his uncorroborated testimony won't be enough to prompt any district attorney to file charges against her. Or buy him any kind of deal."
"Even if he claims she was driving?"
"Strictly his word against hers. And we're talking about a desperate sleazeball.” Bruce took a gulp of his iced coffee. “Trouble is, we both know it's the media fallout that'll kill us. No way we want it out there that Merilee Nash was ever mixed up in this."
"How do we contain it, Bruce?"
"I've reached out to a fixer named Frank Tedone who happens to owe me one. Frank was a deputy superintendent in the Connecticut State Police until his darling wife got caught shoplifting several valuable items from Bendel's on Fifth Avenue. He was right there by her side the whole time and didn't even know what she was up to. Or so he claimed when store security landed on her. I managed to get the charges dropped, and he took early retirement and went private in Waterbury. But he's still got great contacts. His kid brother Rico's a lieutenant on the Major Crime Squad. That Sergeant Snipes who phoned you this morning? She works for Rico. Trust me, if Frank can't make this go away then no one can.” Bruce glanced past me to the front door, waving his arm in the air. “And here he is, right on time."
Frank Tedone was a chesty fireplug in his late forties with a shaved head, a goatee, and a twenty-inch neck. The cheap, shiny black suit that he had on fit him just a bit too snug in the shoulders. He sat across from me next to Bruce and asked our waitress for a root beer milkshake, which immediately intrigued me. I'd never heard of any such thing.
"Okay, gents, here's what we know...” He opened a manila folder on the table. Inside were numerous computer printouts, incident statements, and clippings. He arrayed them before him very neatly, all corners squared. “As to the alleged hit-and-run in Stony Creek, the details Miss Nash provided pretty much correspond with the police reports from nineteen eighty-eight. A Yale architectural historian named Frank Lawson was indeed fatally struck late one night while out walking his dog. The family posted a reward for information. No one ever came forward. Case remains classified as an unsolved vehicular homicide.” Tedone's root beer shake arrived in a tall fountain glass. He took a thirsty gulp, wiped some tan-colored foam from his moustache, and moved on to the next document. “As to why Mr. Romano has chosen now to surface in her life again, the answer could be that until four months ago he was serving a nickel at Enfield Correctional for breaking and entering. His third fall, not for nothing. The man's already gone down for receiving stolen property and for felony-weight coke possession. Has himself a wife and two kids in Providence, but I doubt he's spent more than six months under the same roof with them in the past ten years. Can't seem to stay out of trouble. He did manage to land that straight job at B and B Building Supply, but within days he was stealing stuff from the yard and peddling it at construction sites. Soon as they got wise to him, he took off with a full load of Marvin windows worth six figures and they never saw him or their truck again. Things have being going downhill fast for our Mr. Romano ever since. Major Crime has him dead to rights on these convenience-store robberies."
"Is he hooked up with a crew?” Bruce asked.
"Strictly a lone wolf,” Tedone replied. “He used to be loosely affiliated with a mob family in Providence, but they kissed him goodbye years ago. Word is he owed bookies and loan sharks left and right, then snorted up the coke he was supposed to be selling to pay them back. He's lucky they didn't ice him. But I'm told they always cut him slack on account of they thought he was going to be a big movie star someday.” Now he put the papers back in the folder and closed it. “If you want my sense of things, Hoagy, you should not get within five miles of this guy. Because when he gets busted, and he will, you need plausible deniability. You don't talk to him on the phone. You don't meet with him. And you for damned sure don't give him so much as one shiny quarter."
"He's already been to the house. Merilee gave him ten thousand dollars."
Tedone's face tightened. “Buddy, you may have a problem."
"So let's explore our options,” Bruce charged in, stabbing the table with a blunt finger. “Scenario one, Hoagy sets up the payoff for tonight. We tip off the Major Crime Squad. They reel him in and—"
"He drags Merilee down with him.” I shook my head. “Can't happen."
Tedone leaned over the table toward me, lowering his voice. “There are ways to make sure it doesn't."
"You can't keep his lawyer away from the TV cameras."
"It'll never get that far,” he promised. “You set up the meet like Bruce just said, only I'm the one who shows up, not you. This bum's a miserable coward without a friend in the world. I'll make it abundantly clear to him that should he ever say word one about Merilee Nash to anyone—including his lawyer—he will not survive his first night in custody."
"What will happen to him?"
"He'll die while resisting arrest,” Tedone said offhandedly, as if making such a thing happen was no more difficult than ordering a pizza with three toppings instead of two. Apparently, for him it wasn't. This was what made him a fixer. “There'll be a thorough investigation of the circumstances surrounding his unfortunate death, but the officers involved will be fully exonerated. At which time you'll be expected to make a suitable contribution to a fund for the survivors of men and women who've been killed on the job in this state."
That very same twenty-five thousand dollars, I guessed. Except this way I could write it off as a charitable donation. The tax-deductible hit. What would they think of next?
Across from me, Bruce's face was a blank. He wasn't saying yes. He wasn't saying no.
I looked down at Lulu under the table. Lulu was looking back up at me. “Let's be very clear about something,” I said. “That's not how I want to handle this."
Tedone shrugged his bulging shoulders. “No disrespect, but you don't have a lot of wiggle room. If you want this guy out of your life, this is how it's done. Believe me, no one will be sorry to see him go. And there's absolutely no way it'll ever get back to you."
"What about that job application with my name on it?"
"It'll disappear."
Bruce cleared his throat. “Hoagy, if it's any help, Merilee never has to know about this."
"Yes, she does. I'd never conceal something like this from her. She once cared about the guy. Still does, for all I know. Thanks but no thanks. I'll handle it in my own way."
"You'll pay him the money, won't you?” Tedone shook his shaved head at me. “That's a fool's play. Also way too risky. The man's got nothing left to lose. He could shoot you dead right where you stand. Or bop you on the head and hold you for a million dollars’ ransom."
Lulu let out a low moan at this.
Tedone frowned. “What's her problem?"
"She feels I'm worth at least two million."
He peered at me doubtfully, as if it had just dawned on him that I wasn't like other people. “I don't agree with your decision, but if you've ma
de up your mind then I have to respect it. Only, I'm watching your back."
"No."
"Trust me, you'll never even know I'm there."
"No."
"Be sensible, Hoagy,” Bruce pleaded. “You've got to take backup."
"Lulu's all the backup I've ever needed."
"Do you own a gun?” Tedone wanted to know.
"We keep a thirty-eight at the farm. I bought it last winter when there was an outbreak of rabid raccoons. You can't take chances when you have a small child."
"Pack it,” he urged me. “Fully loaded."
"Not a chance."
"Why the hell not?"
"Guns go off."
Tedone drained the last of his root beer milkshake, sighing with exasperation. “You've asked me for my advice. You want to ignore it, fine. But just so you know, your whole world is about to blow up in your face."
"It won't be the first time."
* * * *
Not all of Willoughby belonged on a picture postcard. On the eastern bank of the Four Mile River, across an old cast-iron bridge, lay the crumbling red-brick ruins of a mill that had once been the world's largest maker of solid brass casket handles. The riverfront there was a fetid waste dump of sludgy black water, broken glass, and garbage. Rats ran wild. Some brave young artists were hoping to renovate sections of the old mill for studio space. But for now it was where local kids went to get their buzz on. Dealers were frequently busted there for peddling weed, crystal meth, even heroin.
P.J. Romano told me to meet him at ten P.M. by what once was the front gate. After I crossed the river there were no streetlights and no one around. All was darkness and ominous quiet. I left the Jaguar at the foot of the bridge and hoofed it the rest of the way, flashlight in hand, fat ten-by-thirteen-inch mailing pouch tucked under one arm. Lulu marched stoutly along by my side with her large black nose to the ground, snuffling.
As far as Merilee knew, I'd driven down to the beach to walk my new book around, which was something I often did. I'd told her not to worry—Bruce was handling everything. She'd seemed grateful. She'd even agreed to let my mother babysit Tracy until the situation sorted itself out.
As I neared the ravaged brick pillars that once supported the mill's front gate, Lulu let out a low warning growl. He was already there waiting for us.
In the beam from my flashlight P. J. Romano looked like a creature that was meant to live in the dark—all jawbones, snaggly, rotting brown teeth, and wild, bulging eyes. He was very gaunt, very pale. A sheen of oily sweat clung to his forehead. He wore a tank top, cutoffs, and sneakers without socks. The butt of a handgun stuck out of the waistband of his cutoffs.
"That's funny,” he said in his raspy voice. “You're taller than I thought you'd be."
"That's funny, you're not."
Next to me, Lulu settled into a low, watchful crouch.
"But you done good, bro.” He shined his own light on the pouch under my arm. “Didn't call the cops."
"How do you know I didn't?"
"Because you smart guys know how to roll, that's how. You take what you want, then you protect what's yours. That's how things work, right?” He had dry mouth. Kept licking his lips. “It should be me up there."
"Up where?"
"On the big screen. I got more acting talent in this little finger than Tom Cruise has in his whole body."
"Quite a few of us can say that, as it happens."
"I just wouldn't kiss up to them, is all. They don't like that."
"'They?’”
"Directors. Not a one of them ever gave me a fair shot. Wouldn't even listen to what I was saying. Just kept telling me what to do, where to go..."
"Yeah, that's why they call them directors."
"The smug bastards,” he grumbled bitterly. “Treated all of the others like their precious little princes and princesses. Pampered them. Stroked them. Forgave them no matter how many times they fell on their face...” P.J. fished a pack of Kools from his hip pocket and lit one, his hands shaking. “But not me. Never me. Me they buried. I had the chops. I had the looks. I had it all. So how come they didn't give mea chance, hunh?"
I didn't answer him. He wasn't expecting me to. Wasn't talking to me.
Lulu got up now and circled around behind him, a low growl coming from her throat. She has a pretty menacing growl for someone with no legs.
P.J. looked at her, amused. “What's hegoing to do—lick me to death?"
"He is a she. And be careful what you wish for."
He flicked his cigarette off into the darkness. It hit the pavement with a shower of sparks. “Give it here,” he said, meaning the money.
I handed him the mailing pouch. He ripped it open greedily, shining his light inside. “What the hell's this?"
"The current Lyme-Old Lyme phone directory. And they're damned hard to come by, so I want it back."
"Where's my money?” he demanded furiously.
"There's no money, P.J."
"I toldyou to bring it."
"I know what you told me, but I don't take direction well. I suppose we're a lot alike in that respect."
P.J. gaped at me in disbelief. “Bro, what in the hell are you...?"
"Giving you one last chance to walk away. If you ever come near my wife or daughter again, I'll kill you. I'll get away with it, too. The police will even thank me. If you're too wacked out or just plain stupid to realize that I'm trying to do you a favor, then so be it. But I needed to give you this chance. I don't want you on my conscience. It's already plenty crowded."
"You came here to play with me? What are you, tripping? I needthat money!"
"And I need to floss daily. That doesn't mean it's going to happen."
Behind him, Lulu moved in closer, teeth bared, her growl now a full-fledged snarl.
"Okay, tell her to cut that out,” P.J. warned me, his eyes widening.
"I can try, but she's very independent-minded. All of the women in my life are."
"I ain't kidding around. She comes any closer, I'll blow her head off!"
Actually, he kicked her. Or tried to. Not a wise move. All he got for his trouble was Lulu's jaws clamped hard around his bare ankle.
Cursing in angry pain, P.J. reached into his waistband for his Glock semiautomatic. That was when his nose collided with my right fist. He went right down, blood gushing from his nose. The Glock clattered away on the pavement. He lunged for it. He never made it.
That was when two shots rang out from the darkness.
P.J. took the first one in the chest, the second in his throat. Let out a soft groan and then crumpled to his knees. He was gone by the time he toppled over on his side to the ground.
I whirled and my flashlight found Merilee standing there behind me with our .38 clutched in her hand and a calm expression on her face. Lulu ran to her and tried to climb up her leg, whooping and moaning, tail thumping. Me, I went and took the gun from her. Then I heard footsteps on the pavement. Someone else running toward us. It seemed Merilee wasn't the only one who'd decided to tail me that evening.
Frank Tedone knelt beside what had once been P.J. Romano, then looked up at us inquiringly.
"Merilee Nash, say hello to Frank Tedone."
"Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Tedone,” she said graciously.
"Right back at you. The wife's a big fan. Which one of you shot him?"
"I did,” I said quickly.
"He did not,” Merilee insisted. “It was all my doing."
"Well, you'd both better go right home and stay there. I'll take over from here.” Tedone pocketed P.J.'s Glock, then took the .38 from me and gripped it in each hand before he stuck it in P.J.'s dead hand and fired it once into the air. “You hired me to make the pay-off and it went bad,” he explained. “He pulled his .38. The two of us grappled for it and it went off."
"But that gun's registered to me,” I reminded him.
"He stole it from your house."
"We didn't report it stolen."
Tedone w
aved me off. “Don't worry about that. This is what you're paying me for. That the drop money?” he asked, pointing to the mailer pouch.
"In a manner of speaking."
"Give it to me. And beat it. You two were never here, understood?"
We understood. We started back toward the old stone bridge with Lulu trotting along ahead of us, her tail swishing. Merilee had left our old tan Land Rover next to the Jaguar. Tedone's Chevy Tahoe was parked alongside. When I looked back at him, Tedone was crouched over P.J.'s body with his flashlight, going through his pockets. Merilee didn't look back. She never looked back.
* * * *
"Merilee, are you okay?"
"Never better, darling. Although I do wish you'd stop asking me that."
It was two hours later and I was still waiting for an emotional response from her. Relief. Horror. Tears. So far, she'd just gone about her business as if it were any other night. Thanked my mother for babysitting Tracy. Got Tracy settled in her crib. Put away a midnight supper of Caesar salad and four-alarm chili washed down with two frosty mugs of hefeweizen, all topped off by a leisurely soak in the claw-footed tub. Now we were snuggled in bed together in the moonlight with a fresh breeze coming off of Whalebone Cove and Lulu snoring contentedly in her easy chair by the door.
"In fact,” she added, “I fully intend to get the first good night's sleep I've had in a month."
"I have one more thing I need to ask you."
"Very well. What is it?"
"Why did you do it?"
"As an act of mercy. You didn't know the young P.J. The wild and gifted and beautiful P.J. The man who couldn't miss. This P.J. was just so miserable and sick that he'd become a danger to everyone, including himself. I did the humane thing by putting him down. Besides, he was my mess."
"You really loved that guy, didn't you?"
"With all of my heart and soul,” she acknowledged. “When he and I split up I didn't think I'd make it. It took months and months for the wounds to heal. And years before I believed it was even possible to love a man again."
EQMM, December 2007 Page 2