“What are you going to do?”
“We’re going to need to get creative.”
“Like what?”
“The less you know, the better.”
They were sitting in the front seat of the van, eating tacos.
“Look, promise me you won’t do anything to the woman who co-signed.”
“Why would we?”
“You know, if something happened to me.”
“We’ll just sue her.”
“That’s comforting.”
“It’s not personal.”
“She doesn’t know anything about this.”
“I should hope not. By the way, we’ve got a Facebook page. It would help if you liked us.”
“You’re on fucking Facebook?”
“Cost of doing business.”
“Jesus . . .”
“Rebuilding patios is a loss leader. The snuff business is the cash cow.”
“Any better idea of a time frame?”
“Nope. This one is problematic. If we had known he doesn’t drive, we would have charged you more money.”
Biff finished his taco, folded the perfectly clean napkin up and put it in a plastic trash bag hanging from the dashboard. The van reeked of air freshener.
“What do you do with the body?”
“Not our problem. We’re in the exterminating business, not the disposal business.”
“Yeah, but with all this DNA shit you see on TV, don’t you take risks leaving a body behind?”
“Nothing for you to worry about. You’re just a guy getting his patio deck redone. You got the cash?”
Sammy handed him the FedEx envelope with the hundred-dollar bills inside, and Biff stuck it in the glove compartment.
“You’re not going to count it?”
“Why? If it’s not right, we just don’t do the job.”
“What happens if I change my mind?”
“You don’t. This is an irrevocable contract. Once we’re in business, we don’t want to see you or talk to you again. When the job’s done, you’ll be given instructions on how and where to deliver the final payment.”
“That’s crazy . . .”
“You don’t like it, you can try Craigslist.”
Sammy studied the man’s features. There wasn’t an ounce of irony in them.
“One other thing, Sammy. Don’t even think about stiffing us for the rest of the money. If you do, we’re going to terminate you. With extreme prejudice.”
“What does that mean?”
“You don’t want to know, believe me. We’re done here.”
Biff started up the van’s engine. Sammy digested a sense of finality along with his taco. This was it. As soon as he got out and Biff drove away, the plan would be in motion.
“So . . . this is it, huh?”
“You bet. The deck guys will be there on Monday morning. Early.”
By early, Sammy thought he was talking about nine. But at thirty seconds past 7:00 a.m. the following Monday, two Mexicans in Acme Exterminating and Patio Deck jumpsuits started chewing up his old deck with a pneumatic drill. At seven fifteen, he was visited by Ethel Esmitz, who informed him, in her capacity as the homeowners’ association president, that any kind of major construction work had to be approved by the PGHOA.
“It’s in the CC&Rs.”
“The what?”
“The CC&Rs. Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions. You signed it when you bought your unit.”
This conversation, carried on by shouting over the sound of the jackhammer, was followed by Tuuli—or perhaps it was Majda—arriving to tell him that the noise had traumatized their cats. Even Chris and Edie, hung over from whatever overindulgence they’d engaged in the previous night, complained.
Sammy went outside to ask the workmen how long the job was going to take, but they apparently spoke no English because they ignored him. His deck had been reduced to a rubble of slate fragments and a ground fog of dust. The Mexicans were wearing surgical masks and do-rags and looked like members of a heavy metal band.
They finally stopped for lunch at around eleven, and Sammy used the reprieve to pick up the phone and call Marcy. He wanted to see if Diddly Shit was still alive.
“Hey, Marcy, it’s Sammy. Sorry about the noise. The deck guys are here.”
“No problem. I slept right through it.”
Sammy didn’t like the idea of that. Was she so knocked out by post-coital bliss that she couldn’t hear the jackhammer? Was the African lying in bed beside her, smoking a cigarette?
“So . . . how was karaoke?”
“Great. You should have come. Didier sang La Vie En Rose.”
He would have paid a lot not to witness that.
“I didn’t hear from him about the noise. Everyone else complained. Is he okay?”
“Yeah. He’s out taking Klaus for a walk.”
“That’s nice.”
“Klaus loves Didier.”
Fuck him, and the dog he rode in on.
Sammy was in the CVS drugstore downtown, buying Prilosec for his acid reflux, when he walked past the condom display and had a thought. Maybe he should stock up. It had been years since he bought a condom. During his teen years on Long Island, buying a scumbag, as they were called by the Italian teenagers he hung out with, was a rite of passage. They were kept behind the counter, and you mumbled that you wanted some Trojans and cringed when the pharmacist repeated, loud enough for the whole store to hear, “What’s that? Prophylactics? You want prophylactics?”
Then you would carry one in your wallet for months, if not years, until the outline of the condom could be seen through the leather, which you would proudly display to your pals every time you took your wallet out. See? I’m prepared. For the innumerable opportunities presenting themselves every day.
Now, fifty-plus years later, he felt a similar mixture of embarrassment and pride as he placed the condoms alongside his Prilosec on the checkout counter. The smart-ass clerk with the shaved head and the pierced eyebrow looked at the condoms, then at Sammy, and said, “Big weekend, huh?”
If it wasn’t broad daylight, with a line of people in back of him, he would have cold-cocked the kid. Instead he smirked back and said, “You bet.”
“Way to go, dude,” the kid said, and offered him a high five, which Sammy declined.
He was walking out to his car when he heard something he hadn’t heard in almost two years. It froze him in his tracks.
“Sal?”
All those years of conditioning made him turn toward the voice, instead of continuing toward his car, as he should have. Standing ten feet away from him, with a shopping cart full of stuff, was Nick Tuccieri. And a look on his face, caught between surprise and amusement.
“Jesus! Sal Didziocomo . . .”
Tuccieri was a made guy in the Finoccio family whom Sammy had known since their days together with the janitors. He was called Nick the Tip, because he chain-smoked tiparillos. Sammy had sat in cars with him, windows cracked only a fraction of an inch because of the Long Island winter, choking on his cigar smoke and waiting for some guy they were about to shake down.
A few difficult seconds elapsed, during which Sammy considered saying he wasn’t Sal Didziocomo and getting into his car, but he knew Tuccieri had made him. The mobster was staring right at the plate of the Lexus.
“How you doing, Nick?” he said, finally, his mind shifting into overdrive. Phil Finoccio may have been in the joint, but he was still running things from the inside. Sammy had no doubt there was a price on his head—a big one.
“You live out here?”
“Just vacationing,” Sammy said.
Tuccieri read Sammy’s discomfort and tried to reassure him. “Hey, Sal, listen. You don’t have anything to worry about. I’m retired. I’m not going to drop a dime on you.”
Sammy nodded, bouncing up and down on his feet, as if he had to pee.
“Phil’s not getting out for a while. The guy’s pushing eighty. He probably doesn’
t even remember.”
Right. Like he doesn’t remember his own name.
“Vicky and I moved out here last summer,” Nick the Tip went on. “We’re living over in Palm Desert. Why don’t you come by for dinner?”
“Thanks, Nick, but I’m leaving tomorrow. Early. Got to pack.”
“Where you living these days?”
“Jacksonville. Florida.”
“No shit? Good fishing down there, huh?”
“Marlin.” The word slid out of Sammy’s mouth. He hadn’t the slightest fucking idea if there was marlin fishing in Jacksonville.
“Hey, listen, why don’t you give me your number? We’re thinking of going to Florida in February. We’ll do a little fishing, catch up.”
“Uh . . . sure. Listen, give me your email and I’ll send it to you, okay?”
Tuccieri fished a card out of his wallet and handed it to him. It said just VICKY AND NICKY, and it had a phone number and email address.
“Thanks, I’ll get in touch. Good seeing you, Nick.”
Sammy was so eager to get away that he turned too quickly and the CVS bag slipped out of his hand. The condom package spilled out onto the ground.
As he stooped to pick it up, he heard Tuccieri say, “Way to go, Sal. Glad to see you’re still in the ball game.”
Sammy nodded stupidly and went to his car, opening it and getting behind the wheel. He started the engine and looked back through the rearview. There was Nick the Tip, staring right at his license plate.
As soon as he got home, Sammy dropped two Prilosecs. It had happened, the one thing that wasn’t supposed to happen. His cover was blown—and to a guy who used to work for Phil Finoccio, if he didn’t still. The witness protection people had stressed that one small breach was all it took. It was like a gas leak, they said. The tiniest opening, and you’re dead.
He had been told to report any incident that could possibly reveal his former identity to the Marshals Service. Immediately. And as soon as he did it, he knew they would whisk him off to some safe house while they reconstructed a new identity and location for him. They were set up for it. It was like a fire drill. Just ring the alarm, and they would be ready to roll.
The thought of starting this whole game over made him ill. Another name, another home, another social security number, another marshal . . . and even worse, he would have to disappear from Marcy Gray’s life. He wouldn’t be able to say goodbye, or even send her a note explaining what had happened.
He poured himself a large glass of cabernet, which he knew from experience would neutralize the Prilosec, but fuck it. He needed to calm down, figure out what to do, and then do it. Fast.
The question was—was Nick Tuccieri to be trusted? Everything he had learned from his forty years in a crime family told him no. Loyalty to the family came first, and in spite of the guy’s protestations to the contrary, Sammy knew that you never really retired. You just went out to pasture.
If Nick reported the meeting to Finoccio but bought the Jacksonville story, they would send people down there to look for him. But if they were still playing with a full deck, they would run Sammy’s plate and learn that the car wasn’t a rental, but was instead registered to Sammy Dee, of Paradise Gardens, Palm Springs, California. Then it would be only a matter of time before he started his car and was sent through the roof of the garage.
Well, maybe it was better to get sent through the garage roof than to have to go through this charade one more time. In the end, it was the thought of Marcy Gray and a possible future with her, not to mention the unthinkable thought that with Sammy gone Diddly Shit would have an unimpeded path to her bed, that made him decide to roll the dice and pray that Nick the Tip didn’t drop a dime on him—or, if he did, that it was the wrong dime. She was the first woman in a long time who had gotten him interested in something other than golf and baseball. And if it was just his dick talking, so what? Something was talking to him.
The one good thing about his age and prospects was the fact that he didn’t have that much to lose. Whatever happened, he had ten, fifteen more years on the outside. Might as well live them the way he wanted to. And if he was checking out, he would check out with a bang.
Sitting on the counter was a three-pack of lubricated Durex Extra Strength. He took one out and put it in his wallet. Then he thought better of it and put all three in there. Why the fuck not? Go for the trifecta.
Two days after his run-in with Nick the Tip, he was woken early in the morning by one of his neighbors from across the hall. Tuuli (or Majda) knocked loudly on the door, and when Sammy staggered to open it in his pajamas, he was greeted by a torrent of Finnish invective. When she switched into English, the only word he understood was murderer.
She turned on her heels and stalked across the hallway, entering her condo and slamming the door. Sammy stood there, feeling a sudden chill pass through him. Was it done? Was the African dead?
It was nine o’clock in the morning. He had heard no police sirens or ambulances. Cracking his blinds, he peered out the window. All was quiet at Paradise Gardens. There was no crime scene tape around Diddly Shit’s condo, no cop cars or medical examiners in sight. The only activity was Bert Velum, the eighty-seven-year-old health freak, swimming laps in the pool.
As the morning dragged on, Sammy sat on a kitchen stool, drinking coffee and trying to figure out what had motivated the woman’s outburst. If Diddly Shit was, in fact, dead, how did she know that Sammy had ordered the hit? He couldn’t call Biff to inquire. Was there something on their Facebook page? Another first-rate snuff job done. Bravo!
He was still in his pajamas, seriously over-caffeinated, when his doorbell rang. Standing there were two badly dressed plainclothes detectives from the Palm Springs Police Department.
Detective Melendez flashed an ID.
“Sammy Dee?”
Sammy nodded. He asked if he and his partner, Detective Guthrie, could have a word with him. Sammy took a deep breath, trying to keep his heart rate down, and nodded. He was frozen in place, and after an awkward pause, Melendez asked, “Mind if we come in?”
Sammy nodded again and led them to his kitchen table.
“Coffee?” Sammy offered, his throat thick.
“No thanks,” Melendez replied. Then, matter-of-factly, “Can you tell us, Mr. Dee, where you were last night?”
“Something happen?”
The cop held his look for a long moment, as if trying to read guilt into his features. “There was a murder committed.”
“What!?” Sammy tried to communicate both shock and outrage.
“About nine o’clock last night. Were you here?”
“Uh, I think so . . .”
“You think so?”
“I went out for dinner at one point . . .” Sammy lied and immediately regretted it. What was the point of lying about his whereabouts? He hadn’t killed the African—not directly, at least. “But I was back by nine. I’m pretty sure. Who was killed?”
“You don’t know?”
“If I did, I wouldn’t be asking you.”
“Do you know your neighbors across the hall?”
So that’s why Tuuli (or Majda) was screaming at him. The other one was dead. They hit the wrong person. They must have got the condos mixed up . . .
“Something happened to them?”
The cops exchanged a look, and for the first time the other detective, Guthrie, spoke. “One of their Siamese cats was found dead this morning.”
It took everything that Sammy had to keep from bursting out laughing. And it wasn’t just the mix-up, but the fact that there’d be less cat-piss smell wafting across the hall. Bad news, good news.
“You mean, someone killed the cat?”
“The cat was poisoned.”
“Poisoned? Who would do that?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Why are you talking to me?”
Melendez took over again. The man was wearing the ugliest sports jacket that Sammy had
seen since his days in the mob. “Mr. Dee, according to the cat’s owner”—he checked his notebook—“Tuuli Rennholm, you had made threats against their cats in the past.”
“She thinks I killed her cat?”
The cop rechecked his notebook. “Both women, Tuuli Rennholm and Majda Juntunun, as well as the homeowners’ association president, Ethel Esmitz, have indicated that you have complained about the cats.”
“Yeah. They smell the hall up. But that doesn’t mean I killed one of them.”
“Do you have any witnesses to your whereabouts at nine o’clock last night?”
“No. What kind of bullshit is this? You’re spending taxpayers’ money investigating a dead cat?”
This remark pissed Melendez off, as if Sammy was questioning his professionalism. “Murdering an animal is a felony in California.”
“Look, it’s true I don’t like the cats, but I didn’t kill one of them.”
Melendez opened his notebook again. Then: “Have you ever ordered pizza from Pizza Hut on Arroyo Seco Drive?”
“Probably. I don’t remember. The cat ate poisoned pizza?”
“Infused with strychnine.”
“Cats don’t like pizza.”
“It had anchovies on it.”
Melendez opened his notebook again, as if consulting a script. “Do you know anybody in the complex who orders take-out pizza from Pizza Hut?”
“Jesus, I don’t know. I mean, it’s the closest one, I think. And they deliver. Between you and me, I prefer the Domino’s on Eucalyptus.”
“So you didn’t order the pizza or know anybody who may have?”
“Right.”
“One more question. Is there anyone you think might be trying to kill you?”
“Me? You think the pizza was meant for me?”
“We don’t know who it was meant for. The poisoned slice was in the communal garbage bin.”
“No shit?”
“You have no known enemies?”
“No. I’m retired. I play a little golf, keep to myself. Who’d want to kill me?”
Melendez slapped his notebook shut with emphasis and said, “Thank you. Call me if you think of anything you forgot to mention.” He handed Sammy a card: DETECTIVE SERGEANT JORGE MELENDEZ, PSPD, with a phone number and a website.
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