The Last Gig

by Norman Green

  “Maybe not. But think about this, Marty. Six months ago, one of Caughlan’s trucks gets hijacked. Had dope in it. Right?”

  “So?”

  “And you’re telling me six months ago, this grand jury starts meeting, looking at Caughlan and Penn Trans. Right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And six months ago, Willy Caughlan turns up dead, and nobody bothers to look past the surface.”

  “The kid overdosed,” Stiles said. He sounded stubborn.

  “Oh, come on, Marty, gimme a break. Doesn’t the timing here strike you as a little suspicious? And what about the laptop and the guitar that were missing from his apartment?”

  “What about ’em? Could’ve been the cops. You think guys on the job don’t grab shit from a DOA scene, you’re dreaming.”

  “Okay, maybe it was cops. But maybe Willy knew something, maybe he had something in that laptop. Maybe someone thought it was worth killing him for it.”

  Stiles’s mouth turned down at the corners. Means he’s thinking, Al told herself.

  “People I talked to say Willy never touched drugs. Said he didn’t even drink.”

  Stiles still looked unconvinced.

  “Listen,” Al told him. “What’s at the core of this whole business?”

  “Dope,” Marty said.

  “Wrong. Dope’s the product, but what makes this work is the hack. The key to this thing is the job someone did on Penn Trans’s bookkeeping system.”

  “What’s that got to do with Willy Caughlan?”

  “Willy was a musician. That means he was a techie. He was into computers, he had to be, or else he couldn’t function as a musician.”

  “You saying you think he hacked into his own father’s . . .”

  “No. I don’t think that at all. But Willy loved trucks, Marty, his own father told me so. And I’ll bet you he wanted what almost every other guy his age secretly wants.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He wanted to be like his father.”

  “Mickey tried to keep him away from the business. Wanted him to be a schoolteacher or some shit.”

  “Yeah, no kidding. So what do you want to bet he hung out down at Penn Trans with the truck drivers every chance he got? Probably without his father knowing, if he could manage it.”

  “So what if he did?”

  “Maybe he was sharp enough to figure out what was going on.”

  Stiles was shaking his head. “Too much of a stretch,” he said.

  “Maybe. But there’s one more thing.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  She would have preferred to hold it back, but she told him about the sex tape featuring Willy Caughlan and Shine. Then she told him about the reporter who’d taken the trouble to learn her cell number, and who called to offer her a half million for the video.

  “Holy shit,” Marty said. “You find this video, we split. Fifty-fifty.”

  Very easy to split money you don’t have, Al thought. “Sure. But the point is, I think Willy’s laptop has something more than that video on it. I think he was onto whoever sold out Daniel Caughlan and Penn Trans. And I think he was killed just to keep his mouth shut.”

  “I still think it’s a stretch,” Marty said. “I’ll give you another couple of days on it. I’m not buying your theory, okay, but the tape makes it worth the time. Half a mil is a big chunk of change.”

  “Quarter million,” Al told him. “Half for you, half for me.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Marty said. “Right. Absolutely. But listen, if this fixation with Willy Caughlan is all you got, you ain’t got much.”

  “You forget about those three guys in the Bronx?”

  “The ones that took a swing at you? No, I didn’t forget.” But it seemed obvious that he had.

  “I seem to be making somebody very nervous, Marty. I mean, it’s classic. If he kept his head down, odds are he’d be pretty safe, but he went for me once, he’s gonna do it again. All we gotta do is wait for him to make a mistake, and we got him.”

  “Unless he gets you first,” he said. “What are you gonna do next?”

  “I’m gonna go talk to your new office girl,” she said. “And then I’m gonna start looking for that laptop.”

  Sarah Waters was her name, the little plastic sign on the desk said so. She occupied the outer office at West Houston Security, the company owned and operated by Marty Stiles. Sarah Waters sat behind the desk that Alessandra had recently vacated. She was on the short side, mid-thirties, a little plump, round face, dark hair that didn’t quite reach her shoulders. Despite her last name, she looked Italian. Howard Beach, Al thought, or Bayside. Some neighborhood where her father and her brothers knew where she was at all hours of the day and night. Probably married to a guy named Angelo, or Vito. Probably has the two-point-five kids, and the dog, too. Coming in to work on Houston Street, Al thought, must feel, to her, like she’s taking the train to hell. The woman looked up from her computer screen and regarded Al over half-glasses. “Hello,” she said, soft-voiced. “Can I help you?”

  “You’re in my chair,” Al said.

  If Sarah Waters was intimidated, she didn’t show it. “You must be Miss Martillo,” she said, keeping her behind firmly in her seat. “Mr. Stiles talks about you all the time.”

  “I’ll bet he does.”

  “Only good things, so far,” she said. “If you’ll wait here, I’ll go get another chair for you.” She said it without any change of expression. Al watched her get up and walk away. We’re like a pair of stray cats, Al thought. We haven’t quite decided whether or not to claw each other’s eyes out.

  Sarah came back carrying the chair, put it down, and held it for Al like a teenager out on his first date. “Thanks,” Al said.

  Sarah reoccupied her station behind the desk. She leaned on her elbows and peered at Al over her glasses. “Mr. Stiles told me you quit on him. That’s exactly how he put it. ‘She just up and quit.’ He must have told me that a dozen times. Reminds me of my oldest son when he’s lying to me.”

  I knew it, Al thought. Should ask her if the kid’s name is Vito Jr? “How old is your son?”

  “Twelve,” Sarah said.

  “You treat Marty like he’s about twelve, you won’t go too far wrong.”

  “I figured as much. Well, Miss Martillo, let me be up front about this. If you don’t want to help me with Mr. Stiles’s bookkeeping and so on, I’ll understand. It’s really his problem, not mine. I’ll just do the best I can. I don’t see how he can expect more than that.”

  “I don’t like to think I’m that small-minded,” Al said. Yeah, so maybe the guy is a dirtbag, but it’s a job. It pays the bills. Almost. She refocused on the woman in front of her. “Marty isn’t the worst guy in the world, I guess. I mean, he’ll use you like a paper towel and still convince himself he’s done you a great big favor, but he’s all right. As long as you don’t expect too much out of him.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sarah told her. “I need this job.”

  “I know the feeling. It’s a long story, and a boring one, but technically, I still work for Marty. Just not in the office. At least not at the moment.”

  “Oh, great. Dammit all to hell. Mr. Stiles told me this was gonna be a steady gig, he said you left, and now it sounds like he’ll just dump me when you get done with whatever you’re doing. Son of a bitch . . .”

  “Don’t worry about it yet, a lot of things could happen before that time comes.”

  “I suppose. But I wish he’d just have told me the truth.”

  “Oh, come on. What fun would that be?”

  “I suppose. Well, Mr. Stiles tried to explain his bookkeeping system to me,” Sarah said.

  “System?” Al snorted. “He doesn’t have a system. The only system in this place is the one I came up with. It might not be the best, but it worked okay for me.”

  “You have it very securely password-protected.”

  “Dumont,” Al said. “All lowercase.”

  “Dum
ont?”

  “From Dumont Avenue. I used to live there. In Brooklyn. That’s the password.”

  Sarah brightened. “Brooklyn? I don’t think I ever heard of Dumont Avenue. Where is it?”

  “Brownsville Houses,” Al said. “The projects.”

  “Oh.” The light went back out. They didn’t have much in common, after all . . .

  “You?”

  “Bensonhurst.”

  Bull’s-eye, Al thought. You could ride the subway from one neighborhood to the other, but they were worlds apart. She probably sees Hulk Hogan when she looks at me. Probably thinks I got a box cutter hidden in my pan ties. And here I am looking at her, all I see is Sister Immaculata. “Scootch over,” Al said, standing up and picking up her chair. “I’ll show you how I set it up . . .”

  “Well,” Sarah said, when they were done, “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” She said it with something like relief. “You’ve saved me loads of aggravation. After this, my biggest problem will be keeping myself from getting too bored. Mr. Stiles will be so happy when I show him . . .”

  “Word of advice?”

  Sarah nodded. “Go ahead.”

  “Don’t show Marty anything. There are things he’s very good at, but paperwork is not one of them. As long as he doesn’t understand how you do what you do, you’re a life-saver and a magician. If he starts thinking he can do it himself, or explain how to the next person, you’re a peon and a drain on his pocketbook.”

  Sarah sat there considering that. “I guess I’ve been out of the corporate world too long,” she said.

  “Don’t worry,” Al told her. “Computers and the Internet are not that—”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I have a degree in library science, I’m actually pretty good at finding information. I meant, you know, the personalities and all.”

  Sharks, Al thought. Like me. But I’m not a shark, I’m just another scared fish, trying to find my way home. “You’ll get used to it,” she said.

  The woman was an older version of the current Mrs. Daniel Caughlan. She had those same green eyes, that same heavy blond hair, but that aura of physical perfection was, in her case, tempered by time. Her eyes looked lost and the skin of her face had begun to sag, like a balloon that has lost much of its air. She rubbed a hand through her hair. “Hello? Did I talk to you on the phone? Because if you’re a reporter, I, ahh, I don’t think . . .”

  “I’m not a reporter, Mrs. Caughlan—”

  “Moran,” she said, shaking her head. “My name is Judith Moran.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “Daniel thinks everything in the world belongs to him. He can’t understand why I wanted my own name back.” She looked at Al, seemed to focus with an effort. “Are you one of Daniel’s new tomatoes?”

  Alessandra could feel the steam rising. Moran looked stoned, and her voice had a faraway and dreamy quality to it, but still, she had found a sore spot. “I am nobody’s tomato, Miss Moran. I just happen to work for your ex-husband.”

  “Well, all right.” Moran stood just inside the door to her Greenwich Village apartment, and Alessandra stood just outside, in the hallway. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about your son.”

  Moran’s face looked like someone had just let some more air out of the balloon. She stood in the doorway, stared off into space, but then she seemed to notice Al again. “All right,” she said, and she stood aside. “Come in.”

  Moran’s living room resembled a knickknack museum that had just relocated from much larger quarters. There was a smell about the place, too. Al couldn’t quite place it, but it reminded her of Tio Bobby’s hospital room. Get on with it, Al told herself. “Did your son speak with you often, Miss Moran?”

  “Willy and I were very close,” Moran said. Her eyes were unfocused and her voice so soft Al had to lean in to hear her.

  “Did you ever know Willy to experiment with drugs?”

  “No,” Moran said, drawing out that single syllable. “No, Willy . . . Willy never got high. He was too busy, he had too many things he wanted to do. That’s what he always said, anyhow.”

  “Did you notice any changes in his personality after he got involved with BandX?”

  “He smiled more,” Moran said, and her voice seemed a bit sharper. “He was happier. He was doing something creative, something he loved. It seemed that he’d found himself. And the other musicians in the band appreciated his gift. It was probably the first time in his life that other men paid him any significant attention.”

  “Didn’t he hang out at Penn Transfer when he was younger?”

  “Yes. He was a beautiful child. The truck drivers used to let him ride along . . .”

  “How much did the other band members know about Willy’s father?”

  Moran thought about it, then shrugged. “Who knows,” she said. “I didn’t have that much contact with them. Musicians are all very self-involved. If you don’t play something, they don’t notice you.”

  “Did Willy seem close to any of the other guys in BandX?”

  “I don’t think so. Willy idolized the one guitar player, the one who went off to jail, or whatever . . .” Her hand fluttered uncertainly in the air. “CJ, or something . . . He knew CJ was going to come back. He told me once he was just keeping the seat warm.”

  “Was he all right with that?”

  “I think so. Willy was just a boy, he didn’t care about anything beyond the day after tomorrow. If they let him play for a while, he was happy.”

  “Were you aware of Willy’s relationship with a singer who calls herself Shine?”

  Moran sighed. “Willy had a lot of girlfriends. He was very personable . . . None of his relationships lasted very long. I think Willy enjoyed being around women, but I don’t think he ever really knew what it was to love any one particular girl. He always seemed so puzzled when some girl he’d walked away from got angry about it.” She was staring at Al for the first time. “He was like his father, in that way.”

  “Did Willy leave any personal stuff here, Miss Moran?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Willy seemed like a pretty tech-savvy kid. Did he leave any discs here, or maybe a memory stick?”

  “I know what you’re looking for, Miss Martillo. I haven’t seen it. I sincerely hope no one ever does.”

  “Miss Moran, I am not interested in pictures of Willy having sex. But there are two things missing from Willy’s studio. One was a guitar allegedly once owned by Stevie Ray Vaughn, and the other was Willy’s laptop. The guitar, I can’t really figure, but I wonder if Willy had something on his computer that might have led to his death. If Willy backed up his data, he’d probably leave it somewhere other than his apartment. That’s what I’m looking for. It would most likely be on a CD or a memory stick or some floppys.”

  “Willy’s gone,” Moran said, looking and sounding unfocused again. “We were very close, you know. He talked to me all the time . . . But he didn’t leave anything here with me . . .”

  This woman is so wrecked, Al thought, if Willy’s petrified body were standing in her front hall, she probably wouldn’t notice it. “Thanks for all your help,” she said.

  Thirteen

  The house was in the upper reaches of the Bronx in a neighborhood so suburban in nature that it hardly looked like part of the city at all. It was big, square, redbrick, red tile roof, green gutters, lots of windows. It was set well back from the road, behind a ragged fringe of bushes and a ratty lawn. The driveway was buttressed by six-foot brick columns. Alessandra checked the address in the predawn gloom, then found a parking spot down the street and settled in to wait. This was the day the band was supposed to begin recording their album, and Al had assumed that they would get started early, but she was wrong. The sun rose, rush hour came and went, but there were still no signs of life in the brick house. Finally, a little after ten, a Toyota minivan with a BABY ON BOARD sticker in its back window rolled down the street, turn
ed into the driveway, and pulled up near the house. The driver did not get out at first, he sat there and honked his horn, but when that did not work, he got out, walked up to the front door, and began pounding on it with a fist. Al, peering through her long lens, recognized Doc Jamison, BandX’s bassist. He kept it up for another minute or so until someone finally opened up. Ten minutes later, the rest of the band members joined Jamison in the van, all but TJ, who apparently did not live with them anymore.

  Al watched them back out of the driveway and pull away. She followed at a discreet distance until she was sure they were really leaving the neighborhood, then she turned back and parked the Astro back where she’d had it. She crawled into the back of the van and changed quickly: tight blue pants, blue jacket with the gas company logo on it, shades, a plastic ID card on a chain around her neck, and a toolbox.

  She walked down the driveway. Briskly, she told herself, but not too fast. Don’t run. She pounded on the door just as Jamison had. She couldn’t hear anyone stirring inside, but that didn’t guarantee the place was empty. She had her cover story ready—sorry to bother you, ma’am, we’ve had reports of a gas leak in the area, you’re going to have to vacate the premises. Not too elaborate, but she figured the odds were pretty good that any woman sleeping in this place with one of these guys had to be dumber than a box of rocks.

  No answer.

  She tried again, got the same result. The door had a dead bolt, but she could see from the outside that they hadn’t locked it. She popped the other lock with a Slim Jim, stepped inside, kicked the door closed behind her. She put her toolbox on the floor, slipped on a pair of clear plastic gloves, and looked around. No bars on the windows, no alarm, and they hadn’t bothered with the dead bolt. Didn’t even have a dog.

  They had a cat, though, maybe more than one. She could smell cat shit and ammonia over a faint sweet trace of herb. She left her toolbox where it was and took a quick tour of the first floor. It was more or less what she’d expected. The house must have been something back in its younger days, hardwood floors, ornate wainscoting, a library with french doors, fancy moldings. Someone had started to strip the layers of paint from the moldings, exposing and refinishing the wood. The effect was striking, but whoever had made the attempt had run out of gas after doing most of one room, and the rest of the stuff was still painted. The house had steam heat, and the heavy metal radiators had embedded themselves into the wooden floors. The radiators were painted, too, along with the valves and pipes.