Fake I.D. hcc-56

by Jason Starr

  “Thanks again for your time, Mr. Russo,” Himoto said, and he left the room.

  The other detectives walked out too, except Mike.

  “So what’s the deal with Himoto?” I asked.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Mike said. “You just hit a sore spot with him, that’s all. His kid’s a major-league homo, an AIDS activist, the whole nine yards.”

  “So they really think Gary did it, huh?” I said.

  “Maybe,” Mike said. “They have some DNA evidence they’re gonna run by the lab—see if it brings a match.”

  “What kind of evidence?” I asked.

  “They found a couple of pubes on the body,” Mike said. “Some guy was probably balling her before she died.”

  Mike walked me to the front of the precinct, updating me about the rest of the case. He said that the cops still didn’t know much about Debbie’s whereabouts before she was killed. She was last seen at a Chinese restaurant on Second Avenue at around 4:30 Wednesday afternoon, but they had no idea where she went after that or how her body wound up in Brooklyn. At the door, Mike thanked me again for coming down and he said he doubted he’d need to talk to me again. We shook hands goodbye.

  Sixteen

  Things at work seemed to be going back to normal. There were no cops or reporters around—just the usual cronies, finishing up getting drunk before they went home to their wives. Kathy had the night off, but Gil was sitting on a stool, writing in his little notebook, and even Frank was there, sitting at a table alone, nursing a beer. It kind of surprised me to see Frank at the bar, after the way he was last night, but it made a lot of sense too. Maybe he finally realized that Debbie was just a big headache and he was a lot better off with her out of the way.

  “Hey,” I said, sitting down across from him.

  “Hey, Tommy,” he said, looking up. He seemed happy to see me.

  “You look a lot better than you did last night,” I said.

  “I look like shit and you know it,” he said. “I wouldn’t have come in, but I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I was up all night on the phone with Debbie’s relatives. Now I’ve got a funeral to plan.”

  “Hey, if you want me to take care of that I can,” I said.

  “I appreciate it, Tommy, but that’s all right. My sister’s coming up from Maryland and she’ll help out. It’s just hard, you know?”

  “You just gotta hang in there—be strong,” I said. “I was by the police precinct before.”

  “Yeah, they had Gil and Gary there too.”

  “Gary? I thought they—”

  “That’s the good news. The police said Gary isn’t a suspect anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “He had an alibi for Wednesday, the time they think Debbie was killed. He was at his friend’s house in Astoria.”

  “That is good news,” I said. “Lemme go hang up my coat.”

  It turned out to be the slowest Friday night I’d ever seen at O’Reilley’s. By eight o’clock there were only two customers in the bar, then they left and the place was empty.

  I was back by the bar, playing a Queen CD, when Rodrigo walked in. He glared at me with dark, pissed-off eyes, then he sat down at the table across from Frank. Over “We Will Rock You” I couldn’t make out what Rodrigo was saying, but I didn’t like the looks of it. A few times, Frank looked over at me, and I knew Rodrigo was telling Frank about the robbery. I couldn’t understand why he was telling him now, after he’d kept the secret for so long.

  Rodrigo sat at the table with Frank for a while longer—Rodrigo doing all the talking, Frank just sitting there, looking over at me once in a while, taking it in. Then Rodrigo got up and, without looking at me, went toward the kitchen. I was going to follow him, find out what the hell was going on, when Frank got up and came over to me, sitting down on a stool across the bar.

  “Let me guess,” I said before Frank could say anything. “Rodrigo was trying to get me back.”

  “Get you back?” Frank asked.

  “We had a little incident here the other night when you weren’t around,” I said, smiling. “His wife came into the bar and I didn’t know she was his wife—I just thought she was a good-looking Mexican girl. And you know how I am when I see a pretty face. I started talking to her, just polite talk, and Rodrigo saw us and flipped out. You know, Mexicans with their machismo. The fuckin’ guy thought I was trying to pick up his wife.” I laughed. “Anyway, he got all hot-headed, started calling me names and I said something about his mother. I guess now he’s getting me back by telling you shit about me. Am I right?”

  “He said you robbed the safe.”

  “I knew it. You’d think the guy could’ve come up with a more original way to get even than to start making up rumors about me. What does he think this is, high school?”

  Frank was staring at me.

  “What?” I said. “Don’t tell me you believe that bullshit?”

  “You went to Vegas Monday night?”

  “Yeah,” I said, figuring the cops must’ve told him so there was no point denying it. “So what?”

  “I was gonna say something about it before, but now it all makes sense. Where the hell did you get the money to go to Las Vegas?”

  Frank was screaming. I’d never heard him scream before, at anybody, but I decided not to take it personally. He was probably just pissed off about all the shit that was happening lately and he was taking it out on me.

  “I hit at the track,” I said calmly.

  “I thought you told me you weren’t gonna bet anymore?”

  “What can I say?” I said. “I’ve got a problem. And if you wanna know the truth I’ve signed up for Gamblers Anonymous.”

  “Rodrigo told me he saw you leave here that night, carrying a big garbage bag.”

  “Rodrigo’s a liar.”

  “I’ve been through too much the past twenty-four hours to put up with any more bullshit,” he said. “To be honest, I don’t really care about the robbery anymore, but I just want to know the truth now, once and for all—”

  “I told you the truth. Come on, I don’t even know the combination to the safe, remember?”

  “Maybe you saw me or Gary going into it one time.”

  “That’s crazy. Don’t listen to Rodrigo. If Rodrigo saw me steal the money why wouldn’t he’ve told you right away?”

  Frank took a deep breath. “He said he would’ve told me about it right away, but he was afraid to get involved with the police because he was working here illegally.”

  “So why is he telling you now?”

  “His green card just came through this afternoon.”

  “Come on,” I said. “The guy’s lying—he probably took that money himself and now he’s just trying to cover his own ass.”

  While I was talking, Gary stormed into the bar. He looked crazy. His hair was a mess and he looked tired, like he hadn’t slept since the last time I saw him. Swinging his arms, he walked around the bar and came right up to me.

  “He did it,” Gary said to Frank. “I told you right away, but you didn’t believe me. First he robbed you, then he killed Debbie.”

  “Hey, watch your fuckin’ mouth,” I said.

  Now Gil came over and he was standing behind Gary.

  “Why don’t you just cool it?” Gil said.

  “Stay the hell out of this,” Gary said. “This is between me and this killer right here.”

  “Hey,” I said to Frank, “if you don’t tell your kid to shut up—”

  “She was flirting with him all the time,” Gary said to Frank. “If you didn’t know about it you were blind, because everybody knew about it.”

  “Look,” I said. “If you don’t just shut the hell—”

  Gary sucker-punched me below my left eye and I stumbled backwards into the liquor bottles. Glass crashed onto the floor. Frank and Gil were screaming and Queen was singing “We Are The Champions.” I was okay, though. I didn’t fall down and I wasn’t dazed. My eye hurt and I knew it was g
oing to swell up if I didn’t put ice on it. But the ice would have to wait.

  “That was for Debbie,” Gary said, “and for my father.”

  Frank was yelling at us and Gil was trying to hold Gary back. Then Gary got loose. He took another swing at me, but this time I was ready. I stepped back and the punch missed wildly. I saw my opening. I pushed him off me then I hit him with an uppercut to the jaw. His head snapped back first, then his whole body went. As he was falling backwards, I caught him again—right in the mouth. It was probably the hardest I’d ever hit anybody. I got all my strength behind it and he didn’t have a chance to duck. He fell straight back on his ass like somebody pulled a rug out from under him.

  “That’s all,” Frank said. He was grabbing me from behind. “Get the hell out of here—right now!”

  Gary was squirming around on the ground, trying to get up. Blood was dripping from his mouth. Then he spit a few teeth onto the floor.

  “Look what you did,” he mumbled. “Look what you did.” He was crying.

  “Gil, pick up the teeth and put them on ice,” Frank said. “Maybe a dentist can reattach them.”

  Gil took a glass and started to put the bloody teeth into it.

  Frank was looking at me.

  “I had to do it,” I said. “You saw him take that cheap shot at me.”

  “I want you out of here! Now!”

  “Frank, come on, I—”

  “Out!”

  Gil helped Gary up. Gary looked like he was about to pass out.

  “Take him to the bathroom in the back and clean him up,” Frank said. “Then we’ll take him to a dentist.”

  Frank took the glass with the teeth and put ice in it. After Gary and Gil passed by I started to leave. Then I turned back toward Frank.

  “Before I go I just want you to know I’m not lying,” I said. “I don’t know who robbed the safe or who killed your wife, but it sure as hell wasn’t me. You know that.”

  Frank didn’t say anything.

  I waited a few seconds then said, “And don’t worry about those choppers. An old buddy of mine got his teeth busted once. The dentist put on some of those caps and the guy came back looking like a movie star.”

  “You better just go home, Tommy.”

  “All right,” I said. “Whatever you say. I mean you’re the boss, right?”

  I went to the back to get my leather coat. When I came back, Frank was sitting on a bar stool with his head in his hands. I couldn’t tell if he was crying, but he was moving his head like he was. I really felt sorry for him.

  “I still want to manage this bar some day,” I said. “I know I can do a great job for you and if you want me to do it I’ll do it. But if you don’t want me back here, that’s fine with me too. I just want you to know, you’re still like a father to me.”

  I started to leave.

  “Tommy.”

  I turned around. Suddenly, Frank looked ten years older.

  “See you tomorrow,” he said.

  I smiled, then I flipped up my coat collar and I left the bar.

  Seventeen

  At seven A.M. I was standing in front of the mirror on my closet door. I was wearing my white suit with my black shirt, shiny black shoes, a black tie, and my lucky gold barbell chain. My hair was slicked back and my beard was trimmed. I would’ve looked perfect if it weren’t for my black eye. I hadn’t put ice on it and it had swelled up overnight.

  The gates to the racetrack didn’t open until eleven o’clock, but I wanted to leave early. Sunshine Brandy was running in the second race and I was afraid that if something happened, like my car broke down, I’d miss it. But leaving six hours before the race went off I’d definitely get there with time to spare.

  On my way out, I checked the kitchen counter. Last night, when I came home from the bar, I’d noticed more cheese was gone and there were some more droppings. Now there were only two chunks of cheese left and the whole counter was covered with mouse shit. I took the rest of the cheese out of the fridge, spread it around the counter for the mice to feast on, and then I got the show on the road.

  My car started right away and it made it on to the FDR Drive without stalling. One of the first things I was going to do when I got rich was buy a new car—probably a bright red Ferrari. Or maybe I’d have a few cars, just to mix things up.

  There was no traffic so I made it to the track in about an hour. I thought about going to a diner to kill time and grab something to eat, but I didn’t have an appetite. I was too excited to eat and, besides, I remembered how I’d promised myself that my diner days were over. I’d only go to expensive restaurants to eat from now on, but I didn’t figure there were too many nice restaurants in Ozone Park, Queens, near the racetrack—especially not ones that were open at eight in the morning.

  You might think that time would go by slowly, sitting in a parked car with nothing to do, but the next time I checked my watch it was eleven o’clock.

  I pulled into the parking lot, paying the extra buck for preferred parking, and then I sat there for a minute, letting it all soak in. I realized how much my life had improved in the past two weeks. That day at the jai-alai fronton I was a struggling actor with no prospects, but now everything was working out. No doubt about it—Pete Logan getting into my car was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me.

  Walking slowly so I wouldn’t sweat up my suit, I headed toward the entrance to the clubhouse. The old guy at the admission window didn’t even look at me as he took my three bucks. When I was a famous horse owner I knew things would be a lot different. I’d probably have a pass, go through a special entrance, and the guy at the door would say “Good morning, Mr. Russo,” and if he was lucky I’d look at him or say good morning back.

  Going into the track, I felt like I was stepping into my new life. Outside was the old Tommy Russo, and I wasn’t sad to see him go.

  I went to the bathroom to piss and to make sure I still looked great. A few hairs had come loose, but I slicked them back into place with some water and my little black comb, and then I went back into the clubhouse. I decided to go out to the stands and take a look at the owners’ boxes—see where I’d be sitting someday. But on my way out a tall, skinny black usher, said, “You got a pass?”

  “No. I mean not yet,” I said.

  “Then you can’t go out there.”

  “It’s all right. I just wanted to look.”

  “Sorry. You can’t go out there if you don’t got a pass.”

  “But I just wanted to take a look, that’s all.”

  I started to walk by him. He stood in my way.

  “Those are the owners’ boxes,” he said. “They’re only for authorized personnel.”

  “I’m gonna be authorized personnel. I’m claiming a horse today.”

  “Sorry,” he said, “if you’re not authorized personnel you can’t go out there.”

  “I just wanna go take a look,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

  I walked past him and he grabbed the back of my shoulder.

  “Hey,” I said. “What’s your problem?”

  Or maybe I yelled it because a security guard came running over.

  “What’s going on here?” he asked. He was a little old Irish guy with gray hair and square shoulders. He reminded me of Frank.

  “Ask this guy,” I said. “He just grabbed me.”

  “I just told him he can’t go out there without a pass and he tried to get by me,” the usher said.

  “Forget about it,” I said. “The guy’s crazy.”

  “Just take it easy,” the security guard said. “I don’t want any trouble here.”

  “You talking to me or him?” I said.

  “You,” he said.

  I walked away, shaking my head.

  I spotted Pete, sitting on a bench against the wall, reading the Racing Form. At first I thought it couldn’t possibly be him. Not because he looked different, because he looked the same. He was wearing sneakers, old jeans, a hooded sweat
shirt, and the same beige winter jacket he’d been wearing at the jai-alai fronton. He wasn’t even dressed up as good as he was at the Chinese restaurant. Maybe I got the day screwed up—maybe we were supposed to claim the horse tomorrow or some other time. I couldn’t think of any other reason why Pete wasn’t wearing a suit.

  When I walked over to him he looked up at me like he was surprised. I was probably giving him the same look.

  “Look at you,” he said, “all decked out. What’s the special occasion?”

  Maybe I did get the date mixed up.

  “What do you mean?” I said. “I got a call from Alan the other day. We’re claiming the horse today, right?”

  “If he doesn’t get scratched,” Pete said. “But I just checked the board downstairs and he’s still in. No, I meant are you doing something after the races? Going to a wedding or something?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Then what’s with the outfit?”

  “I was gonna ask you the same question,” I said.

  “What do you mean? I always dress like this to go to the track.”

  “That’s what I mean,” I said.

  We stared at each other for a couple of seconds.

  “I get it,” Pete said. “You’re trying to be funny.”

  “Do I look like I’m trying to be funny?” I said. “I don’t understand—why did you dress like that today?”

  “Because I felt like it,” he said.

  “Yeah, well you’re a horse owner now—you should dress like one. Is this how you’re gonna look when you’re down there in the winner’s circle, getting your picture taken? I mean come on—”

  “Are you feeling all right?” Pete asked.

  “Are you?”

  “Maybe you should sit down—relax.”

  I turned around and started to walk away. Then I stopped, realizing this wouldn’t do me any good. Pete was part of the syndicate and I had to stick with him no matter what he looked like.

  I stood with my back to Pete for twenty seconds, maybe longer, then I turned back around.