The Artie Crimes

by Jan Christensen

  The homeless man shrugged, head bobbing. “Didn’t get a good look at him. But I seen the car with Jetso driving once before, about a week ago. Think he got a gig with someone as a driver. What’s all this to you?”

  It was Artie’s turn to shrug. “I heard her scream. Saw her face. Didn’t seem right.”

  “Probly not. That’s all I know.” And the ragged-looking man shuffled off down the street, head bobbing to some inner tune.

  “What’s your name?” Artie called after him.

  “Nod,” he called back, but not slowing down.

  “Where’s Winkin’ and Blinkin’?” Artie wondered under his breath. And now what are you going to do, you big jerk, he asked himself. He wanted to sit down on the curb and put his head in his hands again, but decided against it. Instead, he walked towards Harry’s, his bag banging against his leg, the tools clanking.

  The streets were dry, and someone must have found the money to fix the streetlights in the neighborhood recently because most of them were working. Occasionally he passed what looked like a pile of clothing in a doorway, but he knew it had to be one of Nod’s people. Could be either male or female. He shivered although the air felt balmy. He considered himself lucky he’d never been homeless. Close, once or twice, until he learned the trade.

  He pushed the door open at Harry’s place and entered. Because it was dim and shadowy, he blinked a couple of times before he could tell there were only four customers, all slouched at the bar. A TV in the corner was turned on mute and the captions told Artie the twelve o’clock news was coming up in a few minutes. He chose a seat between a couple of men, leaving a space next to each of them empty. The bartender, wearing a green knit shirt with “Mac” embroidered above the pocket, approached him.

  “What’ll it be?” Mac asked, placing a napkin in front of Artie. A gold wedding band gleamed on his ring finger as he tapped his fingers on the bar.

  “How about a Scotch and soda?” Artie asked.

  “Coming right up,” Mac said cheerfully enough.

  Artie nodded and glanced around for a closer look at the other customers. No one he knew.

  When Mac put down a napkin, then the Scotch, Artie asked, “You know a guy named Jetso?” he asked.

  “What’s it to you if I do?” Mac asked, his tone belligerent.

  Artie palmed a twenty and put it next to his drink, keeping his fingers on the end of the bill. It was getting to be an expensive evening. “Could be good for you,” Artie said.

  Mac stood a moment, drumming his fingers on the bar. Then two of them came out to snag the twenty.

  “Not so fast,” Artie said. “Jetso?’

  “Works for Lopresti. Know him? Lopresti hired him as a chauffeur.”

  “Jetso have qualifications for that?” Artie asked, still holding onto the bill. He knew who Lopresti was, of course. Big boss in the area—took over after Cordavo went to prison. Cordavo couldn’t hold it together from there, even with his son’s help.

  Mac shrugged. “He can drive,” he said, his fingers again reaching for the twenty. Artie let go, and Mac quickly pocketed it.

  Artie took a sip of his drink, and Mac walked down to see if any of the other customers needed a refill.

  Well, Artie thought, that tears it. No way was he gonna get mixed up with Lopresti. Lopresti left Artie alone, and Artie would leave Lopresti alone. Lopresti knew Artie and his wife because Josie had once worked as a waitress in one of the crime boss’s restaurants before Artie married her and took her away from all that. Artie sighed, gulped down the rest of his scotch, and exited the bar without a backward glance.

  He walked the five short blocks home to his apartment, trying not to hear the echo of those screams in his ears, or to see in his mind’s eye those liquid brown eyes.

  Sighing again, he unlocked his apartment door and crept into the bedroom where he climbed into bed with Josie. She didn’t stir. She never did, and he was glad she could sleep through his late arrivals.

  *

  When he walked into the kitchen the next morning, he found Josie sitting at the table, the paper spread out in front of her, a little frown of concentration wrinkling her brow. When she looked up, he couldn’t help remembering the eyes from last night. They were almost exactly the same, minus the tears. He looked away quickly and sat down.

  Josie poured some coffee into a mug for him, murmuring “good morning.”

  “Hi, Babe,” he said and took the front section of the paper. Josie was already reading the life section.

  When he saw the picture of the woman on the front page, he shut his eyes, feeling dizzy and queasy. When he was able to look up again, he was glad to see Josie still engrossed in her own reading.

  Artie skimmed the story of Roberto Lopresti’s wife, Maria, reported missing since the day before. Well, they’d found her last night. And obviously, she didn’t want to go back to the crime boss’s waiting arms.

  He heard the rattle of Josie’s coffee cup against the saucer which always indicated she was finished with the paper and wanted to talk. He looked up into those wonderful eyes and couldn’t help smiling at her.

  “How’d you do last night, Artie?”

  “Not so good. Got interrupted.”

  “Really?” Josie frowned.

  “Yeah. I heard a scream and went to check it out. A guy was dragging Maria Lopresti down the street, and I ran after them. Of course, I didn’t know it was Maria Lopresti when I followed.”

  Josie’s frown deepened. “You shouldn’ta gone after them, Artie.”

  He shrugged. “Probably not. But I did. Her eyes, Josie, her eyes looked just like yours. So big, and brown, and beautiful.” He reached for her hand.

  Josie didn’t respond for a moment. “Should I be jealous, Artie?”

  “No, oh no, Josie.” He squeezed her hand. “You should be flattered.”

  She squeezed back and smiled. “But you didn’t catch up with this man who had Maria Lopresti in his grasp.”

  Artie sighed. “No. Almost. But he was pushing her into a car when I got close enough, and it took off. I talked to a guy on the street who knew the driver and where he hung out, so I went to the bar and found out this man, Jetso, works for Lopresti.”

  “My old boss, Lopresti,” Josie said, her voice expressionless. She removed her hand from his grasp and stood up, clearing dishes.

  Above the noise, Artie said, “I didn’t know that when I chased them, Josie.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You talked to people at the bar. Word will get back, Artie, and you’re going to be in a heap of trouble.” She began tossing dishes into the dishwasher, and Artie was afraid they’d break. Fortunately, the last time they’d had to replace dishes, he’d made sure they were the real thick, pottery kind. If these broke, he’d insist on plastic. Josie wouldn’t like that.

  Artie sighed again and stood up. “Couldn’t help it.” He stood behind her and whispered, “Those eyes. Couldn’t resist those eyes.”

  He felt surprised when Josie whirled around and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. He pulled her tight, not wanting to look, knowing what she would say.

  “You need to find a new line of work, Artie,” she murmured into his neck. “Daytime work.”

  He pulled away. “You know I can’t do that, Josie. God knows, I’ve tried before. I’m gonna go for a walk.”

  He found his keys and left the apartment. As he walked through the front lobby door, two palookas grabbed his arms and hustled him into a limo waiting at the curb.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he shouted as they rammed him into the back seat. One crowded in beside him while the second hustled around the other side. Artie felt like the meat in a salami sandwich as the car drove sedately away from the curb. Seeing the driver in profile and his eyes in the rearview mirror, Artie identified him as Jetso.

  “What’s going on?” Artie asked.

  “Jus’ going for a little ride,” the palooka on his righ
t said.

  “You’ll see when we get there,” the one on his left remarked.

  “Terrific,” Artie muttered.

  Within five minutes they’d driven into an alley. Jetso turned off the engine and got out of the car. The guy on Artie’s right also got out and motioned for Artie to follow.

  As he stepped out, Jetso’s fist struck his jaw, sending Artie backwards against the open door. The force of the blow knocked him back inside, almost into the palooka’s lap.

  Jetso’s arm reached for Artie’s shirtfront and pulled him across the alley. He threw Artie against a brick wall and began beating him. Artie put up his hands to protect his face, and Jetso moved his fists to Artie’s stomach. After only two or three punches, Artie slid down the wall, moaning.

  “No more questions about what went down last night! Got that?” Jetso asked between his teeth.

  “Yes, yes!” Artie said as loud as he could.

  One more punch was thrown, glancing off his shoulder. “This is just a sample,” Jetso said as he turned away. He got back in the limo with the other man, and the car drove off, leaving Artie sitting against the wall, catching his breath. He hadn’t been hurt as bad as he pretended. Jetso didn’t hit that hard, and Artie kept in shape at the gym, so his stomach was pretty taut.

  He stood up slowly, in case anyone was watching, and brushed off his clothing. He had walked almost to the end of the alley when a door opened, and a woman stepped out.

  “You have to help me!” she said, her voice breathless. He looked up into huge brown eyes and felt his knees weaken more than they had from the beating. He looked up and down the alley, all his senses hyperalert.

  “Mrs. Lopresti,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

  “It’s my husband. He’s going to kill me, eventually.” She turned her head so he could see a large purple bruise on her left cheek. She pulled up her left sleeve, and he saw another bruise on her forearm; this one older, yellow.

  “How can I help?” he asked, his nervousness increasing every second. What if someone saw them talking? Where were they, anyway? Was this Lopresti’s home?

  She came close to him, pressing herself against him. He could feel the full length of her, and his heart quickened. “Get me out of here. Please? I heard what Jetso said. But I know of a place where we can both be safe.”

  “Mrs. Lopresti, I don’t even have a car,” Artie protested.

  But she took his arm and propelled them both out into the street, away from the alley. She gave a shrill whistle when she saw a cruising taxi, making Artie’s ears thrum. She jumped inside, pulling Artie after her, and the feeling of déjà vu overwhelmed him. First someone pushed her into a car, then someone pushed him into a car, and now she put both of them into a car. Ears ringing, head spinning, Artie slumped against the seat while Mrs. Lopresti told the driver, “The Waldorf, please.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and pulled away from the curb with a jerk.

  Within ten minutes, they had arrived, and Maria stepped out of the car, leaving Artie to pay the driver. She had already walked into the lobby by the time he finished. She stood talking to a man with a “Manager” pin on his lapel, who nodded vigorously.

  A bellboy appeared at the snap of the manager’s fingers and led them to the elevators. Artie began to wonder what the hell Mrs. Lopresti needed him for when they arrived in front of an ornate door that the bellboy opened with a flourish.

  Once they were all inside, he drew the drapes, turned on the TV, pointed out the small refrigerator and bar, and then stood in the doorway. “Anything else I can get for you?” he asked.

  Artie looked at Maria. She was inspecting the mini bar’s contents and didn’t answer. Artie slid a five into the bellhop’s hand, expecting a disdainful look, but after all, the guy hadn’t had to manhandle any luggage.

  After he left, Artie locked the door and turned to Maria. “We need to talk.” When she didn’t respond, he grasped her arm and led her to a couch and sat her down, plunking himself down next to her.

  “I’d like a drink, Artie,” she pouted.

  He sighed and stood up. “What do you want?”

  “Tomato juice.”

  “Okay.” He found one, popped the top and brought it over to her, glad she hadn’t asked for something more complicated.

  “Now, tell me what’s going on. This is dangerous, Maria.”

  It was her turn to sigh. “I know, Artie, but we can work it out between us.”

  “How do you know my name?”

  “I know just about everything, Artie. That building where we live has an old heating system, and if you put your head near the vents, you can hear everything anyone says in the other rooms.”

  “So, what did they say about me?”

  “Jetso found out you’d seen us last night. Mac called him. You should be more careful.”

  “Yeah. I know.” Artie stood up and fetched himself a ginger ale. After he sat down again, he asked, “How did Mac know who I was?”

  “Mac knows everyone. He’s one of those people who remembers faces and names real good. He keeps track of what he calls the ‘criminal element’ out there.”

  Artie snorted. “Criminal element? Fancy words.”

  “Mac’s well-read.”

  “You sure seem to admire Mac,” Artie commented. He took a sip of his ginger ale, and when he looked at Maria, she was staring at him with those brown eyes, a speculative look causing little frown lines to crease her forehead. “How about telling me what really happened yesterday?”

  She looked away from him and stared at the far wall as she talked. “I ran away from Roberto. He’s so mean to me, Artie.” Her voice was flat, so he didn’t know whether to believe her or not. “Jetso found me and dragged me back.” She sniffed.

  “Where did he find you?”

  “Here.”

  “You mean, here, at this hotel?” Artie stood up and began pacing. “Are you crazy? Why did you come here again?”

  “Well, he’d never figure I’d come here again, would he?”

  “Maybe not,” Artie said, sitting down and putting his head in his hands. “But one will get you ten the manager will let him know.”

  “Not after I pay him what I do,” Maria said, her tone sharp.

  Artie looked up at her. “You think that makes any difference? It’s Lopresti he has to be afraid of, not you.”

  He stood up again and grabbed her hand. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”

  The sound of a key scraping in the lock made them both jump. They looked at each other, then around the room. There was no way out.

  The door flew open, and two men rushed in. Behind them stood Roberto Lopresti. He looked mad as hell, his jutting jaw pushed out farther than usual, deep frown lines creasing his forehead. Totally bald, stout, and short, Rob Lopresti still exuded power and a certain machismo. Artie felt like putting his head in his hands, but that would feel awkward while standing. Instead he stood, staring at the two goons and their boss. The palookas were not the same as the ones with Jetso earlier.

  The one nearest Artie did a quick body search. “Hey, hey!” Artie protested as he tried to wiggle away from the guy.

  “He’s not carrying, boss,” the guy said, keeping a big paw around Artie’s upper arm.

  Lopresti nodded and turned his attention to his wife. “This has gotta stop, Maria,” he said softly.

  Maria took a step backwards. “Don’t hit me, Roberto. Please don’t hit me.”

  Lopresti sighed. “You know I’ve never hit you, Maria. Now, let’s get out of here.”

  The goon nearest Maria reached for her. She cringed. Huge tears fell from her eyes, and Artie grabbed her arm. “Leave her alone,” he snarled.

  “Or what?” Lopresti asked, his tone mild. “Whatcha gonna do to us, huh, Artie?”

  Artie looked from one man to the other. What could he do? His head felt suddenly very heavy, and he bowed it.

  “You get one warning, Artie,” Lopresti said. “Stay out o
f my business.”

  When Artie didn’t lift his head or respond, Lopresti said, “You hear? Answer me!”

  Artie looked up and nodded. The two goons pulled Maria by her arms out of the room, Lopresti following. Artie closed the door and sank to the couch, at last able to put his head in his hands. Her sobs echoed for a long time in Artie’s ears.

  About fifteen minutes later, he went to the refrigerator and emptied all the stuff into his bag and left the hotel by a back door, the bottles and cans clinking inside as he walked.

  He took a bus back to his apartment and found Josie dusting. It always amazed him when he caught her doing housework. She’s doing that for me, he thought. Well, maybe for herself, too. Josie liked things nice.

  She took one look at him and abandoned her dusting. “What happened?”

  He sat down on the couch, pulling her down to sit next to him and told her.

  Josie was shaking her head before he even finished. “You gotta stay away from all that, Artie. That Maria is lying, you know. I’m not sure about what, but she’s lying.”

  “How do you know?” Artie asked. “You’ve never even met her.”

  “Us women know these things about other women. There’s a complicated situation there. You stay out of it!”

  “I’m trying, Josie, but people have been pulling me here and there and everywhere.”

  “You gotta stop letting them do that, Artie.”

  “Letting them? Letting them?” Artie stood up and began to pace. “What am I supposed to do, Josie?”

  “Stay outa sight for awhile.” She stood up and took his hand, led him to the couch. “Stay here with me,” she whispered in his ear.

  Without even putting his head in his hands, Artie decided Josie had a good idea.

  *

  Artie didn’t venture out of the apartment for a week. No one called or pounded on the door, so he figured it was all over with Maria. But he couldn’t help thinking about her a lot. Wondering if she was okay.

  Finally he couldn’t stand it any more, and he left the apartment to case a jewelry store way uptown. Looked good, and he decided to hit it that evening. He got a bite to eat at a coffee shop, called Josie and left a message that he’d be working late, and went to a movie—not The Godfather. Afterwards, he changed into his black clothing in the men’s room.