by Jack Getze
“You should have asked me about Tony before you called him for help,” she says. “Is a bad mistake you asking this man to do something. He and his Brooklyn crew are worse than Bluefish, worse than rats. That Tony teach my little Vittorio bad things.”
“How did you know Bluefish threatened me at Luis’s?”
“Lucky guess.”
“Mama Bones?”
“Maybe I had a vision. Bye.”
“Mama—?”
She’s gone. Strange, although there were lots of people in Luis’s restaurant the other day who saw what happened. Plus Mr. Vic’s bragged many times about his mother’s exercise/bookmaking business. Unless she’s booking all the bets herself, she must be tied to, or even part of, Bluefish’s gambling operation.
One thing I’m not buying is Mama Bones’ voodoo vision theory.
Sixty-six percent of the time, eating dinner with my kids on Wednesday night is one hundred percent predictable. Ryan always picks Burger King. I invariably choose Luis’s Mexican Grill. Only when it’s Beth’s turn might our evening involve true culinary adventure. Tonight is such a night.
Beth saying, “Is this place cool or what?”
“Looks like Dracula’s castle,” Ryan says.
I brake for valet parking. The Locust Tree Inn & Restaurant on the edge of Branchtown’s southern border caters to foreign and gourmet tastes, and I should take advantage, try something exotic. I hear, for instance, the tube steak here rocks.
“Does this place have cheeseburgers?” Ryan says.
“Only dorks eat cheeseburgers every night,” Beth says.
“Hey,” I say. “Be nice.”
The kids precede me up flagstone steps. One of Branchtown’s earliest settlers snagged a fortune growing corn beside the Navasquan River, boating his crop up to Manhattan. Four hundred years later, his stone, three-story, thirty-room Tudor mansion remains the number one venue for weddings in Central New Jersey. And Wednesday through Sunday brunch, Branchtown’s priciest restaurant.
Like her mother, my daughter has expensive tastes.
Beth saying, “I’m cold.”
“I’ve got the creeps,” Ryan says. “Did you see that guy who brought us our Cokes?”
It is a little weird in here. We checked out the ten-pound leather menus, started with Diet Cokes and just ordered our forty dollar entrees. We’re still the only people eating.
“Do you have a jacket in the car?” I say to Beth. “I’ll go get it.”
“No. I thought this sweater would be warm enough, but it’s so drafty in here.”
“You picked this creep-o-rama,” Ryan says.
“Shut up,” Beth says.
“Be nice,” I say.
I take off my suit coat and wrap Beth’s shoulders. All four dining room walls glow with dark, richly oiled wood. Gargoyles with fangs, claws and bulging angry eyes watch us from all four cornices of the ornamental, hand-plastered ceiling.
“Really, Pop. Did you see that waiter?” Ryan says.
“He’s just old,” I say. “People’s ears and noses never stop growing, you know. That’s why almost everybody looks funny when they get old.”
“You don’t look funny,” Ryan says.
Ouch. “I’m not old.”
Ryan and Beth glance at each other and giggle.
Outside, two pine trees have grown extra tall, and two perfectly spaced lights shine at me through the forest. Looking out the window, the effect reminds me of giant ears and huge yellow eyes. Like a four-story cat peering at me. I shudder. Maybe Ryan’s right about this place. Creepy.
“What’s the matter, Daddy?” Beth says.
“Guess I’m cold, too.”
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Ryan says.
Figures. One trip for every glass of Coke. “We passed the men’s room on the way in,” I say. “Near the front door.”
“I’ll be right back,” the boy says.
Ryan takes off at a brisk walk. Iced tea does that to me. Or maybe it’s all liquids. I think the problem might be genetic as my old man was always using the toilet. Our family road trips were planned around the availability of clean public restrooms.
I watch Ryan tack toward the hallway. His shadow dances on the wall a moment after he disappears. I’m about to turn away when a huge second shadow flashes across the same wall. My heart skips when I think I recognize the odd profile.
“Ryan!” I jump to my feet and run after him.
Beth calling, “Daddy, what’s the matter?”
My daughter’s frightened. Behind me, her wavering voice cuts me, makes me want to turn back and comfort her. But I can’t. Not right now anyway. My priority has to be Ryan.
That second shadow I saw looked like Bluefish’s oversized driver, Max the Creeper.
ELEVEN
In the hallway just outside the dining room, I run into a charging rhinoceros. No wait. It’s the Creeper, crushing me against the wall and emptying my lungs with his horn-like fist. I know rhinos are bigger and stronger than Creeper, but it doesn’t feel like it. Or maybe I was fooled by Creeper’s soiled, spotted gray coat that closely resembles exotic animal hide.
Probably a funny thing to notice when you can’t breathe, but I think Creeper’s got that European perspective on bathing, too. Only sissies use soap.
“Get up,” he says.
I’m sinking to the floor as he says this. When my butt hits bottom, I still can’t grab a breath, let alone stand, and since I don’t see or hear Ryan, I choose to stay right here on the hardwood floor and occupy Creeper’s creepy attentions.
Air surges into my lungs as rhino-man yanks me up by the belt, wraps his anaconda arm around me and spins me horizontal. Holding me on his hip like a small rolled up rug. My lungs and spirit enjoy the newly reacquired air supply until I hear small footsteps in the hall.
“Pop?”
“Run, Ryan,” I say.
Holding me with his right arm, Creeper jumps sideways and snatches Ryan with the left.
“Hey,” Ryan says.
I feel like a beetle in the clutches of a six-year-old boy. Helpless and doomed.
Creeper delivers us like lost pets, one on each hip, back into the dining room. The huge chamber isn’t empty anymore, though. Bluefish relaxes at the table with Beth. His greasy fingers caress her hair.
My hands clench into fists.
Every inch of the five thousand square foot dining room smells like Creeper’s unwashed armpits. And I can’t take my eyes off his nose. It has more bends than a toboggan run.
“Have I made my point?” Bluefish says. He glances at my children.
Beth and Ryan nibble their dinners. My kids share one table, Bluefish, Creeper, and I sit at another. There’s maybe twenty feet of distance between us. Wish it were twenty miles. Where in the hell are the other diners? A waiter?
“I understand,” I say. “The point is you’re threatening my children.”
They can’t hear me, but for the kids, I’m forcing a smile. Playing relaxed. Showing them everything’s fine. I’m just dining with an eccentric client who likes to wear black suits and eat with his creepy rhino-shaped bodyguard.
So far, Bluefish and Creeper are keeping their voices and tempers down, going along with my oddball client act. Although Creeper doesn’t have to say or do much to make things look scary. The bandaged wound on his temple oozes blood from Luis’ door slam. I hope it hurts like hell.
“My point is you can’t protect them,” Bluefish says. “Not twenty-four hours a day, not for one fucking minute if I choose otherwise.”
“I get it,” I say. My hands long to grab this bastard’s slicked-back hair and rip off his scalp. Instead, I’m saying, “I’ll open your Shore account personally.”
I force myself to take a bite of my prime rib and beg my jaws to chew. See Ryan, Beth? Everything’s fine. I glance again at Bluefish’s temptingly long, grippable hairdo, but I’ve got no real options as far as I can see. Getting Beth and Ryan home safely can be my only prio
rity.
“Good,” Bluefish says. “In the trunk of your car you’ll find an athletic bag with one hundred thousand in cash and a signed Shore Securities’ account application. Buy me big cap, big name stocks.”
“All right,” I say. “Blue chips for Bluefish.”
I hand the valet his tip with a shaky hand and slide in behind the wheel of my Camry. Because of the wide market for its parts, America’s best-selling automobile is also the country’s most stolen. Wish someone would steal my Camry with Bluefish’s money in the trunk.
“Okay, Pop, we’re in the car,” Ryan says. “So who were those men?”
The kids buzzed me with questions when Bluefish and Creeper abandoned us in the dining room. I told them we needed to scram, that I’d answer questions when we got to the car. Gave myself some time to think.
Beth saying, “Daddy?”
“They’re friends of Mr. Vic,” I say. “The one named Bluefish is mad Vic went away and left me in charge at Shore Securities.”
“Is that why that big creepy guy picked us up like little puppies?” Ryan says.
Internally, I’d admire my son’s eye for detail. He’s got Bluefish’s driver pegged.
“Max is a little rambunctious,” I say. “Like a big kid.”
The quiet in the back seat indicates a certain skepticism, I suppose, but in this case I think lies are superior to the truth.
Beth says, “Daddy, are those men like the man who tried to kill you last year? Criminals?”
The best lies, however, always offer a bit of truth.
“Maybe, but it doesn’t matter. I agreed to help him. Bluefish isn’t mad anymore.”
“He didn’t look happy,” Ryan says.
“If you had to ride around in a car with Max, would you look happy?”
Bouncing into my ex-wife Susan’s driveway ten minutes later, breaking a long silence, Ryan asks if he and Beth need to go into the FBI’s witness protection program.
“No,” I say. “But I’ll need to if you tell your mother about this.”
TWELVE
The next day after work I find Luis’s Mexican Grill in the full-boat grip of rigor mortis. Subdued voices, no laughter. The light crowd focuses either on oval plates of Umberto’s semi-famous enchiladas and tacos or CNN’s pretty face actress blaring death estimates for another drone attack in Afghanistan. The air tastes brittle, ready to crack.
A stranger might think America’s war with radical Islam was to blame for this pall, but I can see the cause is much more personal. Armed violence threatens the home front as well. I don’t recognize him as being among Luis’ friends, but another Toltec warrior pins me from under Luis’ caballista sombreros. Within reach of the stranger’s big paws, a tall brown package leans against his barstool. Could be a couple of golf clubs. Maybe one of those thin, fungo baseball bats. Then again, the shape reminds me of a single-barrel, pump-action shotgun.
No wonder the joint’s tense.
Luis is busy making drinks. He takes a while to spot me, Luis collecting money and mixing big pitchers of margaritas. Soon as our eyes lock though, my favorite bartender/club owner wipes his hands, slides down the bar my way, Luis jaunty, but tense, too, the swagger contained.
He grabs my handshake. The restaurant’s atmosphere isn’t the only thing uptight around here. Luis’ shiny black eyes bear the resolute wariness of a big-city cop walking up beside your car. One hand on his holster.
I’ve decided to file a complaint. “Bluefish threatened my children. He brought that creep-ass giant with him, too, surprised me, Ryan and Beth at the restaurant. Bastard had me roughed up in front of my kids.”
Luis’s eyes briefly shut. A long, slow blink. He says, “Did you agree to do him the favor?”
I nod. “I couldn’t say no with the kids there.”
“What about this new friend of yours, Tony?”
“I asked for his help. But I haven’t heard from him since the day before yesterday.”
Luis reaches low to his left, draws up a half-full bottle of Herradura Gold and pours us two shots. “It is lucky for me I have not yet fathered children. I have only myself and my restaurant to protect.”
My friend doesn’t know the half of it. Besides Beth and Ryan, my current security responsibilities include Carmela, Shore Securities and Mama Bones. Thanks to my boss and market mentor, Mr. Vic, I’m sworn to protect his, mine and ours. Where’s my badge? My troops? Where’s Tony?
“I noticed the guy with the shotgun,” I say. “I assume he’s a friend of yours.”
Luis ignores my implied question. He wraps two fingers around his tequila glass, drinks his Herradura and shoots a glance at the front door. Maybe he thinks, I’m guessing, that his armed pal remains obscure.
I throw back my own tequila. Tilt my head in the guard’s direction. “Oh, come on, Luis. He pinned me like an owl watching a field mouse when I walked in. And that brown paper package might as well be transparent. About as subtle as a bazooka.”
He shakes his head. “Then Bluefish’s spy will easily pick him out as well.”
“Count on it.”
He pours us another shot. “I must make my friend less visible.”
I glance at the man beneath the sombreros. “And maybe get a few more of them.”
I park in the Martha Washington Inn’s side lot, grab my coat and slide out of the Camry. A putrid, river-bottom odor whacks my nose. Branchtown residents have been throwing nasty things in the Navasquan River for more than four hundred years. The gifts return in spirit every low tide.
I breathe as shallowly as possible walking to the hotel’s main entrance. The Martha Washington Inn perches on a small bluff overlooking the river, the hotel’s whitewashed wooden exterior molting away like feathers from an ancient seagull.
The weather is cool and clear this evening in Central New Jersey. A few clouds glow pink in the west. Not a bad night to roost at the Martha’s upstairs brass and mahogany bar, watch the sun go down. After dark, lights pop on in the big river estates, throwing sparklers onto black water.
Maybe after I meet with the AASD’s Ann Marie Talbot, I’ll have a Bombay martini and check out the lights.
“Hey, Carr.”
I let go of the Martha’s front glass door and swivel to see who’s called my name. It’s Tony Farascio, all six feet of him, the stubble on his George Clooney cheeks thick and black as coal dust.
“Hey, Tony. What’s up?”
“I decided to help you with that other thing.”
Tony sticks out his hand. He’s wearing tan cotton slacks, new white sneakers and another extra big, short-sleeve knitted green golf shirt beneath an unzipped Navy blue London Fog windbreaker. I’m familiar with his big hands, that crunching grip, but as he walks toward me I notice Tony also owns exceptionally light feet for a big man. Like a pro football lineman.
We drop the shake. “Carmela told you I was going to be here?” I say.
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t need any help with the AASD. But I sure could have used you last night. Bluefish threatened my children.”
Tony slams a forefinger to his lips. “Wait a minute,” he says. He guides me inside the Martha’s lobby, then off to a quiet corner beside a thirty-gallon blue Chinese vase filled with blooming yellow forsythia stalks.
“Sorry, pal,” he says. “But I didn’t think Bluefish would make his move that fast. Plus, I had to get permission. But I’m on it now.”
I nod.
“I heard about the cash he gave you,” Tony says.
“You did? From who?”
“I got friends in Bluefish’s family. All over, in fact. You still have his money?”
“It’s still in my car.”
Tony smiles and wraps a thick arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go have a pop at the bar. You can tell me about this AASD problem.”
“I don’t have time. The AASD woman is waiting for me now. She just came into town today on a fluke and agreed to meet me. So it’s important. I don
’t want to be late.”
He shrugs and redirects me toward the elevators. “Okay, let’s go see her. We’ll have a pop later.”
Once again I resist his forward momentum. Like before, my shoes slide on the slick marble. “You can’t go with me,” I say.
“Sure I can. You’re going to need me.”
He plows another few steps toward the elevators, me scuffing along with him, stumbling until he stops both of us with quick freeze. “Wait. I got an idea. Let’s go back to your car, get Bluefish’s money. We might need that, too.”
My heart rate ticks up. “What are you talking about? What’s Bluefish’s money got to do with the AASD? Jesus, Tony. You’ll get Shore closed down letting her see all that cash. Like I’m trying to bribe her.”
“Her name’s Ann Marie Talbot, right?”
“Yeah. So?”
“And if she files her report with co-mingling charges included, Shore Securities gets hurt bad?”
“Probably. But—”
“So trust me, Carr. Vic told you to ask for my help, right?”
“Yes, but there’s no way Mr. Vic would want you to try and bribe her. Jesus, Tony.”
Tony tows me back outside through the glass doors. Once more, the gooey, tongue-swelling smell of dead organic matter punches me in the nose. Tony’s arm, the odors, fear suddenly pumping up my heart rate...feels like I’m about to faint.
George Clooney’s big brother from Brooklyn checks my face, shakes his head. “You look upset.”
There’s no way I can stop Tony Farascio from doing whatever the hell he wants. If I try to muscle him, I will also end up as rotting goo, reeking like the rest of the Navasquan River bottom.
“When you give me Bluefish’s money, I think I gotta go see this Ann Marie by myself,” he says. “You’re not right.”
And like my series seven securities license, my Gift of Gab has been temporarily suspended.
I am fucking speechless.