“It’s a thought, Scott; the Won Again is docked in Sicily.”
“Maybe I’m jumping the gun. You’ll probably set the wedding for a year from now anyway.”
Claire had stepped away. “Buddy, you got kids,” Clemp whispered. “My fiance’s clock is ticking. I have no intention of missing my chance to be a father. It meant jack-crap fifteen years ago, but I’ve changed. Hell, you got three.”
“Yes, Sir, I do. And they are annoying as hell sometimes, but I wouldn’t trade them for a small pot of gold—a large pot, maybe.”
“And that is why I think we’ll push up the date to maybe a month from now, and it will be small. She’s as eager as I am, and Ms. German is not a materialistic climber—she is fine with a simple affair.” He scanned the restaurant to see Claire returning.
“Alright. I gotta go. I’ll see you at the office.”
Barnett turned to his wife with his old schoolmate now occupying in his thoughts. “What a golddigger.”
“Scotty, when a romance is that much of a whirlwind; My mother used to call the girl a Femme Fatale.”
*
“Why aren’t you fishing?”
“I’m taking a day off.”
Cassie gave him a sly and slinky gaze. “You know that I’m stuck here until ten, right?”
“Yes. I know. But it’s lunchtime, and I’m going to go home to sit my ass in a chair and eat.”
“Eat what?”
He blanched. “Any suggestions?”
“Talk about Mickey the Moocher! I got fish n’ chips ready for you. Now act surprised.”
Mike grinned, jumped up, and clapped his hands in the air. “I can’t believe it. Fish n’ Chips for me? I would never have expected that. I am so lucky!” He looked around at the lunch crowd—not one of whom spoke a word of English. “Do you hear that, everyone? I got a meal from that curvy hottie right there.”
“Hey!”
“Cassie, not one of these lunks speaks a noodle of English. Don’t worry about it; your secret hotness is safe with me.”
A grizzly-looking, beefy Italian with a ten-day growth on his face raised his finger in the air. “I speak good British, but I’m not sure what a ‘hottie’ is.”
Casper thought about explaining that one, but the pub-owner whacked her hand on the bar and shoved the food bag at her dearest love. “That’s all the translating we’ll be doing today. Out you go, Bill.”
The walk home was uneventful. But, when he got to the junkyard, a couple of guys in non-blue collar clothes were in a heated conversation with Augustino. Casper got that prickly feeling on the back of his neck and backed off to observe the exchange. The good thing about junkyards was the piles of junk. He crouched down behind a couple of dumpsters outside the gate that had a small gap between them. Mike could see the back and forth between the suits and his Italian landlord.
The two visitors went abruptly silent, and Augustino merely glared at them with hands firmly on his hips. The man looked like a stubborn bull.
“Think about it,” said one of them in English before they both turned and stomped off, creating a dusty wake with their polished shoes. The salvage guy watched them go and then did the internationally accepted sign of tossing his hands in the air—roughly translated as “assholes.” The visitors drove off.
When the coast was clear, Mike headed straight to the office and knocked on the scuffed up, white steel panel that qualified as a door.
“I told you I not selling,” was heard from inside.
“Augustino,” said Casper, “It’s me, Bill.”
There was a shuffling and the sound of chair wheels reluctantly rolling on the grimy floor of the office. The door swung open.
“Billo. What can I do for you? You pay rent on time. I no bother you, and you no bother me, yes?”
“Yes. But I’m not here about the rent. I was walking up, and I saw those two guys hassling—I mean arguing with you. Everything all right?”
Augustino was a man with a broad, short body. Most notable was his wide and dominating salt n’ pepper mustache. It was thick and wobbled up and down when the man talked. He also wore a dated and decaying light straw brim hat, although now it was more dirt than white.
“Why should it not be okay?”
Mike didn’t beat around the bush. “I saw those men giving you trouble.”
“Ah, those two. Crazy Americans like you.”
“How do you know they are Americans?”
The chubby salvage man laughed. “Because they smell like it.”
“You can tell by their body odor?”
“Billo. I am Italiano. We have skills that people like you couldn’t understand. Plus, they spoke English and bad Italian. They wanted to buy my land.”
“They seemed angry about being rejected.”
“I only understood the part about angry. Those two are full of cow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I got me friends all over this beach and also in Messina, up and down a thousand kilometers. These guys been all over asking questions. First start maybe a month ago. They say they are looking for land. I think they looking for something else.
“My cousin has big car fix place. They ask him if any Americans like them been there. Me they just ask if I want to sell. But then they also ask me if any Americans in Pellaro.”
“What did you tell them?” Mike asked anxiously.
“I say to them that we don’t let Americans into our Pellaro. I told them that we don’t like the way they talk.”
“And after that?”
“What do you think? I say I got you living in my house over there. I say they should come back and talk to you.”
Mike’s face went pale. “Augustino. When are they coming back?”
The man leaned back on his wide ass and laughed like a hyena. “Credulone!”
“What does that mean?”
“Cred – U – Lone - Ee. It means you easy to fool! Oh, Billo. I told them nothing. I chased them away with a stick.”
“You didn’t tell them I was here? I mean that an American was here?”
“I know you hide from something. Nobody come to Pellaro unless they crazy or they in trouble. I think you both.”
“Thanks,” said Casper somewhat relieved.
“So, I tell them to go ask the Brit pub lady. That get them off my back.”
Now Mike was even more distressed. “Please tell me you are joking with me!”
This time the laughter from behind the crappy desk was so deep that the man’s belly shook like jello. “I no stupido. You and Cassie doing the thing in your house.” He made a circle with his left thumb and finger and then inserted his right index finger.
“Have fun. I tell them go look in Naple, that place full of crazy men.”
“Thanks for not saying anything.”
“You pay rent. You watch my junk. I shut up.”
Mike went to his container/home having an internal debate. Should he risk going to the pub to warn Cassie, or let it be for now. Despite his protective instinct, it was better to stay put. She would know how to handle the two guys if they showed up there—and it was possible. As excruciating as it was, he had to sit still.
He flicked on the radio, tuning the 20-meter ham radio band, and listened for the pleasant rhythm of Morse code. It was funny how the simple binary code worked to soothe him. Casper could hear his dad telling him, “Good boy, Mikey. Keep cool as a cucumber. Play a little on the radio, and a whole world of problems will go away.”
He leaned across the table and poured a shot of bourbon from the bottle Cassie gave him. It would go well with his lunch. Staying calm, he tossed back the whiskey and opened the bag of fish n’ chips while the tones from his shortwave radio played on.
Chapter 8
“How’s that feel?”
A twelve-year-old boy stood up, walked, and jogged a little bit around the simple shoe store on St. Nicholas Avenue.
“They feel a little big,” he told the clerk in S
panish.
“Speak in English, chamaco: you live in America. If you want to make it in this country, then you have to learn the language and use it just like the people who were born here.”
“You mean so I can grow up and own a shoe store?”
Rosalita smiled. “Yes. So you can grow up and have a shoe store or a hardware store or become an engineer.”
“What’s an engineer?”
“That’s someone who made that cellphone you’re always bothering your madre to buy for you—even though she can’t afford to buy you shoes!”
The boy sat down. He was smart enough not to pick a fight with Rosalita; everyone knew that. “Kids like me don’t go anywhere. We get jobs washing dishes.”
“Says who?”
“The white people.”
“Oh. Bullshit. You talk some serious stupidness. There are plenty of racists in every direction. Your job is to be color blind. Just work hard. I tell you what. This is the fourth time you’ve been in here looking at these shoes. I’ve been counting, and I’m really good at math.
“Do you think I don’t know your game? You don’t have money for these shoes. You come in. You try them on, and then you tell me they are too big. Same story every time. I’ll make you a deal. How much do you have in your pocket?”
The boy looked uncertain.
“Shove your hand in there and show me what you have.”
Luis wanted to run, but the shoe lady had him locked in her hard stare. He stuck his hand in and pulled out $1.82 in change.
“That’s it? Okay. Here’s a very simple bargain. You go to that middle school over on 187th, right?”
“Yes.” He didn’t know how she knew that, and it was a little creepy.
“You bring me your next math test or quiz—the very next one. Then I will show you where you messed up. Then you start studying. For now, you get the shoes for $1.82. If you keep your grades up, then you can come here now and then, and I’ll pay you to take care of the stock room a couple of days a week.”
Luis shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Rosalita’s reaction was lightning-fast and intimidating. “You don’t know? Keep your $1.82. Get out. Don’t ever come back.”
The boy paused. He was deciding something, and he felt lost. “I mean, I don’t know which days of the week I can come here.”
She grinned and let him squirm while gazing at him like a wolf. “We can figure that out. But, for now, you take the shoes and give me your payment. Then you bring me your next test. Got it?”
Five minutes later, the most ruthless mob boss in the history of New York received a call on her private phone—the one that was given to three people and replaced every week.
“Hello. What kind of shoes are you looking for?”
Without hesitation, a computer-generated voice answered. “I’m very interested in a nice pair of Italian shoes. Preferably the kind they make in the factories in the west of the country.”
“That’s very specific. Shoes like that are hard to find.”
“I know. I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“After so many years in the shoe business, I know how you feel.” Rosalita waited for something optimistic.
“I’ll keep looking then. I feel like I’m getting very close to finding exactly the pair I want. I’m sorry we couldn’t make a deal today, but maybe very soon. Thank you.”
The caller broke the connection. So, she thought, the west coast of Italy. It only took her people a year plus to give her that much. Mike Casper was quite elusive, but then when you consider that she herself lit the fire that roasted Casper’s boss—it made a lot of sense for the nosy photographer/spy to run like his life depended on it. For some strange reason, she would like to ask him about his escape from New York and all the little details of his journey. Perhaps for posterity, it would be informative and a great story in its own right. Unfortunately, that meeting would be unlikely; there were shoes to sell and drugs to move, and people to persuade.
At precisely six, Rosalita flipped the open sign on the store’s glass door to closed. She walked back to the stockroom, sat down in her worn office chair, and dialed a number. After a few rings, someone answered but said nothing.
“Peter?” she inquired.
“Yes, it’s me.”
“When can you be here?”
“Nine minutes.”
An extraordinarily plain-looking man stood outside the shop door. Rosalita unlocked it and let him in. She said nothing but re-locked the door and led Peter to the back.
“Sit.”
He sat.
“I see you got a haircut. You look nice with trimmed hair. If you could get rid of that mustache, it would be helpful.”
“Thank you for the suggestion.”
She sat down and eased herself back. It was a relief after a whole day on her feet.
“What happened at the garage?”
“Two were done. The third is a mystery.”
A flash of anger appeared on her face but abruptly dissipated. Life was never perfect. There was no value in venting frustration at this point.
“Details, please.”
“Jones took a hit. There was no doubt. Then she went right over the wall of the second floor—toppled right over.”
“So far, the story is a good one. Where’s the reporter now?”
Peter fidgeted uncomfortably. His khaki pants felt tight, and his collar was sticking to his neck. “That’s unresolved. We left expecting to hear news on all three. But as you know, only two were reported. Jones vanished into thin air. We checked the morgue and the hospitals—nothing. Just the fall would have caused some damage. Let’s assume that the guy wasn’t hit; still, the drop over the ledge and hitting the asphalt below would have been injurious.”
“Did you mean the woman? Jones is not a guy. Let’s try to keep our genders organized.”
“Sorry.”
“Okay, Peter. If she isn’t in a hospital or the morgue, then where’s the body?”
“I don’t know.”
The queen of all illegal drugs in New York was internally distressed. “Someone must have snatched her and either took the body, or they’ve got Jones stashed somewhere healing up.”
“That is logical. I don’t think we’re dealing with an actual ghost,” said Peter.
“Correct. And, we have no idea what she knows other than your report that Williams and Juan Ortiz had no time to talk. Was it that quick?”
“Yes. They had maybe fifteen seconds.”
“Nevertheless, I want our investigative reporter a confirmed kill, or if she is still in this world, I want a thorough interrogation. Every detail. The clock is ticking, so make it happen.”
“We’re pressing hard on it. May I ask what happened with the European situation?”
She stared at Peter. He was outstanding but often pushed her boundaries. “Go find Jones.”
He stood up, nodded respectfully, and headed out. With this employer, it was wise to back off.
Rosalita watched him cross St. Nick and head west towards the A-train. Her problems were still alive, but Casper and Jones would soon be erased like all the others.
Chapter 9
“Where am I?”
A nurse was changing a saline drip but reacted quickly. The patient was alert after a days of being semi-conscious. It hadn’t taken the doctor more than ten seconds to figure out that the woman left at the clinic started as a man—a black man in his thirties—but now a woman.
“Just stay still; you’re in a medical clinic in Tera Alta, West Virginia. You’ve had quite an ordeal.”
Glenda felt like she’d been run over by a truck and deposited in some dystopian nightmare. A lot of spots hurt. The room was standard white, and the heart monitor's subdued beep droned on in the background.
“What happened to me?”
“Do you want to wait for the doctor?”
“When?”
The plump R.N. looked up at the clock and then back at Jones. “He sh
ould be back in about an hour.”
“I can’t wait. Just tell me what happened. Please!”
“You were found in the back of a dump truck.”
“Is that a West Virginia joke?” asked Glenda.
“I don’t joke. My boyfriend hates jokes, so I’ve adapted. Yeah, so you were found unconscious down by the stone yard in the back of one of them trucks. You’ve got a few contusions and a concussion. Oh, and there’s a scrape right along the side of your head—it’s a very strange-looking wound.”
“That’s it? I’ve got a headache.”
“You want to take a pill? Can you swallow okay?”
“I think so. My head feels like someone hit me with a hammer.”
The nurse held out a cup and a couple of oblong pain pills. “That makes sense because you done whacked your head pretty hard before you ended up in that truck, or maybe you fell in and banged yourself. Hard to know.”
Glenda swallowed the pills and put her head back on the pillow. “When can I get out of here?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. That’s up to the Yankee Doctor. I like to call him Doc Hollywood.”
“What does that mean? Doc Hollywood like the movie?”
“Sho’ nuf. That’s what I call him because he’s from New York, and all he talks about is how much he wants to get out of here and go to California.”
“My head is aching pretty bad. Why aren’t I in a real hospital?” Jones looked up from the bed to see a picture of Daffy Duck on the wall next to a printed sign that said: T. Alta Clinic, specializing in cuts, bruises, and stitches since 2008. The nurse noticed Glenda staring at the sign.
“Don’t mind that. It’s just a joke that someone plastered up on the wall.”
“Didn’t you say that you don’t like jokes?”
“Yep, but my boyfriend ain’t here right now.”
The country banter was adding to Jones’ pounding headache. “Maybe you can guess when I can get out of here?”
“Ain’t gotta clue. But let me ask you something. Do you find it difficult to be a transgender in West Virginia?”
“Transwoman.”
“Is that what they call y’all now?”
Cold Dead Hands (A Mike Casper Thriller Book 1) Page 6