by Rob Cornell
They both laughed.
“Thanks,” Dylan said.
Harrison nodded. He was still too choked up to speak. Despite that, he felt lighter, more centered than he had in weeks, maybe even months. It was as if he’d been waiting for this moment ever since moving back home. He wished it hadn’t taken so long, and that it hadn’t taken Dylan’s attempted suicide to trigger it. But he moment had come. That’s what mattered.
For the first time in a while, he felt like he was exactly where he belonged.
Thirty-One
Jake’s time with Tyrone Bellspar had given him two things. The first was an exhaustive history of Bellspar’s triumphs as a producer. The man seemed compelled to throw out names of musicians he’d helped make it big. Jake hadn’t heard of any of them, but based on where he lived and the expensive modern taste he had in furniture—the house was much more impressive once through the front door—Bellspar was clearly doing something right.
Bellspar had insisted on taking Jake on a tour down his “brag hall,” which was hung with framed prints of album covers by his various clients, including a bizarre one that stuck out from the rest featuring an odd trio in funny hats, members of a band called Cobb Webb and the Bug Corpses.
“You’ll never experience a sound like theirs,” Bellspar had beamed when he had noticed Jake squinting at cover.
Jake felt certain he never wanted to experience their sound.
With the tour mercifully complete, Bellspar finally told Jake the second, actually important, piece of information. He swore up and down that he knew nothing about his new blackmailer’s identity other than, “He sounded kind of ethnic.” Pressed on this point, he simply shrugged. “Ethnic. Or foreign. He had an accent, is what I mean.”
If that had been all Bellspar had to offer, Jake might have been tempted to order a hit on the braggart record producer. Instead, Bellspar had informed Jake that the blackmailer had requested a payment, and that he was scheduled to make said payment that very night.
Jake had made Bellspar give him every detail about the time and location of the proposed drop.
“He told me to go to this coffee house in Birmingham. I’m supposed to have the money in a manila envelope. They want me to order a coffee, take a table, and wait. Somebody’s supposed to show up and take the payment from me there.”
Jake had walked out of Bellspar’s home feeling like he could breathe better than he had in days. Not so much as a twitch or warble came from his stomach. He had done it. He had taken things into his own hands and come out with the best lead he’d had yet.
The next stage was plain as the nose on his own face. All he needed to do was stake out Bellspar’s exchange, then follow the blackmailer home and force him to hand over the flash drive. That last bit might not be quite so simple. But Jake felt empowered. He was on a roll. He could do this.
Bolstered by his new found confidence, Jake called Arlie.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” Arlie said.
“Do you think I am any more anxious to speak with you after what you did to Jen?”
“Look, Jakey, that was your mom’s idea. You know I gotta do what she tells me.”
Jake’s grip on his phone tightened. “Of course,” he said through clenched teeth. “In any event, I need you to do something for me.”
“I’m not supposed to help you.”
“I just need you to acquire something for me.”
“Aquire?”
“A gun.”
Arlie was silent a moment. “You even know how to shoot?”
“You pull the trigger. Don’t patronize me, Arlie. Can you get me a gun or not? I need it before tonight.”
“What are you up to?”
“Can you get it or not?”
“Yeah. Easy. Any kind in particular?”
“I don’t care. Just make sure it’s fully loaded.”
Thirty-Two
Jake didn’t know much about guns, but he suspected Arlie was trying to send him a message by giving him one that seemed awfully small—a .38 caliber revolver with a short barrel. It would do fine. Ideally, he would never have to fire it. He only needed the blackmailer to believe that he might.
The blackmailer had scheduled his exchange with Bellspar at six PM in a coffee shop in Birmingham called Joe’s Cuppa. Jake made sure he had a table toward the back with a view of the entire cafe at five-thirty.
Though the place had a neat, mom-and-pop feel to its name, the shop itself didn’t look much different than any of the chains. Generic plastic furniture in dark browns and black. The coffee shop equivalent to Muzak piped through the speakers, lots of acoustic guitars with vocals that all sounded the same, whether they were sung by men or women. The pastries and bagels on offer looked like they’d been pulled from a freezer that morning and left to thaw behind the glass counter throughout the day.
Jake ordered their house blend, which, as he expected, tasted burnt and overly bitter. But at least the place smelled nice. Their roasts smelled so much better than they tasted.
No matter. He only needed an excuse to hold a table and blend in. He didn’t need to drink their swill. Probably best to avoid coffee so late anyway. It sometimes triggered his IBS.
As part of his effort to blend in, Jake had a laptop open and powered up on the table in front of him, and he pretended to concentrate on the screen whenever someone looked his way, though the only program open was solitaire.
The laptop also offered him a means to conceal his gun, which he had stowed in the front pocket of the shoulder bag he used to carry the computer. He kept the bag under the table by his feet.
Jake had chosen to dress down. He wore the only pair of blue jeans he owned along with a short sleeve plaid button-up shirt and suede oxford shoes. He had considered purchasing a hat of some kind, but decided that would be overkill. Besides, he hated hats, which was why he didn’t own any.
The wait for six o’ clock to arrive felt like several hours as opposed to thirty minutes. He grew antsy just sitting there. Several times, he took automatic sips from his coffee and grimaced anew at the horrible taste each time. His hands were simply looking for something to do. He tried playing a round of computer solitaire, but kept making foolish mistakes because he was too distracted with glancing toward the door every time someone entered.
At last, Tyrone Bellspar arrived. He was still wearing his flower print shirt, but had exchanged the shorts for a pair of navy slacks that didn’t quite match. He instantly spotted Jake, and their eyes met for an awkward moment. Jake realized he should have warned Bellspar that he planned on sitting in on the exchange, albeit from a distance. An amateur mistake. He only hoped Bellspar wouldn’t make a scene over it.
Jake gave his head a small shake.
Bellspar stood there, frozen, the wheels visibly turning behind his eyes. A woman in a short neon t-shirt showing off her midriff and star-spangled yoga pants nearly ran into the back of Bellspar as she rushed into the cafe behind him.
Bellspar snapped out of his trance and apologized to the woman, gestured for her to go ahead of him. Then, after a quick look Jake’s way, he filed into line behind her at the counter.
Jake went to loosen his tie until his fingers touched his open collar and he remembered he wasn’t wearing one. So why did his throat feel so constricted?
His stomach made a soft, wet kind of purr, and what felt like razor blades cut through his bowels.
Please please please not now no.
He clenched his buttocks and tightened his abs.
Bellspar spoke softly when it was his turn to order, but his smooth baritone still carried over the canned folk music and regular busy cafe sounds. The espresso machine made its bubbly whir. The coffee grinder chewed up some beans. Some imbecile by the front window shared his side of a phone conversation by shouting into his cell as if it were a can tied to a string instead of a Samsung Galaxy.
It was 6:11 by the time Bellspar sat down with his latte, giving Jake a couple more glances on his
way to a table at the opposite corner of the cafe.
Another ten minutes passed. Only one new customer came in during that time. No one approached Bellspar.
A particularly loud gurgle emanated from Jake’s belly and drew a look from the woman in the star spangled yoga pants who had sat at the table nearest him. He gave her an embarrassed smile then looked down at his laptop, face warming.
By 6:45, Bellspar still sat alone. Jake studied each of the half-dozen patrons already in the cafe and none of them showed any interest in the small black man.
Had the blackmailer spotted Jake, recognized him for who he was?
Damn it, he should have purchased that hat after all. Maybe a pair of fake glasses. Those conspicuous glances from Bellspar surely hadn’t help. Jake might as well have hung a neon sign around his neck broadcasting his presence.
You’re not only a coward…you’re an idiot.
Bellspar was looking nervous as well. He had shredded a napkin into tiny pieces and now swept them back and forth on the table with the edge of his hand, like plowing a tiny pile of snow. His knee bounced. His gaze flickered from the scraps of napkin in front of him, to the front door, to Jake, and then back to the scraps.
Jake tried his best to pretend he didn’t notice.
Then, at five minutes till seven, a man about Jake’s age came in wearing a gray sport coat over a black t-shirt and pair of dark blue jeans. He wore shiny black loafers without socks. Even Jake’s untrained eye picked out the coat’s bulge under one arm. Probably the only reason he wore the sport coat was to hide the gun he wore underneath.
He must have spotted Bellspar through the front window, because he knew right where to head, not bothering to give anything or anyone so much as a curious glance. The man slipped into the chair across from Bellspar, folded his hands, and rested them on the table. He didn’t say a word, only fixed Bellspar with a bored, expectant stare.
Jake hunched down in his seat to put as much of himself behind his computer screen while still able to watch.
Bellspar leaned forward and said something. Jake could hear his deep voice but not make out the words from across the cafe.
The man kept staring, wordless.
This gave Jake a chance to study the man more closely. He sat so his profile faced Jake, yet between what Jake had glimpsed as the man entered and what he could see now, a weird sort of déjà vu struck him. The thickness and angle of the man’s dark eyebrows. The olive tone of his skin. The cocky slant of his mouth.
He looked familiar.
Bellspar dispensed with any hopes of conversation, pulled a manila envelope out from under his shirt tail, and held it out to the man. Jake didn’t know how much the blackmailer had demanded, but the package looked thick enough for at least two, maybe three, stacks of cash of whatever denomination. He doubted they were small bills.
The man tucked the envelope inside his coat, stood, and turned toward the door. Started to turn, anyway. Half way around his gaze happened upon Jake slouched behind his computer. Their eyes met. The man froze.
The same recognition Jake felt, he saw dawn on the man’s face.
All at once, Jake knew why the man looked familiar. Because he looked so much like his father. All of Venezio Moretti’s sons looked like him, six little Moretti clones between the ages of forty and twenty-five working in the family business.
The Mini Moretti in the coffee shop slowly approached Jake and sat down across from him. He pushed Jake’s laptop closed, moving the screen out of the way. “Jacob Seelenberger, right?”
Pain flared in Jake’s stomach as if he’d swallowed a box of nails. He clenched his fists under the table to stop them from trembling. “Which Moretti are you? I can never tell you apart.”
Jake thought his voice sounded steady enough, but Mini Moretti’s mouth curled into a cunning smirk, as if he could smell Jake’s fear.
“Rocco.” He held out his hand. “Pleasure.”
Jake frowned at Rocco’s offered hand, didn’t take it.
Rocco shrugged and smiled. “How’s your mom?”
“How did you get it?”
“Say what?”
“The flash drive with my mother’s files. How did you get it?”
Rocco pretended to think about it for a moment. “Not sure.”
“You need to give it back to me.”
The laugh that burst from Rocco sounded like one Jake had heard throughout most of his adult life—the laugh of someone who does not take him seriously.
Jake’s face flashed with heat. A scenario ran through his mind, him following Rocco Moretti out of the coffee shop, sneaking up behind him, pulling the gun out of his laptop case, and shooting the son of a bitch in the back of the head.
As if you would ever really do such a thing. Ha ha!
His own inner voice laughed at him the same way Rocco had. He couldn’t even take himself seriously. How in hell had his life devolved into this? Was he really so weak? So…ineffectual?
“You mad, bro?” Rocco asked with a smile.
Jake glared at him without a word. If he tried to speak, his voice would crack. He knew it.
Rocco shrugged again. He was good at shrugging. Seemed to like it. “Listen, I gotta bolt. But I’m glad you’re here. My dad has a message for your mama. Tell her she’s out of the extortion racket. Her clients are now property of Venezio Moretti.”
He gave a two-fingered salute, stood, and walked out of the cafe.
Jake noticed Bellspar staring at him. Bellspar quickly looked away when Jake stared back.
Dear Lord, what was he going to do? Venezio Moretti had the files. There was no way Jake could get them back. Even if he had the guts—or stupidity—to attack Rocco, a move like that would trigger a gang war Mother did not have the resources to win. As much as she loved to brag about her shared roots with Detroit’s Jewish mom of yore, the Purple Gang, her operation came no where close to a legitimate rival to the Moretti family.
Another barrage of cramps twisted up Jake’s guts. He felt the familiar burn of imminent disaster low in his bowels. He rushed to the restroom, but not quite quickly enough. He ended up having to leave his underwear in the trash bin.
Thirty-Three
The only reason Harrison answered the phone was because he was too sleep drunk to check the number beforehand. The ringing pulled him out of his first long, comfortable stretch of sleep he’d had since finding Dylan full of lithium pills over forty-eight hours ago. He had never loved his own bed so much before.
Laying on his side, he mashed the phone against his ear and muttered a “hello” while wiping away some drool from the corner of his mouth.
“Mr. Hart, it’s Jake Seelenberger. Did…did I wake you?”
Harrison’s groggy mind latched onto the surprised tone of Jake’s question. What was so unusual about sleeping through the night? The docs had assured him Dylan was clear of any permanent harm and that they planned on transferring him to the hospital’s psychiatric ward the next day. Dylan was in good hands and they had both agreed Harrison needed to go home for some real rest instead of enduring continued torture from that damned chair beside Dylan’s bed.
Then he noticed the bright light along the edges of his window shade.
“What time is it?”
“Just after one in the afternoon. Are you all right?”
Harrison groaned. He had slept for twelve hours without so much as stirring from a dream. He wondered if that’s what it felt like to be dead.
“I guess I should thank you for waking me up,” Harrison said, “but I thought I made it clear, we’re done.”
“I desperately need your advice. I promise that is all I ask.”
“Advice on what?”
He shouldn’t have asked. If he’d been more alert, he wouldn’t have. He would have firmly repeated that he wanted nothing more to do with Jake or any other Seelenberger. Period. Good-bye.
“I fear my foolishness has put my mother’s operation on the cusp of a war she cannot possi
bly win.”
A war? Harrison blinked some sleep away and propped himself up on one elbow. “What are you talking about?”
“I’ve discovered who has Mother’s files.”
He paused, either for effect or because he expected Harrison to say something. Both possibilities annoyed Harrison. “Spit it out, Jake.”
“Venezio Moretti.”
The name sounded vaguely familiar, but his foggy mind didn’t stand a chance of recalling from where. “Who’s that?”
Jake made a small, disapproving sound. Not quite a tsk, but close enough to further get on Harrison’s nerves.
“He’s the patriarch of the Detroit area’s largest existing crime family.”
Harrison sat up. His head swam. The room was stuffy and smelled like old sweat. Or was that just him? It’d been a couple days since he showered last.
“How did he get the flash drive?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I think it is safe to assume he probably obtained it from Ken.”
The mention of Jankowski instantly brought to mind that image of the fly crawling into the bloody slash in his throat. “And killed him as a thank you?”
“Does it matter? Moretti has the files. And one of his sons made it clear to me that he has no intention of returning them. In fact, he wanted me to tell Mother as much, claiming her list of marks was his property now.”
“What did she say to that?”
Jake loosed a nervous giggle. “Are you joking? I haven’t told her. She’ll kill Jen for sure. Worse…if there could be anything worse…she’s likely to ignore Moretti’s warning. Her ego simply will not allow her to back down.”
“Your mom struck me as a lot of not-so-flattering things, but stupid wasn’t one of them. If Moretti is really such a force, she wouldn’t stand a chance going toe-to-toe with him. Unless she has a secret army I don’t know about.”
