by John Locke
Until he does.
“What the fuck?”
Carmine’s in his early seventies, barrel-chested, with thin arms and wispy gray hair. He appears to have more hair coming out of his ears, nose and underwear than he has on his head.
I take the seat to his left. It’s a couple feet closer to the screen, and the angle isn’t as good as his. But it’s a perfect spot for me to keep an eye on him and the door behind him at the same time.
Carmine isn’t happy I’m in his home. On the other hand, he’s still alive. He recovers quickly, as tough guys usually do.
“Pour you a drink?” he says.
“No. I’m good.”
“I’m still alive,” he says. Then adds, “How come?”
“I want some answers.”
“Any old answers? Or do I gotta tell the truth?”
He laughs until he sees I’m not laughing. Then he stops.
“I’m willing to overlook the disrespect,” he says. “If you do two things.”
Normally I wouldn’t let him try to establish control like that, but I’m busy deciding how I want to kill him. Do I want to mince his flesh and set him on fire? Hammer nails into his head? Cut off his nuts, sew them in his mouth, and tickle his ass with a feather? So many choices.
He clears his throat. “I said…”
“I don’t care what you said, Carmine. It’s what you say next that matters.”
He starts to say something, but I raise an eyebrow. He changes his mind and says, “Whadya wanna know?
44.
“Tell me everything you know about Gwen. And don’t say Gwen who.”
Carmine nods. “Helluva girl, that one.”
I wait.
He says, “Fuckin’ pity. Swear to God, I find out who clipped her, I’ll kill ’em with my bare hands.”
I say nothing in response, show nothing in my expression. What I’m thinking is Carmine’s got a huge head. I wonder how much gasoline it would hold.
“Unless it was you that killed ’em,” he says. “In which case I figure they had it comin’.”
I don’t speak.
Carmine says, “Heard you was bodyguardin’ Lucky. Figured you wouldn’t of taken that job less you was workin’ some kind of angle. Maybe you found a way to take over his business?”
Carmine waits for me to respond, but gets nothing.
He says, “God knows I tried.”
Then he says something that completely floors me: “How’d you find out Gwen was workin’ for me?”
45.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Shit.”
“Let’s hear it.”
Carmine says, “Can I turn that fuckin’ TV down?”
He reaches for the remote, presses the mute button. Says, “My wife’s asleep. If she wakes up and comes in to check on me, you won’t make her a part of this, will you?”
“She won’t be joining us tonight.”
Carmine’s face goes white. Well, whiter.
“Relax,” I say. “I just pennied her into the room.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I pressed a couple of coins into the door jamb. She won’t be able to open her door until someone removes the coins. If she starts banging the door, you’ll know she’s awake.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“You said Gwen was working for you.”
“Right.” He clears his throat. “Okay, it’s clear you’ve become, ah, ah…”
“Close to her.”
“Right.”
“So?”
“So you gotta understand, anythin’ I tell you happened before you and her ever met. And I don’t know shit about what happened these last few days.”
He pauses.
I say, “Don’t make me ask you again.”
“Right. Well, Gwen was on my payroll. I hired her to, ah, seduce Lucky. Well, she done it so well he up and asked her to marry him after a few fuckin’ weeks! So I give her permission, ’cause I want her to get me names, numbers, point spreads…you know, the works.”
I wait for him to continue.
“Well, she gets me nothin’. I mean, the motherfucker is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. I think she’s lyin’ at first, so I threaten her a bit.” He looks at me and quickly adds, “No physical stuff. Just angry talk. You know.”
He looks at me, sees I’m not participating. Continues. “So anyway, I’m increasin’ the pressure on her, you know, turnin’ the screws, and then you come into the picture. Now I want no part of it, so I tell her I’m done, have a good life.”
He shakes his head. “And now this.”
I think about how Gwen asked me how much to kill Lucky. How much to kill Carmine. Now I know why. Carmine doesn’t like the way I’m looking at him.
He says, “I know this makes me look bad.”
“Ya think?”
“Let me tell ya somethin’,” he says. “I’ve known this girl since the first time she got knocked up.
I sigh. “Go on.”
“When she turned eighteen she started dancin’ for me.”
“By dancing, you mean?”
“In the strip clubs.”
I sigh again. Deeper, this time.
“That’s where she met Lucky,” Carmine says. “You really didn’t know this?”
“Just out of curiosity,” I say, “what was her stage name?”
“You don’t know?”
“I asked you, didn’t I?”
“Didn’t matter which club she danced,” Carmine says. “Her stage name was always the same: Vegas Moon.”
46.
“I’m going to ask you just once,” I say.
“Did I kill her? No. Did I have her killed? No. Would I kill her?”
I arch my brows.
He pauses a minute, then says, “Yeah. I would’ve. If she stole from me.”
“And did she?”
“She was paid to get me information. After she married a millionaire, and didn’t deliver the goods, I felt a reimbursement was due.”
“How much?”
“Fifty, give or take.”
I look at this old warrior and see a grandfather lying on a reclining theater chair, wearing a housecoat and slippers. His housecoat’s been open the whole time I’ve been here, his old man underwear showing, and he never even noticed. This was and is one of the most feared men in the country. Carmine “The Chin” Porrello, a man who once boasted he could lift his chin and cause the death of ten men.
And his underpants are showing.
He was and is one of the most ruthless mob bosses in the history of the mob, and his nuts are hanging out of his tighty-whities, along with a thatch of coarse, gray hair.
Some Indian tribes used to believe if you killed a powerful man, his power would add to yours. I doubt that’s true, but as with all things Native American, it wouldn’t surprise me, either. What does surprise me is Gwen working as a stripper for Carmine Porrello for two years, and taking money from the mob to marry Lucky. I mean, I’ve heard of women getting lucky, and women marrying for money. But this story takes it to a whole new level.
I think about it awhile, and realize none of this matters. And the reason it doesn’t matter is because, like Carmine said, it’s history. Okay, so she stripped in a club for a couple of years. Got knocked up a few times. Was part of the mob. Married a man she didn’t love. Took money to steal his secrets. Got off on fucking hot lesbians and powerful men.
But which of us is perfect?
I liked her. Might have even been able to love her, given the right opportunity.
“What happens now?” Carmine says.
What indeed?
My cell phone vibrates.
It’s Callie.
47.
“I tried to call you,” she says. “Several times.”
“I know. I had to go dark.”
“I figured that out when I turned on the TV.”
“I tried to call. Wanted to take you with me
.”
I look at Carmine. He waves at me like, Go ahead, don’t mind me. Please, finish your call.
“I turned off my phone,” Callie says.
“I know. But it was off longer than I expected.”
“I followed her.”
I think a minute, then realize she’s talking about her life partner, Eva LeSage. I remember Callie telling me she’d put a tracking device in Eva’s car.
“What happened?” I say.
“I followed her to someone’s house.”
I get a cold chill.
Callie says, “Lucky Peters’. I passed by a couple of times, tried to call you, see what you wanted me to do…” her voice trails off.
“And then?”
“I snapped.”
“Define snapped.”
“I killed the gate guards, broke in the front door, followed the music to the bedroom. Kicked in the door, saw Eva fucking Lucky.”
“Where was…” I look at Carmine. I don’t want to say Gwen’s name.
“Gwen?”
“Yeah.”
“She was there, too.”
I close my eyes.
“I’m sorry, Donovan. I couldn’t help it.”
“Give me five minutes.”
“You coming over? Or calling me back?”
“Both.”
“Should I arm myself?”
“No. Of course not.”
She pauses.
I say, “You don’t trust me?”
She says, “Do you trust me?”
I think about it a few seconds. And a few seconds more. “Yes.”
“Thanks, Donovan.”
“And you?”
“Do I trust you?” she says.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Figures.”
I hang up.
Carmine says, “If that was good news, you haven’t notified your face.”
“The news was bad for me, good for you,” I say.
“Sorry. Sort of.”
“I don’t have it on me,” I say, “but I’ll see that you get your money back.”
“What money?”
“The fifty grand Gwen owes you.”
He looks at me with surprise. “She’s alive?”
“No. But I don’t want her memory tarnished.”
Carmine looks at me with what might be tears in his eyes. “You’re a good man. I think if you pay me the fifty G’s, I won’t have you killed.”
I look into his tear-stained eyes and say, “I’ll pay you a hundred if you promise to try.”
He does a double-take.
“What kind of crazy fuckin’ guy are you?” he says.
“How about it?”
“Fuck no! Just give me the fifty and get the fuck outta my life. No disrespect.”
48.
“You found Eva fucking Lucky,” I say, while driving toward Callie’s.
“Did you know it was going on?”
“Of course not. I mean, Gwen said a woman named Maddie came over from time to time. But I had no idea it was Eva.”
“How long had it been going on?”
“I don’t know. A few months at most.”
“Where did they meet?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anything more than I’ve told you, except that Gwen used to participate. When she was in the mood.”
Neither of us speaks for a minute. I listen to the sound my tires make as they roll over tar patches on the road.
Finally I say, “Tell me what happened.”
“I left the guards out front, knew I didn’t have much time. Eva started begging for her life. She was naked, on her knees, head bowed…it was pitiful. But I was furious, you know?”
“I know.”
I also know that Callie never leaves any loose ends. If she killed Eva, she killed Lucky. And if she killed Lucky, she killed Gwen. Callie never leaves anyone alive who can identify her.
She’d kill the fucking rooster, if she thought it could talk.
“You executed Eva,” I say.
“Eventually.”
“Eventually?”
“After I stopped laughing.”
“You laughed?”
“She looked so ridiculous! I don’t know, Donovan. When you’re not part of the sex, it all looks so…silly.”
“On the news it said they found four bodies.”
“Right.”
“You took Eva with you.”
“No. I wanted the world to see what she was doing. And the pig she was doing it with.”
“What did you do to Gwen?”
“You’re going to be very angry.”
49.
“What did you do to Gwen?” I repeat.
“How close were you? Had you already fallen in love?”
“We were as close as two people can become in the space of a day.”
“You know how absurd that sounds, don’t you?”
“Story of my life. Look, I’m not mad at you. You mean…everything to me. We go way back. I’ve already lost Quinn, lost Lou for all practical purposes, can’t trust Darwin. You’re all I have. And even you don’t trust me.”
She sighs. “If I knew you were going to make a speech I would’ve made popcorn.”
“Funny.”
“Cut to the chase, Donovan.”
“I really cared about her. But there’s more.”
“Tell me.”
“You remember the device I’ve been looking for?”
“Of course.”
“I’m certain Phyllis buried it in one of Gwen’s implants.”
“What?”
“When she did her boob job.”
Callie laughs. “That’s hilarious! What a perfect way to get back at her and Lucky.”
“You understand it?”
“I’m a woman, remember?”
“I do.”
“And now you want to recover the device.”
“If I can. Where’s Gwen’s body?”
“In the trunk of my car.”
“I’ll be there in five.”
“I’ll meet you in the garage.”
The last five minutes of my drive to Callie’s were difficult. I’m a Time Saver, a person who captures special moments in his life, stores them in his brain, and can replay them with precision. I didn’t take the time to properly save my moments with Gwen these past couple of days. In truth, I didn’t know how special they were going to be. So, for the next few minutes, I focus on the highlights.
I think about the first time I saw her wearing that silly pink t-shirt that said Eat Me! if you read it a certain way. I smile, thinking about Fast Eddie and his plastic wife, Surrey, and how Gwen schooled me about the odds she’d memorized. I’ll keep the memory of how she called Lucky a bullshit artist. I’m sad, now, thinking about her look of despair when Eddie told Hampton to be gentle, because the money was more important to him than her dignity. I’ll never forget the look it put in Gwen’s eyes. I know I’ll disappoint my share of women over the course of my life. But I’ll never give a woman cause to show me a look like the one I saw on Gwen’s face when Hampton tried to make his move. I think about that some more, and feel that twitch I get sometimes before bad things happen. It’s at this moment I think I’ll kill Hampton on my way out of town, after burying Gwen on the vacant commercial lot, right smack under the sign that says, Vegas Moon. Named after me, Gwen had said, and now I know why.
I’m going to be buried there someday, she’d said. And you have to respect my dying wish.
I will respect it, sweetheart.
I’ll have her cremated, then I’ll dig a trench under the sign while Callie stands guard. I’ll sprinkle Gwen’s ashes in it, say a few words, and fill the hole back in with my hands. I’ll kiss the ground that covers her, too.
I think about how Gwen gave me luke-warm sex the first time, and hot, wild, monkey sex after deciding I had enough power to kill the mob boss that was threatening her. The look on her face when she had to have it is
something I’ll never forget. I’m smiling now, thinking about it. And the sex that final time? Let me just say this: could a man possibly die a better death than from getting the best sex a woman can give? –If you say yes, I’m happy for you. But keep it to yourself. No, strike that. I want to hear what you come up with. Whatever it is, I’ll take Gwen and give you odds: 2,000 to 1.
A block from Callie’s place, I pull to the side of the road and stop a minute. I need a memory to help me wrap all these scattered images into a tidy little package so I can label it in my mind, under Gwen.
And then it hits me.
The one image that stands above the rest: when Gwen and I walked her rooster down that long driveway!
I remember how she got angry when I asked if it crowed every morning. I realize now she wasn’t angry about the stereotyping of the rooster. She was living a huge stereotype, and didn’t like it, and was attempting to change her life around.
I think about Gwen and her rooster, and the leash, and the harness she tied it to.
There’s one problem with the image: I don’t like the outfit she was wearing. When we did the cock walk, she had on gray sweat pants and that silly pink t-shirt. Later that evening, she wore the black sweater with the sleeves rolled up to just above the elbows, tucked into a black, pleated skirt. She also had on a pair of fire-engine red boots with a black heel and two rhinestone strips attached over the toe, and above the upper ankle. I remember the boots stopped mid-calf, and left plenty of leg showing.
It’s my memory, right?
I can save it any way I choose.
I close my eyes, think of her evening outfit, and superimpose it over the cock walk outfit.
Wait—am I boring you with all this? If so, back up and re-think it. If you’re not saving the precious memories in your life, what the hell are you going to have when you’re locked away in a maximum security cell some day, waiting to be executed?
I superimpose the one outfit over the other, and what goes into the memory box is this: a gorgeous woman walking a rooster down her driveway, while wearing one of the hottest outfits I’ve ever seen.
I close my eyes, lock the memories in my mind, and think, I’m going to miss you Gwen. And everything we might have become.
