She often asked who her real parents were, knowing I’d never tell or leave a paper trail for her to find. It didn’t work like that.
Right now she was pissed at me.
“I’m seriously going to do the setup without you from now on. Give you an address and a target and tell you to get it done. You’re taking risks you don’t need to take, old man,” Marisa said.
We had our philosophical differences over the way I handled my business. I learned to do it in person, to meet the man or woman who wanted to kill a child and commit them to memory. Someday I’d do something about each and every one of them.
Marisa was new school, where you did it all anonymously online. You couldn’t be traced and the only way you got caught was by physically doing the dirty deed and something going wrong. Her argument was valid: why take so many risks when you no longer had to? But I’d been doing this long enough to know I had to do it this way for my own moral compass, as skewed as it was. I wanted to see these people in person, or at least as close as they’d let me. Someone responsible for these supposed deaths was going to be etched in my mind forever.
I knew if I ever decided to hang it up and pass along the knowledge and business to anyone it would be Marisa, and I knew she’d make quite a few drastic changes.
Hell, I reminded myself about all the changes I’d made as a cocky twenty-something in the 1990’s. I’d updated the 1960’s mentality for this work, and Marisa would update it to the 2020’s. Every thirty years or so there’d be an improvement or two. As long as we saved children, who cared?
“I saw your buddy, Keane, outside. I had no idea he was such a memorabilia collector,” Marisa said and helped me to put my table together. She was way more organized than I’d ever be. She kept begging me to let her inventory everything I owned but I wanted it to be a pleasant mystery. I still remembered opening packs of baseball cards in the mid-1970’s and searching for the handful of cards I needed to make the complete set or add to my growing Atlanta Braves collection.
“He surprises me at times. I know he didn’t follow me, and after I stopped his interrogation last night and asked for a lawyer, he let me go within an hour. A new record,” I said. “Is he getting better in his old age?”
“He got lucky. What’s the stupid saying you always use? Sometimes even a blind horse can find water?” Marisa smirked. Her long blonde hair was up in a ponytail and she wore no makeup, but she was still attractive. Don’t get me wrong, I was no pervert. I was more than twice her age and she truly felt like my daughter. But I needed to protect her from a room filled with dudes who would hit on her. I could only imagine what would happen if she went to a nerd convention.
“He knows about Chicago and how to get in touch with me now, too,” I said.
“I have Irwin selling the Chicago place this week. You might lose a few bucks but it will be a loose thread neatly tied up. I’ve destroyed the server for the message board and will start up a Facebook page for it soon,” Marisa said.
“You’re going to post on the biggest social media outlet I’ll take your money and kill your kid?” I asked. “That makes no sense.”
“Hide in plain sight. Remember that gem of a saying you used to hit me with all the time when you caught me trying to run away? We’re still mostly word of mouth for rich depraved people who know what to look for online when they want to do something vile. Unfortunately, returning customers have now moved up to about twenty percent of our clientele. I guess once you’ve paid to have your kid killed, you want to kill them all,” Marisa said.
“I hope Keane doesn’t make a scene. It’ll be bad for business.” These big card shows would attract a ton of buyers as well as guys trying to unload a few things, but today I was in the mood to sell as much product as possible and fly out without having to worry about packing any of it.
The money didn’t matter to me. It hadn’t in a long time. This was more of a hobby than a way to pay the bills. Unfortunately, sick bastards who wanted me to harm their children paid for the multiple houses and my own card collections.
I was born in 1969 and became an Atlanta Braves fan at seven years old. I’ve been on the lookout for gem mint 1969 Topps cards and anything Braves I can get my hands on. Everything else gets sold.
I owned over a million non-baseball cards, stored in two warehouses, one on either side of the country: football, hockey, basketball, and miscellaneous stuff. I’d gladly trade it for every ’69 Topps and/or Braves card in the world, although it was fun to build the sets one card at a time.
Marisa casually nodded her chin past me and I looked and caught the eye of the redhead setting up at the table next to me. She was pretty. About my age. Definitely staring at me. I’d seen her before at a few shows and I turned back to Marisa and told her to stop.
“Stop what?” she asked, trying to sound innocent and failing. “This is the third show in a row she set up next to or near you. It’s not a coincidence. The last time she tried to talk to you and you blew her off.”
“No way.” I remembered, and she and I talked business for awhile. Her husband had died and left her with his collection, which she’d managed to build and begin selling at shows. She had some nice cards and I made a mental note to check out her Braves and 1969 offerings.
“Go talk to her. Ask a few questions. Live a little,” Marisa said.
“I’m busy. This is work.” I glanced over and the redhead smiled at me again as she continued to set up for the show.
I focused on the job at hand. I needed to concentrate on this card show and my near miss with Keane and why he was here today. I bumped into Marisa, who was trying to set a speed record for setting up my tables.
Marisa seemed antsy today.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she lied. I could always tell like she could with me, when something was bothering the other.
“Out with it.”
Marisa stopped moving product onto the table and smiled. “I had a date last night. It went great. He wanted to see me again right away but I told him I had work and would be out of town.”
“First date?” I asked, trying not to act like a father but failing as bad thoughts raced through my head about this guy. “How old is he? Where did you meet?”
Marisa laughed. “Yes, our first face to face date. He’s a couple of years older than me. Very mature. We met on a hacker message board about six months ago.” She grinned. “He was a perfect gentleman.”
“Good,” I said.
“As for me. . . well. . .”
“Not funny,” I said.
When we were done Marisa asked if I’d eaten. I hadn’t. Despite really wanting an authentic cheese steak from Philly last night, I’d gone to McDonalds and crashed. This morning breakfast consisted of two cups of coffee made in my hotel room.
“I’m going to get you something delicious,” Marisa said.
“Your idea of delicious is not even close to mine. I want meat.”
“Meat is murder,” Marisa said. Before I could finish she smiled. “Tasty, tasty murder. I know you too well.”
“You can’t throw my own lines back at me. Not fair. Seriously, I don’t want a salad or tofu or anything natural. I want a greasy burger and some fries. I’ll eat better when I get home,” I said. She knew it was a lie and so did I. It was the game we played.
Marisa stared at my growing belly and sighed. “How old are you again?”
I shook my head and took out two twenty dollar bills from my pocket. “Here. Use this. I need some small bills.”
“You do remember we’re in New York City, right? What do you think I can buy with this?”
True. I handed her two hundred dollar bills. “Break these. I want the change back, and the two twenties.”
“What twenties?” Marisa asked with a smile. I paid her quite well but she still treated me like I was her dad and made out of money. While I preferred to wear shorts and faded t-shirts, she wanted the nicer things in life. I wanted to eat
greasy burgers and pass out watching the game.
Before we go any further, there are a couple of points I need to clear up.
Morally I do nothing wrong. No, I’m not a saint by any stretch. In my personal life I might’ve stolen a candy bar when I was a kid or lied to people or done typical kid stuff. I grew up in a bad part of Atlanta, where you did what you had to do. In my personal life I’d done worse things but that’s for another time.
I’m talking about my job. The job where bad people pay me to do one of the worst things imaginable, and they don’t care. I often wonder what it takes to set something like this in motion in their heads, but I don’t want to stare too closely into this abyss.
Knowing I’m taking their money and saving the intended target is worth it to me. Marisa once asked, years ago, why I didn’t take the money, save the child and then call in an anonymous tip or go back and kill the parent. It would be easy enough to do.
But I can’t, because if word got out one of the jobs I was tasked with went south, I’d lose future clients and future children being saved. Simple as that.
Don’t get me wrong. . . the money is good. Really good. Money isn’t the only thing in this lifetime, though, is it?
“James?”
I didn’t realize he was talking to me at first, deep in my thoughts and setting up displays for my cards. When I turned I sighed. It was Agent Keane again.
“I’ve often wondered if James was your real name. I guess I have my answer,” Keane said.
“Funny, it says James on my birth certificate.” Of course, it was a fake like everything else. There was no way Keane or anyone else was getting close to the real me. The old me, the life I grew up in and my family and name, are all gone now. Scattered on the wind like ashes, as the saying goes. I keep looking ahead.
“I’m going to find out what you’re really doing one of these days,” Keane said, staring at me with his hands in his pockets. He was staring and watching me set up my displays.
“What I’m really doing is earning an honest buck selling sports cards to guys who are trying to stay young or remember a better, simpler time in their lives,” I said.
“I guess that’s what it is for you: a connection to something you lost or never had?” Keane was grinning now. He thought he had me for some reason.
“Everyone collects something. Cards. Comic books. Matches. Stamps.” I glanced at Keane to make sure he was still staring at me. “Drunk driving arrests. Ex-wives.”
If Keane had been drinking anything he would’ve spit it out by the look on his face. I’d been saving that information for awhile and planned to use it when I was in a jam, but it was worth it. He had no idea I’d done my homework. He’d never done his.
“I hope you have all of your tax papers and licenses on you,” Keane said.
“Actually, I do. I always check in with the people running the event to make sure they know everything is good. The two cops near the door behind me already know I’m legit, too. If you think you’re going to bust my chops by making a scene I’d think twice about it.” I smiled. “Up until this point you and I have done this dance on the up and up, haven’t we? No cheap shots. No false arrests. No tossing cars and bothering friends and family. This is a professional and courteous relationship we have, Reggie.”
“You’re the one who brought up a DUI and ex-wives,” Keane said.
“Ex-wives? You got more than one?” I asked, knowing he had two. Valerie was the first wife. They’d married early and it only lasted a year before she cheated with a guy Keane worked with. Sloppy divorce. She remarried and had two kids. Second wife, Linda, worked in D.C. for a senator and the affair was almost front page news, except there was a big payoff of quite a few people to keep it under the rug. I didn’t think Keane had taken a bag of cash to shut up and sign the divorce papers, which was why his bank account was often in the red right before payday. Linda still worked for the cheating bastard senator.
“I think I underestimated you,” Keane said.
And there it was. The light bulb had come on in his head and he was staring at me. I’d messed up. Arrogance was always my worst enemy. I’d ruffled his feathers and now he was pissed. He’d not make many more mistakes from this moment on, and Keane would do everything in his power to nail me. I’d made it personal and I felt like an idiot.
Marisa was back with a bag already crusted with grease. Delicious.
“If you’ll excuse me, Agent Keane, I have to eat before the crowds get too unmanageable. Can I interest you in a Joe Namath rookie? I only have two and they’ll go quickly in Manhattan.”
Keane shook his head and looked at the greasy bag of food.
“You want some fries?” Marisa asked.
“I want to know where you went. I’m starving,” Keane said.
While Marisa played nice and gave him directions I went back behind my tables. I needed to finish setting up and getting my stock into position. I was always paranoid someone would come by and not see what they were looking for and move on to the next guy and drop big money. I wanted everything out and in order so I could sell it.
An older man wearing a faded Atlanta Braves cap came over and adjusted his glasses, looking at the displays I had already set on the main table.
“You looking for something special?” I asked and remembered to smile.
“I don’t see any Braves cards.”
He didn’t because I don’t sell them, or 1969 Topps baseball cards. Yeah, I’m one of those guys: I break the cardinal sin of selling anything. . . I dabble in the merchandise myself.
“I don’t sell any. I’m also a collector.” I put up my hand when he started to tell me how it was done. “I’m not in this to make a million dollars. I’m actually doing this so I can buy Braves cards for myself. In fact, I am willing to pay high-end book value for any good card.”
Now I had his attention. He might be a collector but he also knew a good deal when it was presented to him, and he was going through his doubles and extra cards in his head right now.
Keane was watching and I could tell he was fascinated. I think up until this point he thought this was a sham, a front for my illegal dealings. To see me in action, buying and selling cards, and knowing what I was talking about, was magical. To me, anyway. Marisa told me I was a boring old geek.
I slipped a business card into the man’s hand. “Send me an e-mail with whatever you have. A picture would be nice, too. We’ll make a deal. I’m here all weekend, too.”
“I’ll run home tonight and see what I have. I wasn’t planning on coming back tomorrow, but maybe I will,” he said.
“I look forward to seeing you,” I said.
He looked at the business card and grinned. “James Gaffney. Why does that name sound familiar to me?”
I kept my smile and shook his hand. “Just a happy coincidence.” Once again my arrogance had gotten the best of me. Of course I’d stolen the name from the former owner of the Boston Braves, who’d owned the club from 1912 until 1915 when he sold it to Percy Haughton, another name I’d used in the past.
Reggie Keane (definitely his real name) was smiling at me now. He was starting to piece a few things together and I knew I was in trouble.
When the old man walked away I thought for sure Keane would pounce, but instead he waved and said his goodbyes to Marisa.
He was smarter than he looked. Suddenly Keane was dangerous.
“Oh, by the way. . .” Keane said and stopped walking away, turning to face me.
He had something big and he was about to drop it on my head.
“Any chance you know a guy named Chenzo from New Jersey?”
“Isn’t every Italian in Jersey named Chenzo?” I asked. I knew who he was talking about and I felt the weight falling from the sky.
“This Chenzo is unique. He’s a reputed boss of The Family. He lost his kid about fourteen years ago. His wife went missing, too. Real shame. What a manhunt it was to find them. She was found with her throat slashed in the parki
ng lot of Yankee Stadium. The son was never seen again, which is a real tragedy,” Keane said.
“I remember reading about it in the paper.” I’d taken the kid and set the little monster with a good family in Montreal. He was only four or five but already a terror. Chenzo couldn’t handle his son and the wife was not only cheating with another Made guy but she was stealing coke and cash as well. Chenzo decided to wipe the slate clean and start over. The guy she was seeing was never found again, although I know her public assassination was a lesson for everyone. By the way, I didn’t kill her. It wasn’t my style and I wouldn’t take money for it. If I was going to kill someone it would be personal and I’d do it for free.
“Funny thing about the son, who they called Little Chenzo: he would’ve turned eighteen this year. In fact. . . he did,” Keane said.
“They found him alive? Great news,” I said. I could feel a drip of sweat on my temple. This was bad. This was really, really bad.
“I’m sure Chenzo will be happy. The funny part is this entire time I assumed you’d killed the kid for The Family.”
I’d assumed I’d gotten the kid far enough away and he’d be taken care of and nothing like this would ever happen.
I was in trouble.
THREE
It had been nearly seven months since the Caruso debacle, and I was starting to enjoy my freedom and life not having to plan another kidnapping. As far as my eyes and ears on the ground were concerned, Chenzo’s kid hadn’t made an appearance. I’d spent quite a bit of money to find out if it were true and so far all I’d gotten were unconfirmed sightings and rumors but nothing concrete. I even had a guy inside the organization I used for some of the harder cyber stuff, but Marco was too close to the Boss and I wasn’t going to tip my hat I had anything to do with this.
So far it was an unconfirmed rumor. A rumor that would get me in trouble sooner than later.
It was only a matter of time before Chenzo and The Family called to set up a meeting and I wanted to get all my ducks in a row. I also needed to talk to the kid.
Dirty Deeds Page 2
