The Caretaker's Wife

by Vincent Zandri

  The woman tending bar had to be about my age. She was small, but wiry in her CBGB black t-shirt, the short sleeves rolled up like she enjoyed showing off her biceps. Her hair was black, probably a dye job, and her eyes weren’t wide so much as overly charged. They gave me the impression she wasn’t just naturally high on life, but on some sort of chemical speed. Crack maybe. Or crystal meth. When she smiled, she was missing a bottom tooth.

  I set my laptop down on the bar.

  “You Bunny?” I said.

  “That’s me,” she said. “What ya drinking?”

  “Irish whiskey if you got it,” I said.

  “We ain’t all hicks up here,” she said.

  I opened the laptop while she grabbed the bottle off the shelf behind her. The machine was already powered up since I hadn’t turned it off inside the cabin. I clicked on the Wi-Fi icon.

  “You got internet, Bunny?” I said.

  “Told you we ain’t all hicks,” she said, pouring me a generous shot of whiskey.

  “Password?” I pushed.

  “Sensei one oh one,” she said. “No spaces.”

  “Sensei,” I said. “As in karate sensei?”

  “Yup,” she said. “You don’t think this joint makes me any money, do you? I’m a fourth-degree black belt. Teach at a dojo over in Crown Point everyday ’cept Sundays and Mondays. Late afternoons, I open this joint. Keep it open until a fight breaks out and I gotta break somebody’s head. Usually a biker.”

  “If you’re not making dough, then why keep it open?”

  “Public service,” she said.

  “Very thoughtful of you, Bunny.”

  I took a good look at her. Was this woman truly capable of pounding on a big ass biker? She couldn’t have stood more than five foot four. If she was one-hundred-twenty pounds wet, I’d be shocked. But then again, she was in good shape, and I knew from prison experience it wasn’t the size of the dog in the fight, it was the size of the fight in the dog. I’d seen more than one little skinny white dude make hamburger out of some six foot six black stud’s face when sufficiently provoked.

  I sipped the whiskey and typed in the password. It worked. I finally had a connection to Google. First things first. I typed in the name Cora Black. I knew there couldn’t be many women in the world with that name, so the information that came up had to belong to my Cora Black. Not many things shock me anymore, but Cora Black’s Google profile certainly did.

  Case in point…

  First item that appeared was a New York Post headline from way down in Manhattan. Cop Busted in Sex Ring. I might not have believed what I was seeing had the accompanying picture not been Cora’s pretty face.

  “No wonder she wouldn’t answer me about her past,” I whispered to myself.

  My pulse picked up speed, and I felt a strange chill in my gut. I drank some more whiskey to fight it. I gave the article the once over. It went on about how Cora, along with some of the new young male and female recruits, were getting together on weekends and, well, getting it on. When a digital video of one of the sex parties emerged, the NYPD IG got involved and swiftly shut the party down. Cora was handed her pink slip minus her pension which, by then, was substantial. And the lawyer she hired to help get her out of the mess? You guessed it. Sonny Torchi.

  Bunny cleared her throat.

  “Holy crap, pal,” she said. “You look like you just saw your own ghost.”

  I guess my facial expression must have been betraying me after all. That and the fact that my face must have gone noticeably pale. What can I say? It happens. Nothing can prepare you for the fact that the woman you’ve just fallen head over heels for was once involved in a sex ring with men and women years younger than her. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t expect Cora to be Snow White any more than I’m Prince fucking Charming. Who the hell is? It’s just that I was having trouble equating the sweet young thing who operated the Loon Lake Inn check-in counter with the woman in the New York Post photograph—the very woman who was attempting to hide her face with both her hands, but failing miserably.

  But then, wait one second here. Why the hell had I been so surprised to find out Cora was no saint? Didn’t she just fuck me to death on the table inside my cabin? Didn’t she just tell me to my face that she wanted her husband dead?

  And didn’t she do it in a way that suggested she wanted me to help her make it happen?

  There was another reason not to jump to conclusions. If Cora had wanted to hide her past, she would have changed her name. My guess is, she made a mistake, paid for it, and moved on. Nothing wrong with that. But now she owed Sonny her life, and there was something definitely wrong with that.

  I drank down the whiskey.

  “Another, Bunny,” I said.

  “Jeez,” she said, “you must be having a rough day.”

  “I just got out of the joint,” I said.

  She poured my drink and gave me a slant-eyed look that suggested she thought I was messing with her.

  “What’s your name?” she said.

  I told her.

  “Where’ve I heard that name before?”

  “I used to write novels.”

  Her eyes lit up.

  “That’s it,” she said, pointing her finger at me. “You’re that writer who fucked up that big guy down in Albany. Guy who was messing around with your wife. I remember you from the news. You really took it to the asshole, didn’t you? Tossed him through a window, punched the daylights out of him. You’re one tough son of a bitch, mister.”

  Okay, I couldn’t help but be more than a little pleased with myself.

  “Well, I’m trying to keep out of trouble now,” I said.

  “How long you in town?”

  “Long enough to write a novel.”

  “Where you staying?”

  “Loon Lake Inn,” I said. “You know it?”

  Her face went tight. She leaned in over the bar closer to me, as if we weren’t the only one’s occupying the joint.

  “You be careful of them,” she said.

  “Of who?” I said.

  “You know,” she said. “Cora and her husband, Sonny. Since they moved in, everything has changed. People are afraid of them.”

  I shook my head.

  “Why?”

  She looked over one shoulder and then the other. “Torchi is no one to mess with,” she said. “He and his family down in New York City are trying to buy up the whole town and doing it for pennies.”

  I sipped my drink, tried to digest what she was telling me. I remembered a drunken Sonny going on and on last night about how the residents of Loon Lake wouldn’t know a dollar bill if it slapped them on the backside. How they had no vision for the future. How they preferred poverty to posterity.

  I typed the name Sonny Torchi into the laptop search engine. Several articles about his work as a defense lawyer popped up, including one article about how he saved Cora’s pension when she was forced to retire from the force. Scanning the article, the author suggested Torchi used the power behind his extended family to make it happen. The lawyer made the judge an offer the court could not possibly refuse.

  “Either that or he ends up with a horse head in his bed,” I mumbled.

  “What?” Bunny said.

  I shook my head, closed the laptop lid.

  “Just talking to myself.”

  Just then, the silence of the peaceful little town was shattered by the roar of engines. Motorcycle engines. Harleys if I had to make a guess.

  “Oh shit,” Bunny said. “Here they come.”

  “Here who comes?”

  “Torchi’s men,” she said, not without a sad smile. “Don’t you see what’s going on here, Mr. Kingsley? Sonny Torchi is holding this town hostage.”

  The bikers pulled into the parking lot and killed their engines. Bunny and I watched them from the front picture window. There were three of them. They were all pro-football lineman huge and dressed in black leather.
Their motorcycles were Harleys, just like I thought. I didn’t know much about motorcycles, but I knew Harleys were expensive. As they started for the door, Bunny’s face lost all its color, and she made her way fast back behind the bar, as though having it between she and them made all the difference in the world. It was a strange move for a woman who was a black belt and who bragged about pounding biker’s heads together.

  It made me a little nervous. But then, I wasn’t exactly afraid either. I’d survived the bloody fight for Fallujah, and one of the most dangerous maximum security prisons in the country had been my home for a long time. Facing down goons like Torchi’s men was a twenty-four seven experience for me.

  I was more curious than anything else. I went to the pool table and decided to toss a couple quarters in the slot that released the balls. As the front door opened, I was wracking the balls. All three men walked in. Two of them hung back near the door while one of them, a man who was so big he seemed to fill up the entire bar, made his way toward Bunny.

  “How’s my favorite toothless bartender?” Big Man barked.

  One eye on Big Man, the second eye on the other two, I shoved the plastic wrack under the table, grabbed a pool cue off the wall, and lined up the white cue ball, readying myself for the break. The two big goons behind me were watching me. It wasn’t so much that I could feel their stares digging into my back, I could see them with the eyes I’d grown in the back of my head. Taking careful aim, I broke the triangular stack like I meant it. The gunshot-like collision of the break was enough to grab the attention of Big Man.

  He turned.

  “Who the hell are you?” he said.

  For the first time since they walked in, I felt a start in my heart. Gazing quickly at Bunny, I could see she was trying to pass on a message to me. Her wide, unblinking eyes told me to mind my own business. But I had been minding my own business. More or less. Still, the man asked a question, and even though I could see he was a big asshole, I thought he deserved a proper retort.

  I looked over one shoulder and then the other.

  “You talking to me, sir?”

  I knew from experience that the sir part would be a nice touch. Big assholes like him always ate up pseudo respect like a sponge soaks up water.

  “Yeah, I’m talking to you,” he said. “I’ve never seen you here. And it’s too early for the two or three tourists this pathetic backwater town gets in the warm weather.”

  “He’s just passing through,” Bunny said.

  He shifted his eyes back to her quick.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, Bunny.”

  “Let’s just say I like sleepy little towns,” I said.

  I continued to sink ball after ball.

  “Now then, Bunny,” Big Man went on, “it’s that time of the month. And I don’t mean between your legs.”

  So, that was it, then. He was looking for a payout, and he wasn’t the least bit afraid to demand it in front of me. That was another thing I’d gotten used to in the joint. Screws expecting payouts from inmates, inmates expecting payouts from screws, and inmates expecting payouts from other inmates. Payment could be in the form of blowjobs, drugs, or even good old-fashioned cash. But the principle was the same. You owed somebody, for whatever reason, you’d better make the payment or else face some pretty bad shit. That’s exactly what we had going on here.

  I hit another ball into a side pocket. Turning, I smiled proudly at the two silent goons. They didn’t smile back.

  “I’m a little short this month, Billy,” Bunny said. “Like you said, tourists ain’t arrived yet.”

  Big man shook his head slowly. Maybe even dramatically, if you know what I mean. Sort of like a parent would do to a kid when they got caught raiding the cookie jar before dinner.

  “Now, now, Bunny,” he said. “I thought we had an agreement.”

  “I ain’t got no agreement with you, Billy,” she said, her voice getting louder, tone more agitated. “I don’t make no deals with nobody. It’s that sneaky Sonny Torchi who makes the one-sided deals.”

  Big Billy made a fist, slammed it down on the bar. The entire bar rattled.

  Another glance at the goons behind me. They were smiling now, like watching Billy lose his shit was the most fun they could have with their leather on. I sank another ball into the corner pocket. Did it just to make it look like I wasn’t the least bit fazed by the big asshole’s tantrum.

  “It’s only four-hundred bucks, Bunny,” he said. “Now, I’m sure you can spare four-hundred bucks. You make that in tips alone on a Saturday night. Or do I have to open up the register for you?”

  Bunny crossed her arms tight around her chest.

  “I told you already,” she said. “I don’t have it. All I got is the cash that man over there is paying for his drinks.”

  Suddenly, all eyes were on me. I sank one last ball, then stood up straight. Setting the cue onto the tabletop, I slowly made my way back to the bar. Taking hold of my whiskey, I drank it down in one swift pull. Then I set the glass back down.

  “One more, Bunny,” I said, “if you’re not too busy.”

  Big Billy cleared his throat like he was trying to get my attention. An elephant could have been standing beside me and he wouldn’t have been more obvious. And trust me when I tell you, Billy was as big as an elephant. He moved in toward me, leaned down so that he could talk into my ear.

  “Case you hadn’t noticed, friend,” he said, “I’m presently engaged in a little conversation with the proprietor of this dump.”

  Snickers from the rat pack by the door. My guess was they got chewed out if they didn’t laugh at the boss’s jokes. Bunny grabbed the bottle of Jameson. For a long beat, I just stared into the drink. Until I raised the glass and pulled it back in one swift swallow.

  Setting the glass back down hard, I said, “How much I owe you, Bunny?”

  “Fifteen,” she said.

  I pulled Sonny Torchi’s money and what was left of my money from out of my pocket, peeled off a ten and a five, slapped it down on the bar.

  Then I said, “Oh, Bunny, I almost forgot the tip.”

  I laid out the rest of the cash I had on hand, including Torchi’s tavern money. It wasn’t four-hundred, but maybe it was enough to satisfy Big Billy in the short term. Bunny looked at me with eyes wide open. She offered me just a hint of a grin, but its meaning was huge. She was thanking me from the bottom of her heart. Peeling the money off the bar, she counted it out loud and swiftly handed it over to Big Billy.

  “Satisfied?” she said. “I’ll have to owe you the extra fifty.”

  He folded the money without bothering to recount it, and stuffed it in his vest pocket. Then he went behind the bar, opened the bottle of Jack Daniels that was sitting on the top shelf. He downed a generous shot. He set the bottle back without capping it and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. When he came back around the bar, he turned to me, said, “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, friend?”

  “Comedy was never my strong suit,” I said. “I like to take life seriously. Don’t you?”

  “Watch your fucking mouth, jerk,” one of the peanut gallery goons said. He was wearing leather chaps and a leather vest over a black t-shirt, just like the other one. He was even bigger than his boss, if such a thing were possible.

  “I’ve got this, PJ,” Big Billy said.

  That’s when Big Billy poked me in the ribs with an extended index finger. Normally, a finger poke didn’t hurt, but coming from a dude his size, I felt it all the way down to the bone.

  “I’m not sure how long you plan on staying in town, friend,” he went on. “But perhaps you might want to think about making it a short stay.”

  “And why’s that?” I said.

  “It’s a small town,” he said. “Not enough room for everyone, if you get my meaning.”

  “I do,” I said. “I get your meaning.” I looked at my watch. “Oh my, I’m going to be late for work.” I gra
bbed hold of my laptop, stuffed it under my arm.

  “Work?” Big Billy said. “Thought you were just passing through.”

  “Need to make a few bucks first,” I said. “Then I’ll be on my way.”

  “And who would be stupid enough to hire you, little friend?” Big Billy asked.

  “The owners of Loon Lake Inn,” I said, staring directly into his eyes. “Maybe you’ve heard of them.”

  It wasn’t like you could hear a pin drop at that point. It was like you could hear a feather falling to the floor. Turning, I went for the door. PJ stood in its way like a granite boulder.

  “Let him through, PJ,” Billy said. “Our little friend ain’t seen the last of us.”

  “Thanks for the hospitality, Bunny,” I said.

  Opening the door, I let myself out, knowing full well that my boss, the owner and caretaker of Loon Lake Inn, was not only a member of the mob, but a high-ranking member bent on buying up Loon Lake. And doing so by force.

  12

  As I crossed the parking lot on the way to my Jeep, I caught sight of a man who was staring at me from outside the front entrance of the sheriff’s headquarters. Judging by the way he was dressed in a black-and-red-checked work shirt, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a sidearm holstered to his belt, he had to be the sheriff himself. He nodded to me as I went around to the passenger side and set the laptop on the empty seat. Maybe he didn’t say a word to me, but my gut sure did. It said, “Watch your back. Loon Lake isn’t the lonely little paradise it seems to be.”

  The hand that came down on my shoulder felt like a sledge hammer. But I remained upright. Turning, I saw the massive bear of a man cock back his fist like he was John Wayne about to land a giant roundhouse. That was his first and last mistake. I landed two swift punches to his gut, then jabbed his neck directly on the Adam’s apple. The pain and the lack of air was enough to drop him to his knees. He grabbed hold of his throat.