by Jack Getze
BIG MOJO
An Austin Carr Mystery
By
Jack Getze
Acclaim for
Big Mojo
“Darkly comic and always entertaining--with an outrageous cast of characters including a scheming grandmother and a mysterious redhead. Our engaging hero, fueled by honor and passion, does the best he can in a world where the bad guys seem determined to do him in. Gordon Gekko meets Janet Evanovich in this wry and winning caper--Jack Getze does it again!” —Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony and Mary Higgins Clark Award winning author of Truth Be Told
“If Jack Getze’s Austin Carr novels aren’t on your must-read list, you don’t know what you’re missing. Austin Carr’s that buddy your wife doesn’t like you to hang out with. Fast-talking, wisecracking, and hard-living, he’s the type of guy who swears he’s only ever looking for a good time, and yet every night out with him seems to end in a fight. But you can’t deny he’s got heart – and Big Mojo is Carr’s most epic adventure yet. It’s got frame-ups. Insider trading. Stolen jewels. Double-crosses. Triple-crosses. Love potions. Gunplay. And enough outsized characters it could only take place in the great state of New Jersey. So pick it up. Give it a read. But maybe tell the missus you’re hanging out with someone else.” —Chris F. Holm, Author of the Collector Series
“There’s no way you can lose with an Austin Carr novel with a gorgeous redhead, a character with the moniker of “Mama Bones”, a double-crossing business partner, more bad guys than can be seen in one place outside of the White House, and Austin’s smart mouth that surely he learned by reading lots of Robert B. Parker’s character Spenser… A truly rollicking, fun, action-filled read with more twists than a fevered revival of Hula Hoop fanatics at a Jersey Shore ballroom… And then, there’s that redhead. Always that redhead…” —Les Edgerton, author of The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping and others.
“The irrepressible Austin Carr is back, and he’s sly and sardonic as ever. Jack Getze’s Big Mojo is a rollercoaster ride you don’t want to miss!” —Hilary Davidson, Anthony Award Winning Author of Blood Always Tells
Copyright 2014 by Jack Getze
First Edition: October 2014
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Down & Out Books
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by JT Lindroos
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Big Mojo
Bio
Other Books Available from Down and Out Books
A preview of Les Edgerton’s The Genuine, Imitation, Plastic Kidnapping
A preview of Richard Barre’s Lost
A preview of Rob Brunet’s Stinking Rich
For Angelina, Grace, Kyleigh and James
ONE
The big thing about Jersey stockbrokers: we’re in a cutthroat occupation. If we don’t keep our client names and their contact information secure, other brokers will pirate our business. In a room full of telephone salesmen, somebody is always switching firms, stealing every name and phone number they can duplicate. Thus, when my associate and former boss Vic Bonacelli calls, asks me to step into his office and meet one of his customers, I’m stunned. And since I closely watched a smoking hot redhead strut inside Mr. Vic’s private spaces not ten minutes ago, my curiosity quickly displays itself in a feverish sweat.
When Mr. Vic originally founded our Jersey Shore broker-dealer securities company thirty-five years ago, the firm could accept cash in payment for municipal, tax-free bearer bonds. Taking advantage of this fact, Mr. Vic’s first customers tended to be tax cheats—boardwalk vendors and other small business types who collected lots of cash, and whose personal constitutions prevented them from paying Uncle Sam full tribute.
By recognizing the vulnerability therein, let’s call it a Quixotic focus on political principal, Mr. Vic easily skimmed ten percent from such cash transactions. He did it so happily, and with such charm, three decades later ninety percent of all those early clients—or their surviving children—still do business with him. Put more succinctly, Mr. Vic still has a lot of crooks on the book.
My name’s Austin Carr, by the way, President of Carr Securities, Inc., Members of the American Association of Securities Dealers. Though I refuse to rob our customers like Mr. Vic used to, I had hoped my fifty-one percent ownership in the recently renamed Carr Securities would provide for my children’s university education. Currently, however, Bob the Dentist—my ex-wife’s boyfriend—seems a more likely candidate. Carr Securities is barely running in the black, and my only real income these days is commission on my personal stock and bond sales.
I knock on Mr. Vic’s closed office door.
“Come on in, pal,” he says.
Mr. Vic’s spaces have returned to their original, antique, fox-and-hounds, boy-are-we-old-money glory. Hard to do in Jersey, but Vic tries. While he and his wife were in Italy last year, Vic leaving me to hold a large empty bag for him, I occupied the big office in a more Spartan manner. In the interest of peace and hoped for harmony—our one-office firm needs Vic’s sales production—I let him have his big office back despite having wrestled control of the company from him.
His fancy liquor cabinet was empty anyway.
Vic saying, “Patricia, I’d like you to meet my partner, Austin Carr. Austin, this is Patricia Willis.”
Dressed for a Jersey fox hunt, Ms. Patricia Willis shines summer eyes at me—iris the color of reflected sky on shallow water. Her shoulder-length ginger hair fits perfectly around her oval face, her figure shows off womanly curves, but it’s her knockout blue eyes that hold my stare. My heart flickers, in fact. Easy, boy. I’ve seen Patricia Willis visit Mr. Vic’s office before, and my married junior partner is notorious not only for his infidelities, but for stabling multiple girlfriends at the same time. Still, it won’t be easy keeping my eyes off Ms. Patricia Willis. My interest in fiery-haired women goes back to I Love Lucy reruns and Lucille Ball. It’s practically genetic.
Wonder why Vic has the radio on?
Patricia says, “Nice to meet you, Austin.”
I give her the full-boat Carr grin. “You, too, Ms. Willis.”
The redhead’s smile twists into an odd smirk. My blood pressure creeps higher. Taking in her Trollop of the Stables dress code—tight suede riding pants, black leather boots and a white, low-cut blouse—I’m guessing Patricia knows how to spend quality time on her own back, not just a horse’s.
“Patricia just told me quite a story,” Vic says.
I stifle a choke.
“A story I think you should hear,” he says.
Oh, boy. I love stories.
When Patricia stops talking four minutes later, I slouch back in Mr. Vic’s red leather armchair and let the soft jazz on the Bose play deeply on my neck and shoulders. Now I know why my partner has the radio on. He hopes the music will calm him. I know my heart’s thumping hard rock boogie after the redhead’s tale. Boy could I make a boat load of money. Money I need badly for Beth and Ryan’s college education. But getting caught profiting on inside information—she’s got it, the real thing—means losing Carr Securities and my securities license. Not to mention the public disgrace. Imagine what my kids would go through at school.
Imagine what I’d
go through selling used cars.
Mr. Vic stares at my tie like I spilled mustard on it. He’s not always a bad guy, but right now he believes Patricia’s info gives him a winning lottery ticket. His black greedy eyes and pinched brow don’t care about my family’s future, just his own.
“So, what do you think?” he asks. “Is a story Patricia heard from her brother really inside information?”
I stare back at him like Vic’s the mustard. Could Vic really not know Patricia possesses true inside information? It should be obvious to any securities professional. Maybe I misunderstood something.
My gaze shifts back to Patricia, successfully avoiding her large and available cleavage. Not an easy trick, even with the red hair as an alternate attraction. “Before I answer Vic’s question, let me make sure I have this straight, Ms. Willis. Your brother, a big shot Manhattan attorney, is working on a merger agreement between Fishman Corporation and Gene-Pak Industries; that is, your brother is helping negotiate and prepare—actually write the legal merger documents. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“And this merger has yet to be publicly announced?”
“Yes,” she says. “Like I just told you. My brother said Gene-Pak will pay at least forty dollars a share for Fishman stock—maybe more if the market goes up.”
Fishman currently sells at thirty-two. Part of my brain—the greedy, Mr. Vic part—has already done the math, and believe me, if I picked the right stock option, I could make four or five times my money on a deal like this. Put up fifty grand, get back a quarter million.
The soft jazz helps, but my pulse is still too fast.
I glance back at Mr. Vic. “Information doesn’t get any more inside than this. Her brother the attorney signed confidentiality papers he apparently hasn’t read. If he gets caught talking about this merger, he’s finished as a lawyer. If he gets caught giving out the information, he’ll be disbarred.”
Patricia says, “How would they ever catch him—or us?”
Us? “Your brother will be on a list of lawyers and other people who have prior knowledge. The exchanges and the Securities and Exchange Commission keep track. They’ll check his accounts if suspicious trading turns up in the stock. Is his name the same as yours—Willis?”
“Yes,” the redhead says.
“Then when the New York Stock Exchange computers look at all the people who purchased stock and options before the merger, your name will pop up in red caps. And so will anyone else who bought Fishman, has the name Willis or lives in Branchtown. The computer figures you might know them.”
“But only if there’s an investigation of unusual trading, right?” Vic says. “The SEC doesn’t do it automatically with every merger deal. If she doesn’t get too greedy, the stock doesn’t exceed its normal volume, maybe they don’t notice, right?”
“It’s possible,” I say. “But very risky with the same name.”
“Maybe what Patricia wants to know,” Vic says, “is what’s the worst that could happen? If she gets caught, doesn’t she just say I’m sorry and give the money back?”
I stare at Patricia. “If you get caught, your brother gets disbarred, maybe prison. You might also pay double your profit in fines. And if you tell one little lie about your involvement first—try to hide the truth and keep the dough like Martha Stewart—well, Ms. Willis, you are possibly on your way to prison.”
“What if I open a bank account in the Cayman Islands?” Patricia says.
I sigh, lean back and signal Vic with an eyebrow. This redheaded hottie is his client, probably a girlfriend. She has to trust him pretty darn well to tell him about her brother and this merger deal, then let him bring me into the room. Come on, Mr. Vic, take Patricia Willis to the ’splaining department.
“What about it?” Vic says to me. “The Caymans?”
Not exactly the words I wanted to hear, partner. I shrug. “The Cayman banks might keep their mouths shut. They say Panama’s better. But I’m not getting involved in this. And neither is my firm.”
“Our firm,” Vic says.
“I control the stock now, not you.”
“Fifty-one to forty-nine.”
“Ask J. Paul Getty’s heirs about the significance of fifty-one percent,” I say. “But why don’t you and Patricia fly to Panama City this weekend, take your checkbook and credit cards with you, go crazy buying Fishman options. I’m not risking it, and neither is this firm.”
Pulling myself out of the red leather armchair, I step nearer Mr. Vic. “In fact, I don’t even understand why you asked me to hear this story.”
My partner works his lips, but he doesn’t speak. At least not now.
I turn to the redhead. “Is this story even legit?”
Her chin lifts half an inch. The cleavage rises with it. “Everything about me is legit.”
TWO
Back on the trading desk, my pulse leads the Kentucky Derby. Real inside information. I don’t think people outside the securities business can understand or appreciate what this means to a stockbroker. Sure we spend five days a week telling our customers which stocks are going up and which ones are headed down. But it’s all baloney. Nobody can predict the future.
Especially stockbrokers from Jersey.
“What are you so excited about, Carr? I haven’t seen you glassy-eyed like this since Ryan hit that walk-off home.”
The pest over my shoulder—the guy talking about my son the Little Leaguer—is Bobby G, former sales-floor cohort, now my employee. His bed head, bushy red hair could be mistaken for a rusty mop, which is fitting because Bobby sucks up gossip like the best floor sponge.
“Come on, what’s the story?” he says.
“Yeah,” Carmela says from the trading desk. “What did that bimbo tell you and my father?”
“Nothing good.” I lie.
Carmela runs our trading department. She’s Mr. Vic’s oldest daughter. Not all the employees of Carr Securities have adopted a proper new tone and manner toward me, one that reflects my recently increased ownership. In Bobby G’s case, this is because he and I share tequila and tacos at least once a week during Little League baseball season. Our sons play on the same team. Carmela’s attitude is hard to gauge, let alone explain.
I click my computer screen off a chart of Fishman and try the general business news section. “Vic’s redhead had a question about interest rates,” I say. “It was nothing.”
“BS, Carr,” Bobby G says. “You’re blushing. You got a tip, didn’t you?”
Oh, boy, did I. I have to take deep breaths, cut back on this emotional, girlish excitement. Men are supposed to remain calm in the face of a potentially huge financial gain. Not that I’d ever risk buying stock on inside information.
Ever, ever, ever.
I stand up, my shoulder brushing Bobby G’s. “I’m going to lunch.”
Bobby says, “Fishman, huh? What’s up with that old dog?”
Inside Luis’ Mexican Grill, chatter, laughter, and a serious background buzz of sustained chew-and-chomp attack my eardrums. Chef Umberto waves at me through the kitchen doorway. The air smells of cilantro and fresh corn tortillas. Not much symbolic of Jersey at Luis’, unless you count beer consumption and fleshy faces.
On the way here, I thought seriously about what might be best for my two children, Ryan and Beth. I was thinking, specifically, maybe I should, in fact, be risking disgrace, the business and my stockbroker license.
No, no, no. I’m not really going to do it. I was just letting Mr. Greed have his say. But here’s what Mr. Greed was thinking: If I rounded up all the cash I could, borrowed from my aunt and uncle’s small trust account I manage, then flew to Panama, used the money to buy Fishman stock options, I could make two-fifty or three hundred thousand dollars profit on Patricia Willis’ inside information. Enough money, if invested right, to pay for the combined eight years of education at just about any university Beth and Ryan could choose.
The heart of all investment decisions is the fear versus g
reed equation, and sometimes I think the equation applies to everything in life. Is it worth the risk to take care of my children’s future?
No. I’ll find another way.
Behind his huge horseshoe bar, my friend and establishment owner, Luis Guerrero, waves a strange hello at me while serving green margarita snow cones to a group of middle-aged housewives, a foursome fresh off the municipal golf course. I’ve seen the same group here before. They like to perch and eat at the bar so Luis serves them. And why not? Luis is dashing and handsome, a thin and muscled foreigner in a world of overfed electricians, plumbers, bankers and horse players. But too bad, ladies. My favorite bartender, sage, hombre and club owner, Luis Guerrero, gets married this weekend. In fact, tonight’s the rehearsal dinner and I’m invited.
Oops. There’s Tom Ragsdale—Rags we call him—my former sales manager when Carr Securities used to be called Shore Securities. He’s at Luis’ bar, tucked back in a dark shadow under the ceiling-suspended television set. Hiding like a bat. I don’t think his eyes are really glowing. It’s probably that I hate him so much. I can’t believe he’s here. That odd wave Luis gave me earlier must have been a warning.
I choose a stool as far from Rags and the golf ladies as Luis’ bar will comfortably allow and wait for my friend. When Luis finally visits, I order a shot of Herradura, a tequila made popular by Hollywood screenwriters last century, and still my favorite liquor produced from cactus. Or succulents. Whatever blue aguave plants are.
“Let’s toast your wedding,” I say.
“Perhaps you should show your enthusiasm in a manner less alcoholic,” Luis says. “You must be coherent, alert even, for the rehearsal tonight. Father Ignacio will be disturbed if you pass out or vomit during his instructions.”
