by Jack Getze
Shaking her head, Mama Bones lets the binoculars hang loose, the straps resting on her bosom. She reaches into her black purse for her cell phone. She had no idea Austin Carr was so kinky. Imagine. Inviting another man and woman to his condo for group sex.
“Hey, Vic,” Mama Bones says. “Guess where your comare spent the last hour, huh?”
“Tell me you are not watching Patricia.”
“Sure I am. Why not? But guess where she is. Patricia, who you say I can’t make do anything. Come on. Guess where she is now? No? Okay, I tell you. She’s answering Austin’s doorbell without any clothes on.”
“You’re saying she’s with Carr?”
“That’s right. Austin Carr. He not only takes your business. Now he takes your comare, too. Hope you don’t have nothing else he wants.”
“Ma. Please. If you’re telling me the truth, the news is hurtful. If you’re lying, it’s even worse. Why would you do this?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help telling you Patricia and Austin Carr spent the last hour playing hide the salami in his condo.”
“Ma.”
“Sometimes my magic works,” she says. “Now maybe you listen to me once in a while when I call. Give me the time of day.”
“How about I come for dinner tonight?”
“That’s nice. I’ll make your favorite—the white clam sauce. And bring the twenty thousand, okay?”
NINE
Not long after the sun goes down and my condo turns dark, Patricia Willis whispers it’s time for her to leave. She says her cat needs food and milk, asks can she have a ride home. We’ve spent all afternoon in bed but I still don’t want her to go.
Inside my Camry, the smell of her keeps me wanting.
She says, “Please believe I had nothing to do with the tampering in your investment account. I ended up giving my brother money to invest for me, gave him your advice on Panama. I told Vic he was on his own.”
“I believe you,” I say. “It had to be Vic put money in my account. He and the back office are the only people with access, and only Vic would know to buy Fishman call options. He’s the only one heard your story, right?”
“Right.”
“So you gave him an idea, that’s all. He’s trying to set me up for insider trading, get my securities license taken away.”
“Here we are,” Patricia says. “Second driveway on the right. And thank you for bringing me home. I’m sorry to move the...uh, festivities, but my cat will tear the couch up if I don’t come home and feed her. Besides, after those District Attorney people showed up, your place lost a touch of its romance.”
I grin at her. “I didn’t notice.”
She gently slaps my shoulder, then squeezes my leg.
Under the weight of her hand, the skin on my thigh tingles. Her happy voice is like a time machine, throwing my mind back to our first love-making on my couch. I can still picture the freckles on her white breasts, hear the throaty pleasure in her laughter.
I’m stupid crazy about her. It’s like Cupid shot me in the heart. I don’t even mind Vic pointed me toward jail on insider trading charges. I’ll worry about my problems later—outsmarting Vic hasn’t been difficult so far. Patricia is everything right now. The excitement I feel—well, it’s more than another new redhead in my life. Truthfully, I have never been so strongly attracted to anyone.
Maybe I’ve been zapped by the love mojo.
Patricia points because I’m about to miss the second driveway. I swing the Camry into a dark lane between four-story trees, the gravel road extending one hundred yards into a miniature forest of evergreens and undergrowth, well out of sight of the road. Man-high ferns and rhododendrons grow beneath the trees. Fading yellow hostas form a close border on both sides of the gravel. Their dead flower stalks mark the road like a snow fence.
At the end of the driveway my headlights illuminate a Victorian carriage house, the structure built—I’m guessing—for servants of the century old mansion standing next door. The main place is as big as a hotel. Though Patricia’s rental unit is one-sixth the size, the two buildings share a maroon and white color combination, matching shake roofs, the same scrolling window trim, and a substantial dock on the Navasquan River.
“Come on in and meet my cat,” she says.
The world turns nearly black when my headlights fade. The main house lies to the right, behind a collection of blue and green conifers, and I can’t see the roof line anymore. The steady putt-putt of a small outboard engine buzzes on the river. Looking for the sound I see flickering lights on the water.
I follow Patricia up an exposed wooden stairway on the right side of her carriage house. A new Jaguar two-seater and a Mercedes 310 fill the garage spaces below her apartment. The stairway creaks as Patricia rises ahead of me to the second floor. My gaze follows her hips.
“Let’s get naked as soon as you feed the cat,” I say. “I have to pick up Beth at the library in an hour.”
Patricia laughs. “How about a drink first, sweet talker. I’m thirsty.”
Rusty hinges squeak as she keys open her front door. The paint on the staircase flakes off under my touch.
I follow Patricia inside the dark front room, watch her flip on the light switch. A seascape hangs on the opposite wall. Over her shoulder, a faded green sofa is half covered with newspapers and magazines.
Patricia shrieks.
I don’t see why, or what’s on the other half of the green sofa until I jump all the way inside to protect her. Mr. Vic Bonacelli sits calmly on the sofa. He’s holding a pistol.
Vic stares at me with scary wide eyes.
“What’s up with the gun?” I say. “And why did you fill up my personal investment account with Fishman options?”
Vic is normally an affable guy. He loves to play golf and tell jokes. Maybe that’s what this semiautomatic pistol is, a joke. I’m sure hoping.
“Two reasons I’m showing you the gun,” Vic says. “One, I need to talk to Patricia alone, and I don’t want to waste time arguing with you.”
I nod. Seems reasonable to me. I said he was affable. Heck, so I am.
“Two,” Vic says, “I don’t want you to speak to Patricia ever again, and I figured this Glock nine-millimeter would help you understand the depth of my feelings.”
I glance at Patricia. Her gaze flits low to her extreme left, the movement so rapidly connected to my gaze, the action seems a signal. My gaze follows hers to an aluminum briefcase on the floor, tucked in the far north corner of the room. “Sure, Vic, whatever you say. What about the Fishman options in my account. You set me up so I’d lose my license? Be forced to sell out the business to you?”
“That’s exactly what I have in mind,” Vic says. “Patricia handed me a perfect opportunity. I couldn’t resist.”
I must say, I’m a bit shocked Mr. Vic harbors such venom. Maybe I shouldn’t have changed the name of our firm to Carr Securities. The Glock in his hand looks more menacing than it did ten seconds ago: I’m beginning to understand Vic might be angry enough to shoot me.
I take a light hold of Patricia’s arm. “Maybe we should go.”
She shakes her head. “I need to talk to him, Austin. You go. I’ll call you later.”
I want to do whatever those sky blue eyes ask, so I look away. “He’s got a loaded gun pointed at us. I am not leaving you here.”
“The gun is for you,” Vic says. “I’ve got something else for Patricia.”
Steam boils my neck, but Patricia’s on me fast, embracing me, pushing her pretty face close to mine, leaning her weight so we stagger backward to the open doorway.
“Go pick up your daughter,” she whispers. “Let me handle Vic. He’s not going to hurt me. It’s about that briefcase.”
“I’ve known Vic a long time,” I say. “But tonight he looks like a guy I don’t know—dangerous.”
Vic hears me and grins.
“He’s jealous, that’s all,” she whispers. “Now go, or there will be trouble. Let me handle him.
You have to trust me.”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“Please. Trust me.”
Vic stands and tucks the Glock behind his back. “I would never hurt Patricia. I don’t want to shoot you either, Austin. But I will if I ever see you with her again.”
“Go,” she says.
An hour later, waiting in the car for my daughter Beth, my brain exercises. One subject: I had no idea Mr. Vic was so attached to the redhead he’d pull a gun on me, threaten my life. The man is married thirty years, has several girlfriends. What am I missing? Second subject: Patricia failed to inform me of a few things as well, like what was in that briefcase and why would she point it out to me. Having fallen quickly and hard for Mr. Vic’s redhead, I’m also a little worried what Patricia and Vic are doing right now in her apartment.
Another woman startles me out of jealous concern—my daughter leans inside the Camry’s open passenger window wearing enough purple lipstick and eye-shadow to star in a 1920 silent movie.
“Hi, Daddy. Is it okay if Mike takes me home?”
I catch my breath. I had been imagining Patricia in such detail, Beth scared me. Gusts of cold wind make a mess of the Branchtown Public Library’s two acres of landscaped park. Oak trees throw leaves on the front sidewalk. I need to stop worrying about Patricia, consider my responsibilities.
“Daddy?”
“Who’s Mike?” I say.
Beth frowns. “I told you this afternoon. Mike Branigan. His family lives on our street. We’ve been classmates since fourth grade.”
He sounds vaguely familiar.
“Daddy, you sell his mother and father tax-free bonds.”
Now I remember. I’ve watched Mike grow up. I must still be thinking about Patricia’s freckles. “Okay, but Mike’s bringing you straight home, right? No parties or movies or trips to the mall. It’s a school night.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” she says.
Driving away, my heart takes funny turns. Beth’s of my own flesh, a part of me, and now she’s begun to pull away, testing herself against the world. A child becoming a woman. I have to find a way to spend more time with her, and Ryan, too.
Soon as I get home and make coffee, my forehead starts to sweat. Ten minutes pass with me watching the clock. What was I thinking? Why did I say yes to Mike Branigan bringing my daughter home?
Fifteen minutes go by. I drink a cup of coffee.
Half an hour. I finish the pot.
Finally! My kitchen clock says forty-five minutes have passed when the front door pops open and Beth strolls in, her jaws working on a wad of gum.
“Where were you?” I say.
“I needed something at the drug store,” Beth says. “Can I use your desktop to print some homework for school?”
“Sure. But you said you were coming right home. Don’t you understand how that worries me?”
“Sorry, Daddy.” She scoots into the bathroom and locks the door.
I don’t like the way this whole parent-child thing is going. My gut hurts. Beth’s off track, I can feel it, and having her for a full-time roommate puts the responsibility squarely on me.
I’m her father. Of course this is on me.
TEN
In her upstairs kitchen, the nice one with a tile floor, windows, flowers and her glassed-in collection of ceramic giraffes, Mama Bones checks the oven clock: Thing says 8:08 in straight and bright blue lines. Her son Vic knew she was making white clam sauce tonight, fettuccini with double-breaded fried veal cutlets. It’s not like him to be even a minute late.
Mama Bones calls Gianni. “Is my Vic on his way yet?”
“He’s still inside Patricia’s place. Or maybe he’s just inside Patricia.”
“Watch your mouth.” Mama Bones bites her knuckle. Did her phone call, her news about Austin and the redheaded slut set Vic off on some tantrum? Her son has a temper for sure, but he couldn’t hurt a woman. She taught him better.
“Austin Carr left, right?” she asks.
“Half an hour ago. Like I told you before.”
“And Patricia didn’t leave, too?” Mama Bones asks. “You sure she’s up there with Vic?”
Silence. And Mama Bones doesn’t like silence. With Gianni, the quiet means he’s thinking hard, trying to figure how to tell her something. She glances at her giraffe collection. They remind her it’s good to know what’s over the horizon. These long-necked, spotted horse-things can see what’s coming.
“Haven’t seen Patricia go anywhere,” he says.
Something’s not quite right with Gianni’s words, Mama Bones can tell. He’s fudging. “You left?” she says. “Maybe for just a minute?”
Gianni sighs. “Maybe two minutes I was gone,” he says. “There’s a McDonald’s up the street. I needed coffee.”
“That’s it? You were gone five minutes buying coffee?”
“Yeah.”
“No, that’s not all, Gianni. There’s something else. What?”
He coughs. “Well, when I came back, the Jaguar underneath her apartment was gone, but I’m pretty sure that’s not Patricia’s car.”
“You’re pretty sure?
“I’ve never seen her driving it before.”
“Go knock on the door,” Mama Bones says. “Make sure Vic’s in there, that he’s okay.”
“But he’ll know I’ve been following him.”
“Tell him you drove by and saw his car, that you looked for him because his cell phone’s off and his mama keeps calling you, asking you to find him, send him here for dinner. Like he promised.”
“Okay. Jeez.”
It’s too quick when Gianni calls back. There was no time for a real conversation between Gianni and Vic, so Mama Bones is afraid something bad has happened to her son. She hesitates answering, finding out what Gianni has to say. Funny, this time it’s not so good she can see who is calling. She crosses herself, prays to Mother Mary that her son is alive and well.
Gianni’s voice, when he says Mama Bones’ name, takes her breath away. She knows his next words will crush her.
“Vic’s been shot,” Gianni says.
Mama Bones wants to scream like someone sawed off her leg. But instead, her eyes fill with tears, and her throat shrinks so small she can hardly breathe. No screaming for sure. The only sound she can make is a wet gasp.
“I already called nine one one,” Gianni says, “and Vic’s breathing fine, his heart’s beating and everything.”
“Oh, Mother Mary!”
“I hear the sirens, Mama Bones. They’re almost here. He’ll make it.”
Mama Bones’ chest bone creaks as the pounding heart beneath it swells and prepares to burst. Oh, Mary, Mother of God. Please don’t take my Vic.
Take me. Take me, please. This is my fault.
Mama Bones cries all night at the hospital, where her son sleeps in a coma. She cries all day at the church, where she prays. She cries in her bed where she can’t sleep. This kind of pain is deep, makes everything taste and smell bad, makes everybody sound like a dope to her when they talk, and makes Mama Bones wish she could be anywhere else but in the room listening to them blab. Even the doctors. They got nothing to say. They don’t know.
The days and night run together until at the hospital one night, staring at Vic in his coma, tubes and wires coming out like different thicknesses of spaghetti, Mama Bones remembers why she doesn’t like hospitals—her dead husband Domenic. Dom went in for a colonoscopy but woke up with cancer, no colon, a plastic bag attached to his side for poop. When no one was around, he killed himself that first night when he saw, ripping out the wires, draining tubes, IV lines and even the stitches.
Remembering Domenic makes her stop crying because she was so mad at him when he did that. Heck, she’s still mad at him for committing that sin. She doesn’t understand to this day why he didn’t want to live. Sure, pooping into a bag you have to wear is no fun, but Dom still would have had his family. His wife and children. Didn’t he love them? Didn’t he want hi
s family? They sure loved and needed him.
Just like now. Her family needs her.
Mama Bones stands over the stove frying scrambled eggs in bacon grease for her nephews Gianni and Tomas, members of her crew and permanent residents at her house in Branchtown since her old boss Bluefish was publically assassinated last winter. Gianni loves a big breakfast, but Tomas says he only wants plain white yogurt.
“When did you start eating like a ballerina?” Mama Bones asks.
Tomas grins. Gianni studies her face. His brow is puzzled, wondering maybe why Mama Bones makes a joke when Vic—though getting slightly better—is still in a coma. But Gianni must see the change, her need to start working again. Both nephews know Mama Bones pretty good.
“My friend at Branchtown P.D. says it was Vic’s own gun that shot him,” Gianni says.
Outside her kitchen window, Mama Bones glimpses three kids on their way to school, laughing, playing kid games. Can it really be thirty-three years since her Vic went off to school down this very street? Laughing like those children. Her wooden spoon pushes around the milk, cheese, and egg mixture so the runny stuff touches heat. Gianni doesn’t like his eggs underdone. “It’s hard for me to believe Austin Carr took Vic’s gun away and shot him,” she says. “Needs to be somebody tougher than Austin to do that.”
Gianni says, “I’m thinking Patricia shot him. She could have tricked him out of the gun. Got his mind on something else. You know.”
Mama Bones sniffs. Gianni says the truth. Vic usually has only one thing on his mind, pretty much all the time. Sex. It’s the reason he didn’t reach a higher place in this world, and could easily be the reason he got shot—well, sex and his own mother, heating Vic up about his comare Patricia. How can Mama Bones not blame herself for this terrible thing?
“So, Gianni,” she says. “How you figure this shooting happen, exactly?”
Gianni leans back from the kitchen table. The chair squeaks in terror as his weight spreads on only two legs. “I saw Vic’s car parked a block away when I followed Carr and the redhead to her place,” he says. “So Vic must have been waiting for them when they walked in. I figure Vic threatened Carr with the gun, told him to stay away from Patricia. But then Carr or the redhead got hold of Vic’s gun, shot him with it.”
