by Jack Getze
“But you were outside,” Tomas says. “Wouldn’t you have heard the shot?”
“The house is two hundred yards from the street, behind a forest of thick trees. I might not hear.”
“So,” Tomas says, “the shooting could have happened either before or after Carr left. Carr could have shot him.”
Mama Bones scratches the eggs from her frying pan onto Gianni’s plate. “So tell me one thing, Sherlock. Why? Tell me why Vic’s comare wants to shoot the man she’s been sleeping with ten years or more.”
Gianni’s fork digs into the eggs. “She’s fallen for Austin. You saw them at Austin’s condo. Maybe Vic wouldn’t let her go. It’s the oldest ‘why’ in the world.”
Mama Bones does not want to believe such a thing. It can’t be true. It would mean that her potion is responsible for Vic’s coma. She shakes her head no, says, “Patricia Willis is no murderer. Neither is Austin. I think Vic was up to something behind my back. Something none of us knew about.”
“Vic can be sneaky,” Gianni says, “But I’m not sure he would keep important secrets from you. Stuff that could get him shot.”
“I am,” she says. “My Vic doesn’t need a gun to scare Austin Carr. He had that gun with him for another reason—to protect something valuable.”
Mama Bones’ nephews glance at each other. Sheepishly, Father Ignacio would say. There is something these two boys haven’t told her yet.
“What?” Mama Bones says.
“I mentioned this to Tomas the other day, then forgot,” Gianni says. “Vic was carrying a fancy aluminum briefcase the last two days—sturdy, like something a jeweler would use to carry inventory.”
ELEVEN
A week after Mr. Vic’s shooting, in the offices of Carr Securities, I sign for certified mail, a typed letter with a headline: “SUBPOENA DUCES TECUM.” It’s from the federal government’s Wall Street watchdog, the U. S. Securities and Exchange Commission, and it’s addressed to me, Austin Carr.
“You are hereby required to appear before the undersigned and other officers of the Securities and Exchange Commission...to testify in the Matter of Trading in the Securities of Fishman Corp.”
The Feds have always been big on capital letters in strange places.
“You are hereby required to bring with you and produce at said time and place those books, papers, documents, and other records described in the Attachment hereto,” the letter concludes. “Fail not at your peril.”
I call my attorney, Randall Zimmer, Esq. He listens to me rant about how Vic set me up, how Vic hates my guts since I took control of his business, and how only Vic and I have access to the master password. Even to me, my words sound like another litany of excuses from a ne’er do well. Luckily for me, I’ve got the best mouthpiece in Seaside County, maybe the only German, Irish and Italian weighted Jersey Bar Association allowed in. Mr. Z tells me to stay calm. We set up an appointment to talk and strategize.
Nothing like a subpoena to start the afternoon. I need a strategy session right away. With a bottle. I call to check, get the good news about Luis’, inform the receptionist and Carmela, then set out immediately for my favorite hangout. I’m one of thirty customers, Luis standing on the horseshoe bar as I walk inside, Luis hanging a new sombrero he bought in Spain. Much to my happiness, and as I confirmed via telephone, Luis and his bride returned last night from their honeymoon.
A mariachi tune plays over the speaker system. The television is off. Luis’ bride Solana is a new waitress, the black hair piled on top of her head, cheeks and lips devoid of the makeup I saw at her wedding. She’s prettier this way, really, the lady hustling between tables balancing three enchilada dinner plates, her hips bumping air to the Mexican folk music.
Luis jumps down from the counter to the rubber mat behind his bar. The grace of his leap and soft landing startle me. Smooth and quiet. Luis must be the reincarnation of an ancient Toltec wizard. He dominates his territory like a wild cat.
“So, mi amigo,” Luis says. “What is it you wish to speak about?”
I don’t even ask anymore how he knows I want to talk. There must be something on my face, something directly opposite in meaning to a full-boat grin. I start right in, use maybe three minutes to tell my spiritual advisor about Patricia Willis, about me being at her place before Mr. Vic was shot, and about how Patricia has now disappeared.
“I haven’t heard from her since that night,” I say.
Luis shrugs. “You must go to the police.”
Darn. Why did I ask? I don’t want to go to the police, tell them I was there minutes before Vic was shot. When you think about it, who had a better reason to shoot him than me? He tampered with my account, betrayed me.
Better change the subject. “Any sign of that guy Vargas?” I ask.
Luis shakes his head. “No, but I am concerned he will return. That is why I have Solana working here.”
I sip my tequila, looking for the right way to phrase my question. Touchy subject I have on my mind. “Is Vargas like...Solana’s old boyfriend or something?”
Luis turns his gaze away from me. “Vargas is a story for another day.”
Other than minor traffic and the associated vehicle headlights, it’s quiet and dark in Luis’ parking lot by the time I leave. My shoes kick gravel as I walk between cars, the automobile spaces less than half occupied. My mind considers Patricia and my feelings for her, Mr. Vic’s Glock aimed at me, plus the friends my daughter Beth has invited over to watch TV at our place tonight. Consumed with these issues, and thus completely self-absorbed, I don’t see the guy in the hoodie until it’s way too late. I don’t even have time to raise a protective hand.
His fist explodes against my nose and cheek.
I stumble backward, the pain shocking my senses. Everybody’s a brawler until they get punched in the face. My hands are up to my face when Hoodie Man kicks me in the crotch. I go down to one knee.
“Where’s the cash?” Hoodie Man says.
I have no clue what he’s talking about. But I do know this guy is disguising his voice. Maybe I know him. “What cash?”
Luis’ parking lot surface consists of one-inch granite gravel, a gray and jagged carpet, and all four million sharp rocks are biting my knee. Under the light of a three-quarter moon, I stop wondering who this bastard is and instead get pissed. This son of a bitch punched and kicked me.
“The cash in the briefcase,” he says.
I jump to my feet. Hoodie Man snaps a Chuck Norris front kick into my gut, then pushes me back down. Since all good things come in threes, I roll on my back as soon as I hit the gravel, expecting another foot stomp. He obliges, too, and I’m ready, grabbing his foot and twisting his sneaker like I’m snapping a right turn in the Camry.
He belly flops onto the parking lot gravel with a familiar yelp. I notice the hoodie he wears has a broken zipper. A five inch strip of metal teeth and torn backing dangle from a seam. What briefcase was he talking about—the one Vic brought to Patricia’s?
Before I can stand or jump on his back, he sprints away, Hoodie Man’s knees nearly touching while he runs. The crazy legs style reminds me of someone, a jerk I saw move like that once down the main aisle of Carr Securities.
Hoodie Man could be my old sales manager Rags.
My favorite bartender thinks I’m too dizzy to drive myself home, so it’s after midnight when Solana and Luis drop me off at my condo. Luis even insists on accompanying me to the door. My Florsheims drag on the brick-lined cement walkway like flat tires. I whiff a taste of my neighbor’s cat litter.
“You should remain in your bed all of tomorrow,” Luis says.
Lacking the strength to verbalize, I nod, unlock my door and walk into the dark living room. There’s noise, and I know something’s wrong even before I click the light switch.
Oh, hell no.
Beth and a young man I recognize as my old neighbor Mike both rise from a previously unseen and decidedly compromising position on my nine-foot leather couch. Beth’s f
ingers rush to the undone buttons on her blouse. “Shit,” she says.
Bare-chested Mike appears only slightly older than Beth. Some kind of caveman instinct speaks to me about trying to choke him, but basically, there is nothing going on here I didn’t do myself at their age. I mean, everybody’s still wearing their pants.
“Get your clothes on, son,” I say. “Time to go home.”
Mike bends to snatch his floor-mounted sweatshirt. My pulse tick-tocks higher when he unfolds the exact style sweatshirt Hoodie Man wore while assaulting me three hours ago. Mike’s about the right size, too. True I thought it was Rags. Yes, gray is a common color for hoodies, but the zipper is even torn. And dangling.
Mike pulls the gray sweatshirt over his head, pausing for a moment to show me his muscled chest before tugging down the bottom. If I had muscles like Mike, maybe I’d pose, too. Could he be the guy who punched me in Luis’ parking lot?
“You two been here for a while?” I ask.
Both are speechless.
I nod toward Mike. “I was assaulted a few hours ago by a guy your size, in a hoodie like yours—right down to the torn zipper.”
“Daddy!”
My daughter is embarrassed. I can tell. Her father must be the dumbest man alive.
“The zippers on those hoodies always tear,” Beth says. “He’s seventeen years old and grew up on our street. How could you possibly think he’s the one who mugged you?”
I don’t know. How could I?
TWELVE
Besides being tall, athletic, German and blond, Randall Zimmer III, Esquire, grows seriously antagonistic wrinkles between his eyebrows whenever he frowns. That, the short hair and overall butch good looks could win him movie roles as Nazi villains should he ever want to change occupations.
“You invested your life savings—twenty thousand dollars—in risky options, one week before the merger, and you expect the SEC to believe you didn’t believe it was inside information?”
We’re in Zimmer’s Branchtown headquarters, Mr. Z seated behind a hand-carved antique desk roughly the size of Vic’s private office at Carr Securities. His joined hands rest on the polished teak surface, both index fingers coming together at the tip, pointing at me. A yellow number eight pencil bounces back and forth between his thumbs.
Reminds me of my high school principal.
“I didn’t buy the options,” I say. “The trades are in my account, but Mr. Vic did the trading—without my knowledge. He set me up.”
Zimmer stares at my face. “Why would he do that—trade in your account?”
“Because I took away control of the company from him last year. If he gets me tossed out of the business, my license revoked, I’d be forced to sell—and at a bargain price, too.”
“So you had no pre-announcement knowledge of this merger?”
I look at the ceiling. “Absolutely not.” I can’t tell Zimmer the truth. It might cloud his judgment. More importantly, he’s an officer of the court and can’t present false evidence. “This whole problem belongs to Mr. Vic.”
Zimmer uses the number eight pencil to check his notes. We’re preparing for our upcoming appearance before the SEC and the U.S. District Attorney for New York. The subpoena suggests I’ll be answering a lot of the same questions for both agencies of the Federal government. As Mr. Z explained, the SEC is considering civil action, while the DA for New York will review possible criminal charges.
“You called him Mr. Vic,” Zimmer says. “You’re talking about your partner, Vic Bonacelli, recently assaulted and still in a coma?”
“That’s him.”
Zimmer’s frown is back. “Without his testimony, it will be difficult to prove he was responsible for the purchases in your account.”
I can’t think of a snappy answer to that one. In fact, I can hardly think at all. The truth is so glaringly nasty: That I didn’t buy those options might be impossible to prove.
Standing up, I say, “I’ll check out the company’s records, talk to the back office, see what I can come up with.”
“Hire a computer expert. It would be advantageous to present evidence as to which computer terminal those trades originated from—provided it wasn’t yours, of course.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” Zimmer says. “Do you have any friends or associates in Las Vegas?”
“Vegas? Not that I can think of.”
Mr. Z offers me his hand. “Good,” he says. “But think hard over the next twenty-four hours. Check your telephone book and your address book. Your Christmas card list. Let me know if there’s anyone in Vegas. It’s important that I know if you do.”
“Why? What’s with Vegas?”
“Las Vegas is where this investigation is centered,” Zimmer says. “According to people I know at the SEC, there are individuals from Las Vegas who each made over one million dollars on Fishman call options—options purchased one day before the merger announcement.”
To Mama Bones, Eddie Flukes looks a little shabby. As if he’s not taking good care of himself since his mother died. Eddie’s pants are shiny in the seat and the knees. His hair is too long and his fingernails are dirty. Even this old Asbury Park diner where Eddie wanted to meet does not say reassuring things. The place has been a junkie hangout since the 1950s.
“You want me to investigate your own kid?” Eddie Flukes says.
“Not investigate—check something out,” Mama Bones says. “How you doing since your mama died, Eddie. Everything okay?”
“I’m fine. Better than Vic, I hear. You already know who shot him?”
“No. What do you mean, better than Vic? Who says?”
“Didn’t he get shot?”
“Yeah, he got shot. But he’s okay. He’s gonna be fine. And you have balls saying you’re doing better than the guy who owns his own business, who took your starting linebacker job and your girlfriend when he was just a freshman.”
“Sorry, Mama Bones. Christ. That was thirty years ago.”
Poor Eddie. Mama Bones sighs. She has not been herself. “No, I’m-a the one should be sorry. I’m having a bad day, Eddie. Heck, I’m having a lot of bad days since Vic got shot. I apologize.”
He shakes his head, like Mama Bones is getting old and crazy.
“Forget I said that stuff, okay?” she says. “I know things aren’t easy for you since your mama passed. I want to give you a job, ask you to talk to my Vic’s friends. I think he kept some secrets.”
Eddie nods, his long hair falling forward over his ears. “How about the jeweler’s briefcase Tomas mentioned? Want me to see if I can find out where it came from, what was inside?”
“Sure, why not? That’s-a the thing that makes me think Vic’s got secrets.”
“Tomas also said maybe I’d be looking for Patricia Willis.”
“If you see her, sure. I’ll pay you. We hear she talked to the cops before she disappeared. Me, Tomas and Gianni are looking for her—she’s maybe a witness, the first person we gotta talk to if we want to find out who shot Vic. Can’t hurt having an extra set of eyeballs.”
Eddie nods and fingers the inside collar of his dirty shirt. What’s he worried about?
“How are you getting along with Bluefish’s replacement?” he asks.
Mama Bones studies Eddie’s face. “The Turk? Ha. Me and him go way back—all the way to Asbury Park High School.”
“No problems, huh? I hear The Turk thinks you might be a rival.”
“That’s funny,” Mama Bones says. “Although, now I think about it, the Turk always was afraid of girls.”
She stands up. “Time to go. You wanna buy the coffee, or you want me to pay the check, deduct it from your fee?”
The next afternoon at Carr Securities, Carmela asks me—Austin Carr, the company’s majority stockholder—to help box some of Mr. Vic’s personal items. She wants to surround her father in the hospital with familiar knick-knacks in hopes of waking him from the coma. I’m appalled she wants me to perform physical labor
, especially on the promise good luck charms might accomplish where science has failed. But since removing Vic from deep sleep means he would be available for a grilling by my attorney, and would boost the company’s sales production, I unbutton my silk tie and roll up the sleeves on my Brooks Brothers button-down collar white shirt.
In the process of helping Carmela pack things, I reach for the four-inch tall, polished stone bull Mr. Vic likes to rub when stocks are crashing. Vic believes massaging the realistically carved miniature black and horned animal will make stock buyers return to the market. As I grasp Vic’s idol of greed, my fingers snag on something sharp underneath. “Ouch.”
Carmela isn’t listening. She’s reading the back of an old photo. I flip the stone bull upside down, see a black plastic tape attached to the animal’s belly. The tape holds a tiny metal object the size of two sugar cubes. My gut tenses. Looks like a listening device.
Carmela pays no attention. I tear the device off and slip it into my pocket.
Thirty five minutes later I’m in a strip mall off White Street showing my recently discovered snooping device to a nineteen-year-old techno boy, his long surfer hair and implied expertise standing behind the counter at Branchtown’s local TV Hut franchise. “What is this thing...exactly?” I ask.
“Let’s see,” he says. His fingers peel off the black tape. “Advantage Security makes this—a microphone and the battery pack. It’s super sensitive. You can hear a whisper.”
The kid could be playing hooky from high school. He’s tall, a beanpole, with shaggy blond hair and ears the size of Trenton; gawky, like he couldn’t walk across the room without knocking something over.
