Big Mojo (Austin Carr Mystery Book 3)

by Jack Getze

  I gasp. Vargas’ thrust flies toward my friend.

  Luis snap-twists in a blur and catches Vargas’ blade with his already wounded left arm, dancing backward as he absorbs the second blow. The material of Luis’ black sweatshirt hangs shredded from the lacerated arm, dark liquid already spilling from the wrist onto his left hand and the switchblade.

  I pull the revolver out of my pocket. I’m not going to let Luis die, not without trying to prevent it. Luis shifts the blade to his right hand and changes to a tip-forward grip like Vargas. His weight settles back on his heels. Luis might be in trouble, getting defensive like this. He staggers, and I know I’m right.

  I aim the revolver at Vargas’ back. “Put down the knife.”

  Vargas twists so that Luis and myself are at opposite sides of his peripheral vision. From between us, he can watch us both. When he glances directly at me, had a good look at me and my weapon, he spits.

  Guess Santo Vargas doesn’t think much of stockbrokers. I decide to compensate by talking tough. Besides, he’s so close I probably can’t miss with the revolver. “I know you watched my children’s home,” I say. “I will shoot if you don’t drop the knife. I only want this fight to be over.”

  There’s no hesitation, no signal for me to read prior to his lunge. In the split second it takes me to see and understand the man is coming after me, Vargas has already covered half the distance between us. The tip of his switchblade streaks like a missile—straight toward my throat. The man is fast.

  The weight of the revolver doubles in my hand. My hair stands up. But I squeeze the trigger.

  Maybe because we’re below ground level and the earthen walls so flat, the explosion stuns me like a punch, the noise attacking my chest, not only the ears—as if I’d been forced against a hard surface. In the blue dreamy flash accompanying the big boom, I glimpse Vargas taking a bullet high on the right chest, his upper body spinning from the force. His forward momentum continues, but I sidestep the now-wounded charge.

  Vargas stumbles and collapses onto the damp soil.

  I run to Luis. My friend is on one knee, breathing through his mouth. I pry away his fingers, open the sweatshirt above his wound. I’m looking at a bad gash. Blood flows steadily. I knew Luis was in trouble, but his condition might be worse than I thought—Vargas might have nicked an artery near the bone. Bastard knows how to use that knife.

  Ripping off the sleeve of Luis’ sweatshirt, I produce a tourniquet. I cinch the cloth tight under Luis’ armpit and directly over the gaping, heavily bleeding cut. I know my adrenaline is pumping. I can hear myself panting. But I’m focused on the knot—tying a good one so Luis won’t bleed to death.

  “Check inside for Patricia,” Luis whispers. “Then we must leave.”

  My gunshot no longer echoes in the giant dirt pit, but the air tastes of gun powder. I check the condition of Mr. Purple Eyes before I enter his trailer. Vargas has assumed the position of a wounded slug—curled into a ball on the damp ground. Not a twitch. Maybe the bullet in the chest killed him.

  Inside Vargas’ trailer, I discover the man lives like a slug, too. The place reeks with dirty clothes, pizza boxes, fungus-growing remnants of a donut, and soda cans. A steel desk with stacked mail, a new Apple desktop computer and a wire rack with a handful of manila file folders clutters a corner nightstand. A refrigerator, shower stall and a single day bed mess up the rest of his space.

  But no Patricia. I even check the shower stall and under the bed before ducking back outside. Luis has staggered to the bottom of the trailer steps. His jaw hangs open, my friend still breathing through his mouth. Gasping, really. I wonder how much blood he’s lost.

  “She’s not in there,” I say. “This was all for nothing.”

  Luis shakes his head, the movement slushy, un-Luis like. He’s not himself. Hurt. “I cannot understand how,” he says. “My eyes left him only for the briefest of moments—”

  “Him? What are you talking about?”

  “Santo Vargas...”

  I look over Luis’ shoulder, then around him. Hell, no.

  “...Santo Vargas is gone,” Luis says.

  Vargas’ trailer was tiny. Even checking the shower and under the day bed, I was inside maybe thirty seconds. How could Vargas disappear in so short a time? Right under Luis’ nose. It’s impossible.

  “Where did he go?” I say.

  “I do not understand,” Luis says.

  I jump down. The excavation is dark, but there is clearly no Vargas. No one at all. Could Vargas have run all the way up the sloped equipment road, completely left this construction site? I don’t see how. Not with a bullet inside him.

  “You didn’t hear or see anything?” I say.

  Luis shakes his head. Wobbles might be a better term. I need to get him to a hospital emergency room. Where is Vargas? Behind the aluminum home on wheels, out of my sight, is...what? I still have the revolver. Shouldn’t I search on the far side of this trailer, and in the shadows by those two, five-foot tall generators? Maybe behind those piles of aggregate rock. Vargas could be hiding.

  No. Luis needs a doctor. And we came for Patricia.

  I check Luis’ wound. My tourniquet slowed the bleeding dramatically, but Luis could die if an artery’s been nicked. I snuggle close and wrap his good arm around my shoulder, catch some of his weight as we hike back up the dirt equipment road. It’s slow going, one heavy, careful step at a time. Kind of like Luis walked me out of the ocean an hour ago.

  “You have witnessed a rare thing, amigo,” Luis whispers. There’s a tiny smile on his lips. “Not since the age of eleven have I lost a fight.”

  “You weren’t doing well, true, but I stopped it before you actually lost.”

  He grunts. “Muchos gracias.”

  My muscles are flowing with power juice. Who knew fear could make you stronger. Or is this feeling the result of shooting someone like Vargas? When we reach the top, Luis and I are a tight, awkward fit between the crane and the fence, but we manage, and at the car I almost drop Luis before stuffing him in the Impala’s passenger seat.

  “Remind me never to dance with you,” he says. “You are clumsy.”

  Ha. The guy gets in a fight, he starts throwing around quips like Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  The quickest route to Navasquan Hospital takes us past the U.S. Army’s closed Fort Monmouth, soon to be developed into parks, condos, and boat slips. The two-story geodesic dome that houses the Army’s big radar glows bright orange, a reflection of the rising sun. It’s dawn on the Jersey Shore.

  “Your shot must have missed,” Luis says.

  It’s a good thing Luis is talking. Glad he’s conscious. But he happens to be full of crap. “I didn’t miss. I saw the shot hit his shoulder. Spun him around like a doll.”

  “Perhaps he wore a bulletproof vest,” Luis says.

  I nod. “That might work.”

  Luis says, “Where are you taking us?”

  “I’m headed for the hospital emergency room.”

  “I must agree. There is no longer a need to complete our alibi by returning to the beach party. Call Solana and suggest she meet us at the hospital.”

  Across the next intersection, I pull to the curb and open my cell phone. “Let me ask you something, Luis. If Vargas survived, what do you think he’ll do? I mean, will he come after us?”

  “Santo Vargas’ actions are difficult to anticipate.”

  There’s no answer on Luis’ house phone. His wife could be in the shower, or even in her garden at this hour, the sun up. But Luis worries when I tell him.

  TWENTY-TWO

  Solana hasn’t answered the phone all morning, so Luis wants to roll as soon as the emergency room doctor is finished with his glue, staple gun, a transfusion and questions about the nature of Luis’ injury. We’re there five hours, but the doctor—a short, cautious guy with thick glasses—wants Luis to spend another twenty-four of them in a bed resting. When no one’s looking, we mount a jailbreak.

  We dump our sto
len car across the street at the Branchtown train station, catch a cab to my car that’s parked near the beach, drive to Luis’ house. The morning sky broods with gray-black clouds, and the Guerrero bungalow on Kadrey Street rests in the shade of a neighbor’s century-old spruce. But even from the sidewalk we can see Luis’ front door is ajar.

  Can’t believe I have any adrenaline left, but there’s enough to stay close to Luis as he runs to the porch and pushes inside. Overturned furniture greets us in the cozy living room. Spilled drawers and broken dishes litter the kitchen floor. My stomach flops imagining what Luis’ bride could look like if Vargas came here to hurt her.

  “Solana!” Luis’ voice has a nasty edge.

  He pushes me toward the kitchen clutter as he hustles left into the bedroom. Luis’ wounded condition worries me. The disheveled state of the house scares me. And the way Vargas skipped out on my gunshot in the chest or shoulder gives me the freaking creeps. Before I go off on my own into the kitchen, I pull out the revolver.

  Smith & Wesson can walk point.

  There’s little light in the tiny 1940s kitchen. Outside one of the room’s two small windows, a thick and happy Japanese black pine blocks most of the morning sun. The sugary smell of ripe bananas makes me wish I was slicing fruit on my breakfast cereal instead of holding a gun. The world is upside-down when stockbrokers are armed.

  I hold still to listen. A garbage truck or delivery van rumbles past on the street outside. There is always something moving in Branchtown. Luis bumps or shifts something in another part of the house. He’s searching.

  “Solana?” Luis’ voice is muffled but I can still hear that edge.

  The kitchen counter is made of tiny one-inch tiles, maybe the original installation. A stainless steel sink and new, double-paned windows above the faucets all face the rear of Luis’ property. Coffee-cup size clay pots of cactus and succulents adorn the window frame over the sink.

  A reminder of my California past—a red-spine barrel cactus—draws me closer to the window, and I reach for the pot and a better picture of the backyard. As the clay pot cools my fingertips, motion in the vegetable garden draws my eye. I squint to focus on a splash of bright red bobbing among orange pumpkins.

  I shout. “Solana’s in the back.”

  I hurry to the rear porch so she can see me. By the look of her jeans, garden gloves, and raggedy-ass flannel shirt, Solana’s been picking and carving pumpkins all morning. The red bandana around her head, Apache style, is covered with wet pumpkin seeds.

  Luis stumbles onto the porch as she arrives, shielding her eyes from the sunlight breaking between the clouds.

  “You do not answer the telephone?” Luis says.

  “What happened to your arm?” she asks.

  “A small cut. It is nothing. Why did you not answer the telephone?”

  Solana props her hands on her hips. “I’ve been in the garden since breakfast, Senor Detective.”

  Luis frowns. “You have not been inside? You do not know that our furniture has been overturned, our dishes and lamps broken?”

  Solana’s forehead crinkles. “What?”

  “The front door was open when we arrived,” Luis says. “Every room has been searched. You heard nothing?”

  “Nada,” she says.

  Solana examines Luis’ wounded shoulder. “What have you done that brings such violence to our home, my husband?”

  In my kitchen the next morning, while I rinse and fill the drip machine, pull my grinder down from the cupboard and wrestle with the Colombian Supremo coffee beans until my pot is brewing, the same old whirlwind of questions spins through my addled brain: Where’s Patricia? Am I headed to jail for insider trading? What else did Rags hear with that secret microphone in Vic’s office? Was it Rags or Mallory who shot Mr. Vic and stole his ruby?

  “Morning, Daddy,” Beth says.

  She’s in the living room—somewhere—and though instantly recognizable, my daughter’s voice gives me a jolt. I thought I was alone, plus I have that loaded Smith & Wesson under my pillow. “Good morning to you, too,” I say. “You let yourself in last night to sleep on my couch?”

  “I came by really late,” she says. “I didn’t want to wake you, so I fell asleep out here watching TV.”

  My daughter’s purple-tipped fingers appear on the back of the sofa, then her hands as she hauls herself up into a kneeling position, showing me her ink-stained hoodie and blue jeans.

  “Are you coming back to live with me?” I say.

  “Not for good. But...you know...when I need to.”

  “You’re always welcome, Toots, but we have to let your mom know. Get a schedule.”

  “Oh, she knows I’m here,” Beth says. “She and Bob called last night from Atlantic City, said they were stuck and I should stay here.”

  Would have been nice if Susan and Bob the Dentist told me. I almost say something, but shut up because I don’t want my daughter to feel she’s imposing. Beth takes things so negatively right now.

  “Mind if I nap here on the couch another hour or so?” she asks. “There’s no school today.”

  “Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the guest bed?”

  “Not really.”

  When I’m satisfied my coffee machine is working properly and my first morning cup is in fact on its way, I scoot to the sofa and give Beth a kiss on the head. She’s not thrilled, but tolerant. “Whatever you want,” I say. “Go ahead, sleep right there. I’ll take the newspaper back to my bedroom.”

  “Thanks.” She curls up like a puppy and closes her eyes.

  First thing I do in my bedroom is unload the pistol, hide the empty gun in a sports jacket, the five remaining bullets in a black wingtip shoe I haven’t worn in five years. Then I read the paper. When I’m done browsing the sports section, the coffee should be ready, so I tiptoe down the hall into the living area.

  Beth’s invisible and silent, asleep on the couch. I slide by the bar stools at the counter, turn into the kitchen and freeze dead, heart pounding like a schoolboy in love. A familiar figure sits at the kitchen table watching me. Santo Vargas. Wish I had that loaded revolver now, although I’m not sure what good it would do me. So far Vargas seems immune to .38 caliber ammunition.

  “What do you want?” I say. “I don’t know where the ruby is. I don’t know where Patricia is.”

  “I want only to talk. For instance, the red gemstone is a spinel, not a ruby.”

  “Huh?” Though I have never heard the word before, my confusion is due only in part to his use of the term spinel. A bigger reason is that I just remembered my daughter Beth sleeps twenty feet away.

  The skull tattoo on Vargas’ neck winks at me. “The coffee smells muy bien,” he says. “Pour two cups. We will sit and discuss gemstones—and your future.”

  If something happens to my daughter...I try swallowing the lump in my throat. No dice. The mound of dirt will remain stuck in my esophagus until Vargas and Beth no longer occupy the same space. I tell myself to keep breathing.

  In the kitchen, I concentrate on filling two mugs with coffee. I manage to start thinking again by the time I serve Vargas. He sits at the four-foot, oak dinette table by a window that looks onto a common courtyard. Not many leaves left on our deciduous trees. I choose the chair next to the window, the seat beside him, not because I’m feeling friendly, but to face me, Vargas must twist his vision away from the living room.

  Vargas takes a pull on his coffee. “Excellent,” he says. “We both like our coffee strong.”

  Vargas sports a convincing, relaxed manner. His hands and lips have a light hold on the red mug, his shoulders visibly settling as the coffee hits his stomach. The poor guy needed his morning cup. Wonder how he got inside my home and how long he’s been sitting here. He sure isn’t worried I might have my gun handy, who might be lurking in the bedroom or stretched out on the living room sofa. Could he have already checked?

  “I need to ask you a question,” Vargas says. “Perhaps more than one. If you answer
honestly, I will leave, and no harm will come to you or your daughter asleep on the sofa. Can you tell me only the truth?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  My heart stops when Vargas says daughter. If he knows Beth’s here, on the sofa, he could have already hurt her.

  “Yes, of course I will tell you the truth,” I say. “Whatever you want to know. Anything. Please don’t hurt my daughter.”

  Santo Vargas studies my face for two beats. “She is fine. Asleep. Now please, if you will, recall for me who told you about La Gran Hechizo.”

  My pulse restarts. “La Gran Hechizo is what? The ruby?”

  “Si. In English, the big spell or big mojo. Once a legendary gemstone on the crown of an Indonesian prince, the red stone—thought to be a ruby—was discovered to be a spinel.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Spinels are a different chemical composition, softer, and a separate form of crystal. They are beautiful but not nearly as valuable. The prince sold it.”

  “Patricia Willis told me about the gem,” I say. “She called it a ruby, said it was a payoff to Mr. Vic for an insider stock tip—someone in Vegas.”

  “The Big Mojo was part of an agreement I had with Senor Bonacelli,” Vargas says. “But how did Patricia Willis know I came from Las Vegas?”

  “Vic told her. Patricia’s the one who gave him the stock tip, so she was always scheduled to get part of his payoff.”

  “Ah, this makes much sense,” Vargas says. He sips his coffee. “When did this conversation between you and Patricia Willis occur?”

  “A week ago—right after Vic was shot.”

  For a brute with tattoos on his neck, the guy handles a mug with grace. Maybe I’m just surprised he doesn’t burp.

  “Did Patricia Willis know the names of the people from Las Vegas?” he asks.

  “No. But she said they were Russian.”

  Vargas’ purple eyes squint at me. “Are you certain she mentioned no names?”

  “Positive. And you know it’s true because you didn’t tell Vic the names, only that they were Russian. Patricia only could have heard that from Vic.”