by Jack Getze
He stares at me longer than two beats this time. My salesman’s intuition tells me I’m scoring points. I’m so frightened for my daughter I’m having trouble analyzing—I’m plowing forward on instinct.
“Did Patricia see who shot Senor Bonacelli?” he asks.
“She said she didn’t. The man stood in a half-open doorway, a hat over his eyes.”
My daughter’s disheveled hair peeks above the sofa. From my perspective, Beth can be seen over Vargas’ left shoulder. I fight to keep her moving image in my peripheral vision and not give her away.
“So Patricia told you this man both shot Senor Bonacelli and took his briefcase containing cash and the Big Mojo?” Vargas asks.
“She knew about the gemstone, I’m not sure about the cash. She told me she threw the briefcase at the guy’s head to keep him from shooting her.”
My sixteen-year-old daughter slides to the fireplace. I choke, warning Vargas, when Beth picks up my fireplace poker.
Vargas spins, sees her and without leaving his chair, motions for my daughter to put the poker back where she found it. This bastard is calm, even grinning at me when Beth complies with her intended instrument of attack.
“Do you think she might have the ruby?” Vargas asks.
“My daughter?”
He laughs. “No. Patricia Willis.”
“Sure. Why not? She keeps disappearing. I can’t say I totally trust her.”
“And yet you are in love?”
My mouth opens but seconds pass before words come. “I guess so. Sometimes it’s hard to tell.”
“Ha. This is true, is it not? Like the spinel and the ruby, sometimes a thing is only a weak imitation. But then I think also that love is a good thing, Senor Carr. In whatever form. Real or fake. Love is what brought me here to New Jersey. The business I had could have been done by others. But I wished to see Solana again.”
“You love Solana?”
“Perhaps. Or I feel guilty over things I have done in the past. As you and I agree, it can be impossible to discern the real from the imitation.”
Vargas gulps his remaining coffee and stands. “Goodnight, Senor Carr. Let us hope my business with you is finished.”
“Why aren’t you calling the police?” Beth’s crying. Her words sound like bleats, each one a tug on her daddy’s heart. “That man threatened your life,” she says.
“Forget the police,” I say. “You heard him. He’s done with us.”
Now that Vargas is gone, the poor thing is scared to death. One minute Beth’s prepared to knock Vargas’ head off with a poker, ninja girl style, the next she’s whining like a normal sixteen-year-old. Took some serious moxie to grab that poker, to imagine sneaking up behind Vargas to hit him. She could have gotten us both killed, but still. That is some daughter I squired.
I’m still seated at the kitchen dinette with my mug of coffee. The ceramic container warms my hands and fingers. Funny, but Vargas’ visit has me feeling toasty all over. Wasn’t he just a swell guy. Makes me worry.
“Did you steal the ruby?” Beth asks. “Is that why you can’t call the police?”
“No. Of course not.” I’m in a strange mood, one I can’t define. “Vargas was here because I tried to kill him, Toots. I shot him with Luis’ gun. I can’t call the cops about this without them finding out about that, see?”
“You shot him? Holy shit, Daddy. You are in serious trouble.”
“Watch your Language. Have some coffee.”
No use running down my list of problems for Beth, but lying is bad, too. She’s too big, too smart, and too much of a potential problem to kiss off. Her mother could take me to court and bury me with this information. My only chance is to take Beth into my confidence, tell my daughter the truth. Kids act like they don’t give a rat’s butt about anything, but in my experience, they worry about everything.
When she’s poured herself a mug, added the cream and sweetener like her dad, Beth says, “So whose ruby is it really?”
“Honey, please. You don’t need to understand everything. In fact, the less you know about these details, the better.”
“Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you. But I’m involved in a federal investigation over a stock market tip.”
“Is the tip connected to the ruby?”
“Maybe. Listen to me. I’m being investigated by the U.S. District Attorney for New York and the U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission. Any day, a man or woman with a badge could hand you a court paper forcing you to answer their questions under oath. When did your father meet this man? What did your father say? Who did he talk to on the telephone? If you lie, or even if they think you’re lying, you’re going to jail.”
My daughter’s eyes grow larger by half.
“I do not want you faced with that situation,” I say.
“I think Vargas is a hit man for the Russians,” she says.
“Stop.” I had the same feeling.
“Okay,” she says. “I need to jump in the shower anyway.”
“Where are you going?”
“Unofficial water polo practice this morning.”
“Water polo? That’s a rough sport.”
“It’s physical, but fun,” she says. “And I’m good at it.”
“You’re a championship swimmer. Of course you’re good at it. When’s the first match I can watch?”
She’s already on her way to the bathroom. “I’ll let you know.”
My daughter stops in the hallway, comes back. Damn if she isn’t wearing a full-boat Carr grin.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Sure, Toots. What?”
“Are you in really love with that Patricia woman?”
Oh, my. My mind rambles through implications and ramifications. It’s my sixteen-year-old child I am talking to here. What is it one needs to say about love?
“No lectures, Daddy, okay? Just say yes or no. Do you think you are in love with that lady?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“How does anyone know if they’re in love?”
I drink coffee but it doesn’t help. “Love takes time. You have to test it. In a way it’s like the discussion I had with Vargas—there are lots of red gems in this world. Some are glass, some spinels, and a few are real rubies—one of the hardest substances known. And like rubies, real love can stand all tests.”
I’m pretty proud of this analogy. I’m sure the comparison sucks and days from now I will realize the shortcomings, but now the red glass story feels very fitting—educational even.
She waves goodbye. “I knew I’d get a lecture.”
While Beth showers I sit at my dinette table and watch airplanes streak across the sky through my kitchen window. A steady line of bumblebees, leaving the hive. Today, the bumblebees head out every two minutes.
Funny what Beth said about Vargas being a hit man for the Russians. Odd that he admitted to being in town to payoff to Vic. Why would he tell me that? I’ll have to run that by my attorney Mr. Zimmer this afternoon when I see him. Zimmer was asking about Las Vegas, did I know anybody there. Now I do.
TWENTY-FOUR
My tall, stern, and go-for-the-throat German lawyer addresses the golf ball like the hack he is, weight on his heels, head bouncing, the brand new Titleist orb aligned off his front toe. If Randall Zimmer, Esquire gets lucky and actually hits the white dimpled sphere, I guarantee this first drive slices dead right.
“Watch me,” Zimmer says.
I nod. You don’t talk on the tee when someone’s getting ready to hit, although I suppose it’s a gray area if you’re the one teeing off and talking. When someone new to golf like Mr. Z asks me to play with them, hand out pointers, I spend most of the day teaching etiquette.
“Any last minute tips?” Zimmer says.
“You should be visualizing the shot, not talking, Mr. Z. But like I said, you’d play better if you moved the ball back in your stance.”
“Yeah, the pro says
that, too. But I’m comfortable like this. Both of you also say I should be comfortable.”
“All righty then. Just relax and keep your head down.”
Mr. Z jerks into his backswing then chops at the golf ball like he’s trying to kill a snake. His first tee shot scampers across the grass tee box like a white mouse and disappears into the locust tree woods forty yards out on the right.
“What did I do wrong?” Zimmer says.
“Everything.”
I’m still explaining about balance and keeping your head still as we finish the fifth hole. Mr. Z’s ready to try a new stance, but two foursomes already wait to hit on the next hole, a par three. After a twenty second consultation, Mr. Z and I decide to pack it in for a beer.
We zip in our electric cart to the halfway house, grab a couple of Sam Adams and two hot dogs, settle down in the park-like setting. Mr. Z and I choose a black, iron-mesh table under a Cinzano umbrella. The little patio is surrounded by a waist-high wrought-iron fence.
“I had another reason for getting you out here today,” Zimmer says. “I wanted to talk to you about your case, but outside the office.”
I wash down a bite of hot dog. “What’s up?”
“Your story is a tough one to sell,” Zimmer says. “A man currently in a coma signed onto your account and bought the stock without your knowledge.”
I shrug. “It’s the truth. Mr. Vic and I are the only people who know the master password.”
“Fine, but we have to convince the U.S. District Attorney and the Securities & Exchange Commission. We have no evidence Vic Bonacelli broke into your account. In fact, there is only your word it could have happened. Plus, it strains credibility to claim you weren’t aware of the purchase until after the merger when everyone saw you meet before the merger date with Patricia Willis.”
I finish my Sam Adams. Would it strain my credibility to order another? How about if I stood up, yelled four-letter words rapid fire and at full volume, cursing my semi-conscious junior partner, Mr. Vic. “So in summary,” I say, “I’m screwed when we go to New York next week?”
Mr. Z sips his beer. “Let’s say fifty-fifty you’ll keep ownership of the firm and your principal and sales licenses. The illegal trading profit in your account will have to be returned, and there is the distinct possibility of a fine.”
What started out as a lovely stroll in the park, a breath of fresh air, has evolved into disaster. No wonder Mr. Z wanted to meet outside his office. His partners didn’t want a bloody mess if I killed myself. Darn. I knew there was a chance I could lose my licenses, but I always figured Mr. Z would pull something out of his four-hundred-dollar-an-hour hat. I sigh. Looks like I could easily end up selling Toyotas.
“It gets worse,” Mr. Z says. “If you tell this story under oath, and we can’t prove it...if the District Attorney believes you’re lying...well, do you remember Martha Stewart?”
“You mean I could go to jail for telling the truth?”
Mr. Z’s nod can only be called grim, and in a flash I understand the real reason he brought me to the golf course. He didn’t want to wear his suit and tie when we talk. My straight-laced German member of the bar needs help stepping outside the lines.
“Are you suggesting I change my story?” I say.
Mr. Z’s fingers tap against the glass beer bottle. “I’m an officer of the court. I cannot and will not present any evidence I know to be false.”
“Of course.”
“But...perhaps we need to consider going another way with this.”
I spread my hands. “Like what?”
Mr. Z takes a long pull on his beer. Besides the change of clothes, the natural setting, maybe he also needs alcoholic encouragement to tell me what’s on his mind. I definitely want to hear what my man has to say. Kind of exciting to think of the big German breaking rules.
“Speaking theoretically,” I say.
He makes a show of sighing. “Let me put it this way. If another attorney were to look at this case, I believe he or she might comment, ‘The District Attorney seems so focused on Las Vegas, it’s too bad your client didn’t admit his wrongdoing. He might have been able to save his license.’”
“But I’m innocent. I did not act on that tip. I did not buy that stock.”
“Did you say tip?” Zimmer says.
At the halfway house concession window, two crew-cut, thirty-something golfers snap their heads in our direction. Tip? Everybody wants inside information.
I lower my voice. “We went over this. I was in Vic’s office when Patricia told the story about—”
“Wait,” Mr. Z says. “Before you tell me exactly what Patricia said—seems to me you were a little vague before, and my earlier notes are lost—I want you to go home and think about that word.”
“What word?”
“Tip. I’m thinking how Ms. Willis described the information to you is very important—that is, was it really presented to you as fact? Or perhaps Ms. Willis was regurgitating a story she’d heard elsewhere from an unknown source.”
“She said it came from her—”
“Stop. Don’t say another word. I want you to think hard about what was said that day. Was it inside information or just another hot tip?”
Okay, I get it.
Early next morning I drop off Beth at water polo practice and come back to my condo for a morning of coffee and the news. I’m old fashioned, still like to check out the local rag for the police blotter and other Branchtown stories. I’m reading an hour or so when the telephone rings. It’s Beth.
“Was that guy’s name Vargas or Vargo?” she says.
“Why? What are you doing? I thought you had water polo prac—”
“Daddy, please. I did, but I’ve got ninety seconds. I want to look him up on the internet in computer class later.”
“Do not get involved with this, Beth. I told you that.”
“How am I involved? I’ll Google his name, see where it takes me, e-mail you what I find, that’s all. You know I’m good. I could turn up something. I want to be an asset, not a liability.”
Oops. That’s a line from one of my parent-child lectures. “All right,” I say. “His name is Vargas. Santo Vargas. V-A-R-G-A-S.”
Late that afternoon at work, she calls again.
“Daddy, it’s Beth. Did you know Santo Vargas is the manager of a Branchtown construction project that’s like six blocks from your office?”
“As a matter of fact, I did know that. That’s where I shot him. Now listen, Toots, I want you to drop this. No more Santo Vargas.”
“Mike knows one of the cement guys on the project,” Beth says. “He’s going to show us around. Maybe I can peek inside Vargas’ office.”
What? My pulse jumps. “You stay away from there! Do you hear me? I don’t want you anywhere near that man.”
“Vargas is not in town,” Beth says. “That’s why Mike’s friend says he can take us down inside the excavation. We’re just waiting—”
“No, no, no! You mean you’re already at that construction site? Oh, my God, Beth. What were you thinking?”
“I want to help you. Mike does, too. He brought me after school. Maybe Vargas has something to hide, something that will make him leave you alone.”
“You need to leave that construction site right now. Do you hear me?”
“Daddy.”
“I mean it. Right now. I’m going to have a heart attack worrying if you don’t leave.”
“I want to help.”
“I know. But please. Do you want me to have a stroke?”
“You said heart attack.”
“Are you going to leave that construction site?”
“All right. We’ll go.”
“Promise?”
“I promise. I’ll tell Mike.”
“So where are you going? You headed home or to my condo?”
“Probably the library. I have homework to research. Then Mom and the dentist’s tonight.”
I was going to say, why
not go home and Google what you need, but it occurs to me the public library might be a safer place than her house, or certainly my condo.
“Okay,” I say, “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow. But I expect you to keep your word, right? You and Mike are going to the library now?”
“I promise. See you soon.”
I walk back to my Camry. The fact that I am going to drive by Vargas’ construction site does not mean I don’t trust my daughter. What it does mean is her actions—or inaction in this case—are too important. Daddy can’t afford to have doubts.
In particular, I search for a motorcycle Beth mentioned once as belonging to Mike, but since I don’t know for sure, I make two passes around the excavation block and check every parked car. Nothing. Looks like Beth kept her word.
TWENTY-FIVE
Down in her dirt floor basement kitchen, at the desktop computer, showing Gianni a new piece of her business, Mama Bones double clicks on Year-To-Date. No good. Her share of the bingo games is still running seven percent under last year. Maybe if she offered the priest fifty-two percent instead of fifty, Father Malamud could be talked into adding an extra night. If they played a full stack of cards, revenue should rise at least—
Standing behind her, Gianni paws her shoulder. “What’s that?”
“What’s what?” Mama Bones hates being distracted.
“That noise. Sounded like the front door. You know that big click the old thing makes when it closes or you work the handle.”
“Go check. You’re making me nervous. And put the fake ruby away somewhere while you’re at it. I left it out on the sideboard last night in the blue Tiffany box. I’m gonna give that hunk of glass to my sister Albertina for Christmas.”
Gianni struts from the room. She listens to his feet on the stairs, and then marching down the hallway and across her living room. Jogging now from the sideboard to the door, heavy shoes pounding. That’s funny. He takes another four or five minutes before he comes back, too.
