A Ripple in Time

by David Berardelli

  A RIPPLE IN TIME

  David Berardelli

  ALSO BY DAVID BERARDELLI

  THE APPRENTICE

  THE WAGON DRIVER

  DEMONCHASER I

  DEMONCHASER II

  STEPPING OUT OF MY GRAVE

  ESCAPE CLAUSE

  FATAL INNOCENCE

  THE FUNNY DETECTIVE

  JUST A SIMPLE ERRAND

  COLORS

  WORKING FOR A MOB BOSS

  AND DARKNESS FELL

  AFTER DARKNESS FELL

  DEMONCHASER III

  IN ANOTHER REALM

  BEYOND RECOGNITION

  LOOKING FOR A DEAD GUY

  THE NIGHTMARE COLLECTOR

  HIDDEN

  BEYOND GUILT

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  A RIPPLE IN TIME

  David Berardelli

  Copyright c 2016 by David Berardelli

  Cover art Linda York

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or

  mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

  without the written permission of the author

  Printed in United States of America

  A RIPPLE IN TIME

  David Berardelli

  CHAPTER ONE

  Like most large cities, Pittsburgh celebrates the Christmas season on a grand scale. Tinsel and garlands decorate lamp posts and traffic lights. Bright blinking lights and glittering decorations embellish storefront windows. Wreaths and giant candy canes garnish the entrance doors of restaurants and many other businesses, and artificial snow gathered tastefully at the bottom of window displays blends in with snowflakes sprinkling various portions of the glass.

  It was seasonably cold when I got out of my rented gray Challenger on Liberty Avenue and went down the block that brought me to Gino’s Bar & Grill at eight o’clock that night. Liberty Avenue had been one of my favorite haunts when I lived here more than twenty years ago, before graduating from Carnegie-Mellon and earning my degree in Business Administration. I’d spent much of my spare time in this area during those four years and couldn’t wait to see how much it had changed.

  I hadn’t been back to the Tri-state area since the day I’d left. After being offered a key position with the new Orlando consulting firm, Crosley, Williams, and Associates, as their new Administrative Director, I’d moved to Winter Park, Florida, and had lived there ever since.

  It had been a smart move on my part. I became their Executive Director in eight years, earning my place as junior partner with the firm just three years later. The company was now called Crosley, Williams, Danner, and Associates, and along with a terrific salary, an impressive stock portfolio and a benefits package to die for, I’d achieved in just a decade and a half what most people dream about all their lives.

  Since I hadn’t been back in two decades, I’d never been in Gino’s before. I was staying at the Fairmont Hotel on Market Street. They had a terrific bar called Andy’s, but after my plane trip, I wanted to stretch my legs and satisfy my curiosity by checking out the “new” Liberty Avenue.

  I vaguely remembered that the building that was now Gino’s had once been a sandwich shop, takeout pizza, and a Chinese restaurant during the four years I was enrolled at Carnegie-Mellon. It was also a travel agency for a few months.

  Gino’s was bustling when I entered the place. Like the rest of the block, it was decorated richly for the holidays. A six-foot pine tree glorified the foyer just a few feet from the front entrance and in full view of the front window. The tree was decorated with Hallmark originals as well as antique toys and trimmings I hadn’t seen since I was a kid growing up in Gibsonia, a small rural town just twelve miles north of the city. Garlands hung loosely across the beamed ceiling, starting at the entrance and extending the entire length of the long, narrow room. Mistletoe dangled in strategic spots. Since many of the patrons already appeared drunk and happy, I kept clear of the mistletoe while inching my way to the long, U-shaped bar. I wasn’t in the mood to be groped and kissed sloppily by drunken women I didn’t even know. I didn’t feel safe until I’d squeezed my butt onto a stool between a big guy in a suit and a middle-aged woman discussing crooked politics with her date, a slender man around sixty or so wearing a cheap green suit and an ill-fitting blond toupee.

  The barman, a big-boned Italian with piercing black eyes, thinning black hair and a thick black mustache, shuffled right over. I ordered a vodka and tonic and smiled when the crowd noise hushed for a few moments when Bing Crosby began singing “White Christmas” from the corner juke.

  The barman brought over my drink long before I expected it and placed it carefully onto a brown coaster with GINO’S monogrammed in fancy black script in its center. I slid a five in his direction, picked up the glass and sipped. It was strong, and warmed me instantly. I could clearly feel the jet lag subsiding, and sighed as my limbs relaxed and the rest of me warmed up and melted comfortably into the soft leather cushion of the seat.

  The barman brought me back change and dropped it on the counter next to my glass. “You no live here?” he asked in a strong, low-pitched voice I could hear clearly over Bing’s distant mellow crooning.

  “How could you tell?”

  He grinned, showing a mouthful of large yellow teeth. “Ya look like ya just got in from somewhere else. ‘Sides, I don’t see many hundred-dollar ties come in here.” He nodded, pleased with himself. “Yep, definitely outa town.”

  I smiled. The man certainly was observant.

  He tilted his head. “Am I right?”

  “Dead-on.”

  He chuckled. “So…this your first time in town?”

  “I lived here a long time ago.”

  “Where?”

  “I grew up in Gibsonia.”

  “How long ago ja leave?”

  “Last time I was here, this place was Chinese takeout.”

  He shrugged. “We been here ten, twelve years, now. This was way before, yes?”

  “A few years.”

  “Move away?”

  I nodded. “Florida, about twenty years ago.”

  “No like the winters here?”

  “I didn’t mind the winters too much. I was offered a good job in Orlando. I’ve been there ever since.”

  “Miss it here?”

  “Once in a while.”

  “Family still here?”

  “My parents split up a long time ago. Last I heard, my father’s in North Carolina. My mom’s remarried and living somewhere in Arizona. I flew up here for a business meeting with some people who run a company on Smithfield.”

  He was squinting, trying to absorb all this. “So…ya came all the way from Florida for a business meeting? On Christmas?”

  “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision. On their part—not mine.”

  The barman squinted, obviously confused. “I thought everything was done on the phone these days.” He shrugged. “Email? Online? All that other technology crapola?”

  I laughed. “You’re right about that.”

  “What’s different with this?”

  “When it’s a big deal like this one, some people like the old-fashioned one-on-one. And, of course, the handshake once the deal’s been made. With drinks later on, of course.”

  He nodded.

  I didn’t want to tell him that even though I had no prior intention of returning to Pittsburgh, I really didn’t mind spending Christmas here. Since I’d recently broken up my eight-month romanc
e with Sarah, I had no one to spend Christmas with. So when my boss Sam Crosley asked me to make the trip as a personal favor to him, I agreed without hesitation. Upon reflection, I guessed that the breakup bothered me more than I’d originally thought, urging me to keep my mind occupied with work during the holidays.

  “How’s it feel to be home again?” the barman asked.

  Even during my brief trip from the Fairmont to Liberty Avenue, I noticed how much this place had changed in twenty years. Many of the old buildings had been torn down and replaced with new ones. At least the Gulf Building looked the same. I suspected it always would. Even so, I experienced an unexpected sadness for leaving home, moving nearly a thousand miles away and never once looking back. It might have been different if my parents hadn’t split up and left home…

  But they had. And in doing so, they’d robbed me of many of my fondest memories.

  “I don’t know yet.” I didn’t want to insult him by telling him I’d stopped considering Pittsburgh my home a long time ago. “I just got off the plane.”

  “Well, I hope your stay’s a good one.” Then he went off to tend to another customer.

  I took another sip of my drink and scanned the room. People were getting sloppier, staggering around on the dance floor in the back and making out at their tables. One woman had half the buttons of her frilly white blouse undone and didn’t seem to notice. Her date, on the other hand, couldn’t take his eyes off the exposed bra. The juke was now playing Andy Williams’ version of “Christmas Present.”

  Briefly I wondered if I should have another drink or just drive back to the Fairmont, have one last drink at Andy’s, and relax in my room until morning. I’d never been a heavy drinker, although I’d gone through occasional spells during the last few years when I’d hit the bottle more often than I should have. Life often dealt unexpected blows. When it did, you reacted by doing stupid things, like buying a sports car, growing a beard, or jumping the bones of a woman young enough to be your daughter.

  In my case, I just drank more than usual.

  Nonetheless, I considered myself a solid, stand-up sort of guy. Although I was a charter member of the social circle at Crosley, Williams, Danner, and Associates, I rarely went out drinking with them. I went to whatever function was scheduled and did what I was required to do. But instead of spending the night with half a dozen or so rowdy drinkers, I invariably drove back to my Winter Park condo and spent the rest of the evening alone, watching an old movie with a small glass of vodka tonic or port wine.

  The barman came back and glanced at my glass. When he saw that it was half-empty, he said, “Ya come here alone?”

  “I always travel alone.”

  “No wife? No kids?”

  “No.”

  He looked surprised. “A prosperous, good-lookin’ guy like you?”

  I shrugged. “I’m not that easy to live with.”

  He boomed laughter. “Hear ya, buddy! Hear ya!” Then, still chuckling, he went over to tend to someone else at the other end of the bar.

  I’d been engaged three times and had dated at least twenty different women in the last twenty years. I had no idea why none of these relationships had turned out. I always seemed to be searching for a particular type of woman I knew did not actually exist, a woman I saw only in my dreams. I’d had my share of teenage crushes, but when I developed into an adult living in the real world, all my early fantasies seemed to vanish into the dust. I was a big boy in a world filled with real people, and that meant something totally different from what I’d dreamed about all those years as a young man expecting a lifelong romance with some faceless woman living only in my imagination.

  A few minutes later, just as Mel Torme broke into his “Christmas Song” from the juke, I finished my drink and decided to shift back into the real world of the here and now. I had to drive back to the Fairmont and wanted to do it sober. I’d only actually driven drunk a couple of times before and knew how difficult and unpleasant it was to handle a moving vehicle in heavy traffic. My memory of Pittsburgh cops was one of caution and sincere respect. I was in no mood to be pulled over and take my chances submitting to a breathalyzer.

  I left a tip, waved to the barman as I got down from my stool, and left the loud, Christmas-filled room.

  I went back out into the cold night. Pulling up the collar of my overcoat to shield my ears and the back of my neck from the freezing night air, I went back to the Challenger. Not too many people were out. I figured they were probably in the bars or at the restaurants.

  I got out my keys and pressed the remote to unlock the door. A moment later, something hard was shoved into my lower back just as I took one last step toward the driver’s door.

  “The keys, asshole…”

  The voice was high-pitched, raspy, and much too close for comfort. I caught a strong whiff of weed and the faint scent of whiskey.

  I held out the keys. They were immediately snatched from my grasp, jarring my left shoulder. I was about to protest when whatever was pressing against me jabbed me harder, sending a jolt of hot pain up my spine. “And the wallet. Now!”

  I made a move for my wallet and was immediately jabbed even harder. I gasped when another spike of hot pain raced up my spine.

  “Dammit!” In spite of the frightening situation, the anger spewed out from me. I was trying to cooperate, to comply with my assailant’s demands. There was no need for the bastard to be so rough. “I’m trying to get it, so hold your water—“

  “Shuddup!” He slammed me against the side of the rental and moved even closer to me. His face was inches from the back of my neck. I could tell he was much shorter than I was. But it wasn’t his height that concerned me at the moment. It was whatever he was ramming into my lower back. “I don’t want any shit from you, asshole—just your damn wallet!”

  I wanted to turn around and deck him but didn’t know if he was holding a gun, knife or blackjack. I also didn’t know in which hand he held the weapon. I remembered that this one factor was crucial in a defense-type situation. I’d studied unarmed combat in college but never had the opportunity to practice, or apply it. Since I’d turned forty-two earlier this year and began suffering from sciatica, I was in no shape for any sudden foolish Bruce Lee-type heroics. I decided to just give him what he wanted and hoped he’d slither back to his rock the instant he got what he wanted.

  I tried once again to reach into my pocket for my wallet. As I did, whatever he kept poking me with pressed firmly into the small of my back again. “Faster!” he whispered fiercely, and another miasmatic blend of weed and whiskey assaulted my nostrils.

  I gritted my teeth as I grabbed the wallet, pulled it out and held it out.

  Without a word he snatched it from my grasp.

  I stood perfectly still, anxiously waiting—hoping—to hear him running away.

  Instead, I heard approaching footsteps.

  My heart practically jumped out of my chest. Could this possibly be a cop coming to my rescue? Was it someone from the street witnessing my predicament and rushing over to help?

  Was I about to be saved after all?

  Just as I expected to hear something like, “Police! Freeze!” I heard someone whisper, “We need to get the fuck outa here, Jake!”

  Before I could react, something hard whacked me on the back of my skull.

  Blackness consumed me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  When I came to, the back of my head pounded and my joints felt as if they’d been crushed. I lay on my back on the cold hard ground, my arms and legs totally numb. Before I opened my eyes, I took a breath and nearly choked on the rancidness hovering about in the air. The heavy mix of rotting food, urine, and machine oil was nauseating. I was obviously lying near a dump, or in an alley behind a restaurant, where discarded food was tossed in a dumpster and left there until it was picked up by the city.

  A flurry of high-pitched voices penetrated the cold night air not far from where I lay. They sounded like older kids, perhaps in their
late teens. They were laughing and carrying on. It made me wonder if they were having some sort of party. I wanted to open my eyes and explore my surroundings, but some inner voice told me to lie perfectly still, and keep my eyes shut.

  Then, in the midst of my confusion, I heard footsteps. They grew louder as they crunched gravel in my direction. When they were just a few feet away, they stopped. The high-pitched voice of a young teen standing a foot or so on my right reverberated in my ears. “I want his suit!”

  “What the hell for?” came another voice about twenty or thirty feet away, also on my right. It sounded like the bastard who’d held me at gunpoint on Liberty Avenue. I vaguely recalled someone calling him Jake. “Goin’ to a party?”

  “I want it! The coat, too!”

  “Sucker’s way too big for ya, Jonesie!” yelled another kid. “Ol’ fart’s a foot taller than you! You’d have to cut it up to fit!”

  “I’ll grow into it!”

  Snickers.

  “Just wait,” said Jake.

  “Fer what?” asked Jonesie, who was now standing near my feet. “He won’t need it no more!”

  “We’ll dump ‘im first,” replied Jake. “Then you can have the damn suit!”

  “The coat, too?”

  “Yeah, whatever…”

  “What about his shoes?”

  “Take the shoes, dammit. I don’t give a shit.”

  A chuckle. The kid standing on my right side said, “Sucker’s loaded. Those shoes go for a coupla hundred!”

  Jonesie said, “There’s twelve hundred and five cards in his wallet!”

  Then I heard a fourth voice. This one seemed to be coming from where Jake was. “We max out the cards, mebbe get another five K.”

  “Not bad for one night,” Jake said.

  “Don’t forget the wheels,” the kid on my right said. “Mebbe five hundred, once we get ‘er stripped.”