You Get What You Pay For (The Tony Cassella Mysteries)

by Beinhart, Larry

  “And the fire in Brooklyn?” I said. “Three dead.”

  “That wasn’t supposed to happen. You know that wasn’t supposed to happen. That was an accident. I’ve come to Christ. People get killed in accidents all the time. You’re making steel, guy trips and falls into the—the thing they make steel in, you don’t crucify U.S. Steel. I’ve been Born Again. Things have to get done, and when government regulation gets all in the way, sometimes you have to do it different ways, and who is to blame? I came to Jesus. Those people, they’re not my fault. I didn’t kill them. I came to Jesus. I am Born Again.”

  Then I had to get him to put his words in writing. By five, it was done. Six pages of handwritten confession. Including being hired by Randolph Gunderson, personally. Gold. Pure gold. I could open a Swiss bank account with it.

  At five-thirty, with a befuddled and weary McGarrity in tow, I pounded on the door of the Promised Land’s desk clerk and notary public.

  “Come back later,” he moaned.

  “Open up,” I said.

  “Wha’ … what is it?” he said, coming to the door in his pajamas.

  “I need something notarized. Now.”

  “You … Later. Later.”

  “You don’t understand,” I said, looking him square in the eye, as deadpan as Dan Aykroyd. “We’re on a mission from God.”

  I used the Xerox machine in the motel office to copy what he’d written. Then I drove McGarrity back to his McDonald home. I kept the original and one copy of the confession, mailed one copy to myself, the other to John Straightman. I was excited enough that I called him as well, even though it was before six o’clock in the morning. Of course I got his answering machine. I left a message saying that I had the goods on Gunderson.

  A few minutes after seven, Cynthia Lynn woke me up. She was all bubbly and ready to go. I was on top of the bed, still dressed, except for the choir robe, with my gun butt digging a hole in my hip. No sleep makes me irritable, and one hour’s sleep makes me meaner than no sleep at all. “Just shut up,” I growled, stumbling into the bathroom to brush my teeth and splash some water in my face.

  The phone rang. I was certain it was Glenda. “Don’t take that,” I spluttered, with a mouth full of foam. I raced out to the bedroom to get it first. She was smiling at me, the top two buttons of her blouse open. I answered the phone, swallowing toothpaste. It was Straightman. I told him to hold on. I rinsed my mouth and came back. He asked me what was going on. I looked at Cynthia. I told John to hold on again. “Wait outside,” I told her.

  “Outside?” she said, beginning to protest.

  I took her by the arm. “Now wait outside,” I barked.

  “Where?” she whined.

  “I don’t give a shit,” I said, shoving her out the door. “Go to the coffee shop. Get me a coffee to go.” My brain was starting to function again, enough to say, “Milk, no sugar,” and “Better make that two.” I closed the door, with her outside.

  I went back to the phone. “Hey, John, I got a sworn and witnessed and notarized statement. The arson investigator was on Gunderson’s payroll. He admits that he covered up the Brooklyn fire and six of the other nine we knew about and eight more.”

  By the time I hung up, he was ecstatic. I was going to be also, as soon as I had my coffee.

  The door burst open.

  A bunch of people were coming into the room. All I saw was that they had weapons.

  I rolled over to the far side of the bed, drawing my gun as I did. I peeked over the mattress. “Freeze, you fuckers!” I screamed. The obscenity, which is part of the rhythm of New York street speech, rang harsh and loud in Faith. It was the first time I’d heard it in a week. I think it was that, more than the gun, that brought the four of them up short.

  I now had time to see who my guests were. Bubba, the brother in the Prayer Warrior T-shirt, had a deer rifle. Pappy had a baseball bat. There were two other guys I didn’t know. One Bubba’s age. The other in his mid-thirties. He looked FBI. But everybody in Faith looked FBI or overweight.

  “Now this is a three-fucking-fifty-seven magnum,” I said.

  “That’s a three-fifty-seven magnum,” Bubba said. Thrilled and impressed.

  “I thought they were bigger,” the other teenager said.

  “It’s a snub-nose, you asshole,” I explained.

  “I seen Dirty Harry’s,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Make me prove it,” I yelled. “Come on, sucker, make my day!” I said.

  “Wh … where is she?” Pappy said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Mah daughter. You got my daughter.”

  “Who?” I asked. “You have a daughter? Do I know you?”

  “His daughter,” the FBI-like person said. He had an especially undistinguished tie. “You are planning to abduct his daughter and sell her into white slavery in New York City.”

  “You people are on drugs,” I said, hoping that the little ditz didn’t choose that moment to walk in with my two coffees to go, milk, no sugar.

  “You got her,” Bubba said. “We know you got her.”

  “Who the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Watch your language,” Pappy said.

  “Watch my language?” I yelled, standing up and cocking the hammer on the gun. “Watch my fucking language? You four fucks break into my room, which is like my home, and that entitles me to shoot you for breaking and entering and trespassing and being all-around bad people, and if you don’t back the fuck up and get the fuck out of here, I’m gonna start blowing people away.”

  “Wh … wh … where is she?” Pappy cried.

  What the hell. I let one go into the ceiling.

  The sucker was loud. I mean thunder. That big, clapping echo noise that a low cloud lets go of when it’s right over your head and the dogs go and cower under the bed and little children cry. Thunder.

  Plaster tumbled down on their heads as they tripped all over each other, stumbling for the door. I fired again. What a great noise!

  My suitcase already had most of my stuff in it. I didn’t bother to go and collect my toothbrush and such. As soon as they were out, I just grabbed what was packed. I stepped out, waving my Smith & Wesson in front of me. They were huddled together about twenty feet away, conferring.

  “Back, you weirdos, back,” I yelled. They moved back. Keeping my eye on them, I moved toward my car. I opened the driver’s door and tossed my things in. Cynthia Lynn came out of the coffee shop with two coffees to go. She stared at her father and brother. They stared at her. I hopped in the car. Turned it on. It caught right away. Thank you, car rental folks. And I floored it out of the parking lot.

  39.

  The Empire Strikes Back

  I WAS IN THE friendly skies.

  You may have been good. You may have been bad. You may be going to heaven. You may be going to hell. It doesn’t matter. If you die in the South, y’all have to change planes in Atlanta.

  Folkways of the New South,

  Oral Anthropology Project

  William and Mary College, 1979

  I was on the wings of man.

  It depends on the winds. And who else is up there. Sometimes the flight pattern is over Long Island, which is a lot like anywhere else. But sometimes the flight comes in over the harbor. That’s the sight that’s in photographs and movies and on TV. Bridges and boats, rivers and lights, towers and traffic. Manhattan stands there like it thinks it’s the center of the world. It is.

  don’t come back unless you win,

  ’cause losing is a sin,

  that cannot be forgiven,

  so if you wanna keep on livin’,

  get that gold

  and come on home,

  get the gold

  and bring it home.

  America.

  America loves you when you win,

  don’t do the Vi’tnam thing again,

  show ’em that we’re greater,

  take ’em like we took Grenada.

  go ou
t and run your race,

  there ain’t no second place,

  come back standing tall,

  come back first or not at all,

  get that gold

  and come on home,

  get the gold

  and bring it home.

  The White Rapper (H. Stucker),

  “Olympic Fever”

  (© Honkey Tunes, Inc., 1984)

  I was bringing it all home.

  I walked into the apartment with that nice afterglow you get from a good workout—real tired but sort of floating, free of pain. Glenda wanted to tell me everything that had happened when I was gone and hear everything that I’d done. I wanted to make love and go to sleep.

  I remained good-humored. Friendly. Tolerant. Loving. A new me.

  I gradually brought her around. Without a foreplay fight. It was pretty good too. Not as hot as a Troy Woodcock sermon on perversion. Not as jolly and free as loving with Marie. But good.

  I got up in time to walk Wayne to school. I wore a loose shirt to cover my gun. It felt familiar now. It never really had before. I didn’t like that. I promised to quit work early so we could play some ball.

  “Have you ever considered a computer,” he said, “for your office?”

  “You’d rather have a computer than play ball?”

  “I was thinking of the many benefits a computer brings to a small business,” he said innocently. “Of course, I would help teach you to use it. And I could use it too.”

  Everyone at the office was glad to see me: Miles because I had to sign his check; Naomi because she had three years of expenses and invoices that the IRS wanted to see and that she didn’t understand; Mario because he’s like that.

  I petted the mutt and even let him lick me. I told Naomi she was doing a great job, to continue, and I would start tomorrow.

  “You’re gonna get a bonus,” I said.

  “I’d settle for overtime,” she said.

  I gave Miles the confession so he could integrate it into what we already had and start digging out the support data on those parts of it that were new to us. Then I called the congressman.

  “Hold everything,” he said again, “except preparing the material, until.”

  “When is until?”

  “I’ll fly to D.C. tomorrow. I think I’m only asking you to wait until Thursday. Three days. I’ll call you and confirm that tomorrow, from D.C.”

  “Three days?” I said.

  “You have done an incredible job, a great job, an unbelievable job,” Straightman said. “Now it’s time for me to do my job. You understand that. Let’s just hope I’m as good at it as you are.”

  “You’re the client,” I said.

  I sent Miles off to slave in the bowels of the record rooms of Kings County and Bronx County. “Your Naomi,” he said, “is a treasure.” I went out for a stroll down Madison Avenue, enjoying the hustle of people with money to make and money to spend. I saw a couple of shirts I liked in a shop window. I saw a woman watching me watching the shirts. “You think I’d look good in that?” I said. “Yes, I think you’d look good in that,” she said. A brief moment without security guards marching all over our faces. Eyes, smiles. She thought about saying that I’d look good in anything. I would’ve said it would be sweet to feel your fingers unbuttoning my collar. Then she slipped shades down over her interest.

  The shirts were $74 each. I bought both. Then I dropped another $190 on a silk blouse for Glenda. Then I saw a computer store. An IBM clone, two floppies, color monitor, printer, cables, DOS and word processing included, a space game, a detective game, $2,795, plus tax and $25 for delivery. I wrote the man a check.

  I figured Mario deserved a treat too. I bought him some leather bones, then took him with me when I went to the park with Wayne. Mario and Wayne were a boy and his dog waiting to happen.

  “Can we keep him?” he asked. “Please.”

  “Yeah,” I said, realizing that he was mine now. Both of them were mine. “But you have to remember, he’s a working dog. Not just a play dog.”

  “Uh huh.”

  “See, one of his jobs is guarding my office at night.”

  “So he can’t come home with us?”

  “In a couple of weeks,” I said, “he probably can. Right now I want to make sure nobody gets in. But in the meantime, you can visit him after school and walk him and make friends and all that. OK?”

  “Sure. Wow,” he said, and put a headlock on Mario. “You want to be my dog, Mario?” He made the dog’s head move up and down. Then he stuck his hand in Mario’s mouth, grabbing his jaw and yanking it back and forth. The mutt seemed to like it.

  Wayne stood up, his hand full of slobber. “Mario Cuomo is a funny name for a dog,” he said, with the mutt leaning against him.

  “You can change it if you really want to. He could probably learn a second name. He’s a school dropout, but he’s not stupid.”

  “That’s what Uncle Joey named him,” he said thoughtfully, “so we should probably keep it.”

  “Yeah. I think that’s a good idea,” I said. Grown men don’t cry.

  “What did happen to Uncle Joey?”

  “He was sick. He had cancer,” I told him, as I had before. “It was very bad and it killed him.”

  “Did he tell you about it? He never told me about it.”

  “No. He didn’t.”

  “Why not?” Wayne asked.

  “Good question. It was, I guess, a question of dignity.”

  “Dignity?”

  “Yes. Joey was a certain kind of guy. You know, a cop. He was a pretty big guy, and pretty tough. I think it was important to him to stay that way. At least in front of us. He didn’t want us to think of him as weak, and sick.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s the way he was.”

  “I miss him,” Wayne said, switching, instantly, as a child will, from frank, open curiosity to sadness. And maybe fear.

  “Me too,” I said, and put my arm around him.

  “Look,” Sam Bleer said, “you have to start taking this seriously.” This was the stacks of papers that covered Naomi’s desk.

  “Sam, gimme a break. I’ve been working my ass off. I need a couple of days, to breathe and to get this Gunderson thing in the bag. Then we can worry about it.”

  “Sam’s right,” Gerry Yaskowitz said.

  “He had to bring you into this?” I said.

  “Tony, Tony, you have to understand—how shall I put this? You can’t fuck around with the IRS.”

  “Look,” I said, out of patience, “I’m not a dummy. I know I can’t fuck around with the IRS. Just stall them a couple of weeks. That’s all I’m talking about.”

  “The IRS,” Sam said, “wants what it wants when it wants it.”

  “A week? Can I have one lousy fucking week, before I dive into that pile of shit over there?”

  “Silverman,” Yaskowitz said, “Snake Silverman. Does he have anything to say about you?”

  I paused. I had a vision of money stashed in cans. Of Joey rolling off hundred-dollar bills. Both of us putting them in our pockets. Neither of us reporting. On a certain level, it’s best to tell your attorney everything. So he knows how to defend you. But Yaskowitz and Bleer could only advise me to declare the money as fast as possible and pay the taxes and the penalties. I had the letter. A dead man would take the weight. “I practically never dealt with the man. Joey dealt with Silverman. And since my partner’s demise, I haven’t even spoken to him. You,” I said to Sam, “set up a separate accounting thing for that, right?”

  “Yes, I did,” Sam said. “But as the sole surviving owner, you’re responsible. With your structure, you’d be liable anyway.”

  “I haven’t looked at the books,” I said, “for that part of things.” Thinking I might very well have a need for the money. The empire had not yet struck back. But they would. “As soon as I get a chance, I will, then I’ll tell you. Sam, you start, then you give me a list of questions, or whatever
.”

  “Tony,” my accountant said, “I’ve done that.”

  “I’ve got to go to Washington. Thursday. It was just confirmed. We’ll talk when I come back.”

  “What do we do with him?” Sam said.

  “He’s the client.” Gerry shrugged.

  I’d made a promise to keep Gene Petrucchio up to date. More important, I wanted to make sure the Brooklyn D.A. was interested in prosecuting the case, in case whoever my client was lining up failed to come through. I drove out to Brooklyn and gave Gene Petrucchio an edited version of what was going on. He looked disturbed.

  “What if I tell you to put a lid on it?”

  “What it is, Gene, is that someone is gonna rock the boat,” I said. “Now if that happens, you want your man to be the one doing it. That way at least you can control who goes overboard. You see what I’m saying.”

  “You know me; I got nothing to hide. But there’s people running around this town, they’re into this and that, and”—he made his finger and fist into a gun—“they’re like that. You know what I’m saying.” He shrugged.

  “You know something I don’t know?” I asked him.

  “Nah,” he said. “You take care of yourself.”

  “Yeah, you too. My love to the missus. And talk to whoever, about letting your D.A. be the hero on this one.”

  “I heard you the first time,” he said, genially. “Take care of yourself.”

  To hell with them all. I had my priorities in order. I drove home and took Wayne to the park again. A breeze came off the river, the sky was a solid cobalt blue, the air smelled like real air and the sunshine was clear. How many days like that are there in the world?

  A day like that, you could marry a woman you don’t exactly love. Knock her up and have a kid of your own blood to go with the one you already had. You could forget that status is measured in cash, and about going for glory, and winning. Forget about the gun under your shirt. Leather gloves and a white ball. Imagine that you’re a rookie phenom with a 96-mph fastball and a good breaking curve and a forever world of grass-green summers in front of you. Never imagine that if you were a rookie phenom you might have troubles too. The bone spur growing in the elbow. The woman you don’t love and the pretty new one you love too much. Too many buddies laying those white lines down, hoisting the brew, blue flame in the pipe.