Artie and the Brown-Eyed Woman
By Jan Christensen
Copyright 2012 by Jan Christensen
Cover Copyright 2012 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Also by Jan Christensen and Untreed Reads Publishing
Artie and the Green-Eyed Woman
Artie and the Long-Legged Woman
Artie and the Red-Headed Woman
http://www.untreedreads.com
Artie and the Brown-Eyed Woman
By Jan Christensen
The scream brought Artie to the window. He looked out and saw a woman being dragged down the street by an angry-looking man.
For a brief moment, a streetlight illuminated her terrified face, her dark eyes liquid with tears. They looked exactly like his wife’s eyes when he did something to upset her.
The struggling couple turned the corner and vanished from Artie’s sight. He looked down at the DVD player as it fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers. Grabbing his athletic bag, he stuffed the burglary tools inside while running out the front door, forgetting the active alarm. He had disabled the one at the back to get in and expected to leave the same way.
As the signal clanged behind him, Artie took off down the street and around the corner.
What are you doing, he asked himself as he caught sight of them again. He didn’t need to get involved in something that would call attention to himself from the cops. The woman’s struggling had slowed the man down, and Artie was only a city block away when the man tried to push the woman into the back seat of a limo. A hand reached out from inside and pulled the woman in. The abductor jumped into the driver’s seat. Artie rushed up, panting, his hand just touching the back fender when the car took off, tires jittering on the pavement.
“No!” shouted Artie, as he stood there, watching it disappear.
Dropping the bag at his feet, he sank slowly to the curb and put his head in his hands.
“Hey, buddy. Could I borrow a buck for a cup of coffee?”
Artie looked up at the beggar and slowly shook his head.
“Aw, come on,” the wino whined, his head bobbing up and down. “You look like you got a spare buck on ya.”
“Go away,” Artie said and put his head back into his hands. It seemed the best place for it at the moment.
The homeless guy kicked at Artie’s shoe. “I need a cuppa coffee. Come on.”
Slowly, Artie stood up and glanced around. The street was deserted. He saw a layer of cardboard in a doorway with a couple of gray blankets. Two huge black trash bags, stuffed so tight they looked like baby beached whales, leaned against the wall. Must be where the guy slept. The light bulb clicked on in Artie’s brain. Maybe because he wasn’t holding his head in his hands anymore.
“You see that guy manhandle that woman into a limo a few minutes ago?” he asked.
The man took a step backwards, his head bobbing faster than ever, but not in a gesture saying, “Yes,” but from nervousness. “What if I did? What’s it to you?”
“You know them?”
“Never seen ’em before in my life.”
“Ten dollars says you have. Who was the driver? They were on your patch.” Artie pulled out his wallet.
The homeless guy licked his dry lips. Artie noted that he looked to be about forty or so, although it was hard to tell when someone had been on the streets awhile. He had some gray in his beard and hair, blue eyes not yet clouded by too many drugs or too much booze, and wore the usual assortment of clothing. Artie could almost believe the ten would go for food and coffee. Almost.
He held the ten spot out invitingly, just far enough away so the guy would have to step forward to get it. The beggar hesitated, frowning at the money and looking between it and Artie. Then he shrugged and grabbed the bill with a grimy hand and shoved it into one of the many pockets of his jacket.
“Driver’s a bozo called Jetso. He drinks at Harry’s. You know Harry’s place?”
Artie nodded. “You’re doing good. How about the other guy?’
The homeless man shrugged, head bobbing. “Didn’t get a good look at him. But I seen the car with Jetso driving once before, about a week ago. Think he got a gig with someone as a driver. What’s all this to you?”
It was Artie’s turn to shrug. “I heard her scream. Saw her face. Didn’t seem right.”
“Probly not. That’s all I know.” And the ragged-looking man shuffled off down the street, head bobbing to some inner tune.
“What’s your name?” Artie called after him.
“Nod,” he called back, but not slowing down.
“Where’s Winkin’ and Blinkin’?” Artie wondered under his breath. And now what are you going to do, you big jerk, he asked himself. He wanted to sit down on the curb and put his head in his hands again, but decided against it. Instead, he walked towards Harry’s, his bag banging against his leg, the tools clanking.
The streets were dry, and someone must have found the money to fix the streetlights in the neighborhood recently because most of them were working. Occasionally he passed what looked like a pile of clothing in a doorway, but he knew it had to be one of Nod’s people. Could be either male or female. He shivered although the air felt balmy. He considered himself lucky he’d never been homeless. Close, once or twice, until he learned the trade.
He pushed the door open at Harry’s place and entered. Because it was dim and shadowy, he blinked a couple of times before he could tell there were only four customers, all slouched at the bar. A TV in the corner was turned on mute and the captions told Artie the twelve o’clock news was coming up in a few minutes. He chose a seat between a couple of men, leaving a space next to each of them empty. The bartender, wearing a green knit shirt with “Mac” embroidered above the pocket, approached him.
“What’ll it be?” Mac asked, placing a napkin in front of Artie. A gold wedding band gleamed on his ring finger as he tapped his fingers on the bar.
“How about a Scotch and soda?” Artie asked.
“Coming right up,” Mac said cheerfully enough.
Artie nodded and glanced around for a closer look at the other customers. No one he knew.
When Mac put down a napkin, then the Scotch, Artie asked, “You know a guy named Jetso?” he asked.
“What’s it to you if I do?” Mac asked, his tone belligerent.
Artie palmed a twenty and put it next to his drink, keeping his fingers on the end of the bill. It was getting to be an expensive evening. “Could be good for you,” Artie said.
Mac stood a moment, drumming his fingers on the bar. Then two of them came out to snag the twenty.
“Not so fast,” Artie said. “Jetso?’
“Works for Lopresti. Know him? Lopresti hired him as a chauffeur.”
“Jetso have qualifications for that?” Artie asked, sti
ll holding onto the bill. He knew who Lopresti was, of course. Big boss in the area—took over after Cordavo went to prison. Cordavo couldn’t hold it together from there, even with his son’s help.
Mac shrugged. “He can drive,” he said, his fingers again reaching for the twenty. Artie let go, and Mac quickly pocketed it.
Artie took a sip of his drink, and Mac walked down to see if any of the other customers needed a refill.
Well, Artie thought, that tears it. No way was he gonna get mixed up with Lopresti. Lopresti left Artie alone, and Artie would leave Lopresti alone. Lopresti knew Artie and his wife because Josie had once worked as a waitress in one of the crime boss’s restaurants before Artie married her and took her away from all that. Artie sighed, gulped down the rest of his scotch, and exited the bar without a backward glance.
He walked the five short blocks home to his apartment, trying not to hear the echo of those screams in his ears, or to see in his mind’s eye those liquid brown eyes.
Sighing again, he unlocked his apartment door and crept into the bedroom where he climbed into bed with Josie. She didn’t stir. She never did, and he was glad she could sleep through his late arrivals.
When he walked into the kitchen the next morning, he found Josie sitting at the table, the paper spread out in front of her, a little frown of concentration wrinkling her brow. When she looked up, he couldn’t help remembering the eyes from last night. They were almost exactly the same, minus the tears. He looked away quickly and sat down.
Josie poured some coffee into a mug for him, murmuring “good morning.”
“Hi, Babe,” he said and took the front section of the paper. Josie was already reading the life section.
When he saw the picture of the woman on the front page, he shut his eyes, feeling dizzy and queasy. When he was able to look up again, he was glad to see Josie still engrossed in her own reading.
Artie skimmed the story of Roberto Lopresti’s wife, Maria, reported missing since the day before. Well, they’d found her last night. And obviously, she didn’t want to go back to the crime boss’s waiting arms.
He heard the rattle of Josie’s coffee cup against the saucer which always indicated she was finished with the paper and wanted to talk. He looked up into those wonderful eyes and couldn’t help smiling at her.
“How’d you do last night, Artie?”
“Not so good. Got interrupted.”
“Really?” Josie frowned.
“Yeah. I heard a scream and went to check it out. A guy was dragging Maria Lopresti down the street, and I ran after them. Of course, I didn’t know it was Maria Lopresti when I followed.”
Josie’s frown deepened. “You shouldn’ta gone after them, Artie.”
He shrugged. “Probably not. But I did. Her eyes, Josie, her eyes looked just like yours. So big, and brown, and beautiful.” He reached for her hand.
Josie didn’t respond for a moment. “Should I be jealous, Artie?”
“No, oh no, Josie.” He squeezed her hand. “You should be flattered.”
She squeezed back and smiled. “But you didn’t catch up with this man who had Maria Lopresti in his grasp.”
Artie sighed. “No. Almost. But he was pushing her into a car when I got close enough, and it took off. I talked to a guy on the street who knew the driver and where he hung out, so I went to the bar and found out this man, Jetso, works for Lopresti.”
“My old boss, Lopresti,” Josie said, her voice expressionless. She removed her hand from his grasp and stood up, clearing dishes.
Above the noise, Artie said, “I didn’t know that when I chased them, Josie.”
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You talked to people at the bar. Word will get back, Artie, and you’re going to be in a heap of trouble.” She began tossing dishes into the dishwasher, and Artie was afraid they’d break. Fortunately, the last time they’d had to replace dishes, he’d made sure they were the real thick, pottery kind. If these broke, he’d insist on plastic. Josie wouldn’t like that.
Artie sighed again and stood up. “Couldn’t help it.” He stood behind her and whispered, “Those eyes. Couldn’t resist those eyes.”
He felt surprised when Josie whirled around and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes. He pulled her tight, not wanting to look, knowing what she would say.
“You need to find a new line of work, Artie,” she murmured into his neck. “Daytime work.”
He pulled away. “You know I can’t do that, Josie. God knows, I’ve tried before. I’m gonna go for a walk.”
He found his keys and left the apartment. As he walked through the front lobby door, two palookas grabbed his arms and hustled him into a limo waiting at the curb.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he shouted as they rammed him into the back seat. One crowded in beside him while the second hustled around the other side. Artie felt like the meat in a salami sandwich as the car drove sedately away from the curb. Seeing the driver in profile and his eyes in the rearview mirror, Artie identified him as Jetso.
“What’s going on?” Artie asked.
“Jus’ going for a little ride,” the palooka on his right said.
“You’ll see when we get there,” the one on his left remarked.
“Terrific,” Artie muttered.
Within five minutes they’d driven into an alley. Jetso turned off the engine and got out of the car. The guy on Artie’s right also got out and motioned for Artie to follow.
As he stepped out, Jetso’s fist struck his jaw, sending Artie backwards against the open door. The force of the blow knocked him back inside, almost into the palooka’s lap.
Jetso’s arm reached for Artie’s shirtfront and pulled him across the alley. He threw Artie against a brick wall and began beating him. Artie put up his hands to protect his face, and Jetso moved his fists to Artie’s stomach. After only two or three punches, Artie slid down the wall, moaning.
“No more questions about what went down last night! Got that?” Jetso asked between his teeth.
“Yes, yes!” Artie said as loud as he could.
One more punch was thrown, glancing off his shoulder. “This is just a sample,” Jetso said as he turned away. He got back in the limo with the other man, and the car drove off, leaving Artie sitting against the wall, catching his breath. He hadn’t been hurt as bad as he pretended. Jetso didn’t hit that hard, and Artie kept in shape at the gym, so his stomach was pretty taut.
He stood up slowly, in case anyone was watching, and brushed off his clothing. He had walked almost to the end of the alley when a door opened, and a woman stepped out.
“You have to help me!” she said, her voice breathless. He looked up into huge brown eyes and felt his knees weaken more than they had from the beating. He looked up and down the alley, all his senses hyperalert.
“Mrs. Lopresti,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“It’s my husband. He’s going to kill me, eventually.” She turned her head so he could see a large purple bruise on her left cheek. She pulled up her left sleeve, and he saw another bruise on her forearm; this one older, yellow.
“How can I help?” he asked, his nervousness increasing every second. What if someone saw them talking? Where were they, anyway? Was this Lopresti’s home?
She came close to him, pressing herself against him. He could feel the full length of her, and his heart quickened. “Get me out of here. Please? I heard what Jetso said. But I know of a place where we can both be safe.”
“Mrs. Lopresti, I don’t even have a car,” Artie protested.
But she took his arm and propelled them both out into the street, away from the alley. She gave a shrill whistle when she saw a cruising taxi, making Artie’s ears thrum. She jumped inside, pulling Artie after her, and the feeling of déjà vu overwhelmed him. First someone pushed her into a car, then someone pushed him into a car, and now she put both of them into a car. Ears ringing, head spinning, Artie slumped against the seat while Mrs
. Lopresti told the driver, “The Waldorf, please.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and pulled away from the curb with a jerk.
Within ten minutes, they had arrived, and Maria stepped out of the car, leaving Artie to pay the driver. She had already walked into the lobby by the time he finished. She stood talking to a man with a “Manager” pin on his lapel, who nodded vigorously.
A bellboy appeared at the snap of the manager’s fingers and led them to the elevators. Artie began to wonder what the hell Mrs. Lopresti needed him for when they arrived in front of an ornate door that the bellboy opened with a flourish.
Once they were all inside, he drew the drapes, turned on the TV, pointed out the small refrigerator and bar, and then stood in the doorway. “Anything else I can get for you?” he asked.
Artie looked at Maria. She was inspecting the mini bar’s contents and didn’t answer. Artie slid a five into the bellhop’s hand, expecting a disdainful look, but after all, the guy hadn’t had to manhandle any luggage.
After he left, Artie locked the door and turned to Maria. “We need to talk.” When she didn’t respond, he grasped her arm and led her to a couch and sat her down, plunking himself down next to her.
“I’d like a drink, Artie,” she pouted.
He sighed and stood up. “What do you want?”
“Tomato juice.”
“Okay.” He found one, popped the top and brought it over to her, glad she hadn’t asked for something more complicated.
“Now, tell me what’s going on. This is dangerous, Maria.”
It was her turn to sigh. “I know, Artie, but we can work it out between us.”
“How do you know my name?”
“I know just about everything, Artie. That building where we live has an old heating system, and if you put your head near the vents, you can hear everything anyone says in the other rooms.”
“So, what did they say about me?”
“Jetso found out you’d seen us last night. Mac called him. You should be more careful.”
“Yeah. I know.” Artie stood up and fetched himself a ginger ale. After he sat down again, he asked, “How did Mac know who I was?”
Artie and the Brown-Eyed Woman (The Artie Crimes Book 4) Page 1
