by Ray Hoy
He cleared his throat and stared into the fire, fighting back the tears. I stirred the hell out of my drink as I listened, wishing I were somewhere else.
Jilly’s voice weakened as he spoke: “Jonathan visited us for a few days after they broke up. He had a commercial to shoot, and couldn’t stay long. You met him, Jack, at a little dinner party we had here.” He stared at the floor. “That’s the last time we saw him alive.”
My old friend turned to the bar and poured another drink. “Jonathan was the Grand Prix Champion last year, as you know,” he said. “But when Felicia left, it took the heart out of him.”
Jilly gave me a long look, but his mind seemed elsewhere. Finally, he went on: “He decided to retire, but Andy McGuire persuaded him to drive one more season for him. He promised Jonathan a great racing machine, but it just didn’t work out that way. They had a terrible season; I don’t know all the reasons why. Jonathan’s desire to win might have been less intense after losing Felicia . . . but I’ll never know that for sure.
Jilly turned his back to me and stared into the fire again, trying to hide his emotions. He continued, but spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. “He had to see her again, so he flew to Vegas. What he found wasn’t pretty. Felicia had gone downhill—way downhill.”
Jilly took a deep, ragged breath and turned to face me. “Harry Varchetta, the owner of the hotel she sang for, had set his sights on her.” Jilly’s eyes narrowed, and he clinched his jaw. When he continued, there was bitterness in his voice. “Varchetta ‘befriended’ her, gave her a ‘little something’ to ease her pain, make her forget. She was shaken, sick at heart—and vulnerable.”
Jilly took a long pull at his drink. “Once he had her hooked, he made damn sure he kept her that way. Later, Jonathan discovered that Felicia had married Varchetta, but she had no recollection of the ceremony. She was a shell of the woman he loved, a virtual prisoner in Varchetta’s hotel.”
Muscles twitched in Jilly’s face and his thick, pale lips trembled. “Varchetta discovered the two of them talking, and he went crazy. He ordered one of his goons to work Jonathan over. Fortunately, Jonathan had the presence of mind to warn Varchetta that I wouldn’t want to see him hurt.”
At my questioning look, Jilly said, “Varchetta’s a real bastard. He and I are old enemies. We go way back . . . way back. He’s scared shitless of me, and he has every right to be.”
Jilly stood there, drink in hand, looking for all the world like something out of an old Edward G. Robinson movie, a mob leader planning revenge on an enemy—and I suspect that was more-or-less what was running through his mind. But the years had mellowed him. He choked down the rest of his drink and leaned against the fireplace, staring down into the flames. “That saved Jonathan from a beating, maybe worse.”
Jilly cleared his throat; he was determined to finish his story. “Toward the end of the season Jonathan walked into his apartment in Monterey, and there she was, standing in the bedroom door, scared and sick. Somehow she’d found the courage to slip away from Varchetta. When Jonathan called me, he said they would come back to visit after his next race—Las Vegas.”
His face crumpled and for a moment I thought he was going to cry openly. I stood there, feeling totally helpless. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass him, but I guess I knew in his grief he was beyond that.
He finally went on: “The two of them flew to Las Vegas. Jon checked into a downtown hotel under an assumed name, because he feared for her safety. She still couldn’t stand to watch him drive, so he left her in the hotel room the following morning while he did some tire testing at the track.”
Jilly paused, fighting to control his emotions. “Somehow she gathered her courage and went to the track. Maybe she wanted to surprise him and show him she could handle it—on his terms. She stood by the fence at the end of the pit straight. When Jonathan began braking for the corner, she ran toward the corner, waving at him.”
Jilly swallowed hard, then pressed on: “Jonathan must have caught her out of the corner of his eye and his attention was distracted for one vital moment. We’ll never know for sure exactly what happened. Anyway, he hit the wall.”
The ticking of the clock over the fireplace sounded like Big Ben in the silence of the room. Jilly finally said, “They had to cut him out of the car.”
I wormed the rest of the story out of him a bit at a time. Andy McGuire, Flynn’s team manager and closest friend, had called right after the accident. He told Jilly he would take Felicia to his home in Incline Village, and asked him to have someone come for her.
The sun was down by the time I left Jilly’s place. I walked to my vintage Jag XK-120 roadster, parked in the circular driveway. A biting wind added to the natural chill of October. With luck, perhaps it would cleanse the smell of death that surrounded me.
I picked up a large black coffee at a McDonald’s. As I pulled away, I spilled a little in my lap, as I have always done; cursed myself for being a clumsy clod, as I have always done; and promised myself I’d never get another cup of coffee to go . . . as I have always done.
I am a creature of habit, apparently not subject to change.
I set out for my A-frame, located in Zephyr Cove on Lake Tahoe’s famous south shore. I inserted a CD into the player, then settled back and let Anita Baker sing me on home. I swept on through the darkness, enjoying the solitude of the beautiful 45-minute drive.
* * *
J.T. Ripper was waiting for me when I let myself into my cabin. Ripper is hell disguised as a Doberman, an aberration, one of Mother Nature’s private jokes. He’s one-hundred-fifty pounds of sinew, bone and muscle—and nasty disposition. He has saved my life several times and I’ve yet to save his even once. I owe him, and he never lets me forget it.
After a long hot shower, I climbed into bed, weary to the bone, emotionally drained. I stared at the ceiling, trying to shut down my runaway brain.
Ripper appeared next to me and stood there for a moment, nearly invisible in the darkness.
“What?” I said.
Ripper stared at me, not saying a word. Then, with a loud sigh he sauntered back to his corner and flopped down for the night.
Chapter 4
The day after the funeral I called on Jilly and Vi to see how they were doing. Fred, their ancient butler, met me at the door and showed me in. A smile cracked his leathery face. “Good morning, Mr. Frost. I’m most happy to see you. Perhaps you’ll be able to lift a bit of the gloom around here.”
Fred tottered past me and slowly motored down the hall. He led me into the living room, which was dominated by a large fireplace, then disappeared without announcing my presence.
Jilly sat in a deep leather chair, glasses resting halfway down the bridge of his nose, doing his best to read a report of some kind. He looked old and tired. Vi stared at the blazing logs in the fireplace, her robe wrapped tightly around her, trying to ward off the sort of cold that fire cannot banish.
Fred was right. The gloom was heavy in this house. I walked to where the two sat across from each other, and stood there for a moment, waiting to be noticed.
Vi eventually looked up, a woman coming out of a dream. Her eyes were red from crying. A small smile appeared. “Oh, Jack . . . you’re a welcome sight.”
Jilly stood and offered his hand, a weary smile on his face. Then he sat again and dropped the report on the end table next to his chair. I looked at Vi. She’d already lapsed back into thought.
“How are things going, Jilly?” I said, and instantly realized what a stupid question it was.
He sighed, then shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess. He paused, then said, “Felicia has real problems.” He picked up his report again, hesitated, and then put it down. “Real problems, Jack.”
Jilly got slowly to his feet. He glanced at Vi, who was in her own world. “Come with me, Jack. I want you to hear something.”
As we entered Jilly’s office, he motioned me toward an easy chair with a little wave of his
hand. “You want something to drink, Jack?”
“No thanks, Jilly; it’s a little too early in the day for me.”
Jilly thought about my comment for a minute, then finally nodded. “Yeah, that’s good I suppose. . .” Then he sat down and leaned forward, his eyes locked on mine. “Jack, I’m worried—no, I’ll admit it, I’m scared shitless. I fully expect Varchetta to send some muscle to grab Felicia. She knows all about his dealings, which goes to show you how stupid he is! I’ve been in this business since I was a punk kid, and Vi knows nothing about mine!”
“But she knows you’re involved—”
“Well, yeah, of course she does; she’s a smart woman, but she doesn’t know anything specific—and she doesn’t want to. Only an idiot would let his wife in on his business dealings, and I don’t care what the hell he does for a living!”
I suppressed a smile. Jilly had strong feelings about a woman’s role in the world of business.
“Felicia could not care less about Varchetta’s dealings,” he said, “but he’s not bright enough to realize that.” He paused. “He’ll want her back.”
“Would she go?”
“Not on her own. Well . . . I don’t think so, anyway. Hell, I don’t know, Jack . . . maybe she would. Maybe if that little bastard sends someone after her, she’ll go back without a whimper.” He ran a hand over his face. “We can’t ignore ‘The Vegas Factor’ I’m afraid. She might jump at the chance to go back there because she’d have a constant, easy source for the stuff she needs.”
Jilly shook his head, his face grim. “In Varchetta’s world, loose talk is the kiss of death. He knows if she starts to spill, he’ll be up to his ass in alligators.” He thought about that with some satisfaction before continuing. “He’ll never let that happen. If he can, he’ll grab her and take her back there, and she’ll spend the rest of her life in a velvet prison.”
“How can I help?”
Jilly said nothing for a moment. When he finally spoke, it was with resignation. “I’m not sure you can, but I’ve gotta try to protect her. I owe that to Jonathan.” He chewed on his thick bottom lip for a moment. Then, “You’ll be around if things start going to hell, won’t you?”
“You know I will. So will Ripper.”
Jilly and I parted at the top of the wide, curving stairway. He gestured toward Vi’s sewing room at the end of the hall, then turned away and started down the steps.
I tapped on the sewing room door. No answer. The door was ajar, so I pushed it open far enough to step inside. The shades were pulled against the heavy glare of the late afternoon sun.
Felicia sat in faint light in the corner, curled up in an overstuffed chair.
“Do you need anything?” I said.
She did not reply. I waited a few moments. As I started to leave she quietly said, “No.”
She searched my face, possibly trying to match my features with her memories. She studied the scar tissue across the bridge of my nose. Then her eyes traced the long white scar along the bottom edge of my right jaw. For one brief moment I saw a flicker of recognition. Then it was gone.
Felicia Martinez was one of Puerto Rico’s finest exports. Her liquid black eyes always seemed tinged with tears, even, I suspected, when she was happy. Long, shining black hair framed high cheekbones and graceful eyebrows. Her skin was brown and flawless.
Even as she sat in the chair, the long purple robe she wore could not conceal her stunning body. Any man would be happy to have her companionship for an evening—or forever. But Felicia Martinez had already had her one man for a lifetime.
She sat there, puzzled, perhaps wondering why this big stranger was there, and not her Jonathan.
I walked out of the room and down the hallway. I descended the curving stairway, wanting to tell Jilly that nothing was going to happen to Felicia Martinez as long as I was alive.
Chapter 5
Ripper ranged far ahead of me on the deserted shoreline of a fogged-in Lake Tahoe, covering ground with that strange Doberman lope. I jogged behind him through the mist. My hair was already plastered to my head, partly from the drenching mist, but mostly from the last mile of wind sprints.
The dismal fog gave the beach an artificial air, like a movie sound stage. I could see no more than twenty yards or so into the lake. Even Ripper’s occasional deep-throated bark sounded muffled under the low ceiling of fog. Now and then he disappeared into the gray shroud with a burst of speed, then reappeared running straight toward me, belly to the sand.
An animal Ripper’s size requires a lot of exercise. Dobermans are generally even-tempered, despite their unholy reputation. Ripper, unfortunately, was born pissed.
We closed in on a young couple strolling close to the water’s edge, their backs to us. I knew what was coming, but before I could yell, a big black shadow swooped down on them. Ripper flashed by their legs in a high-speed pass, bellowing in his hair-raising bass voice. The woman nearly wet her pants, and the bones went out of the guy’s legs. Having accomplished that, Ripper disappeared into the fog, a happy dog indeed.
Unfortunately, I was on top of them too quickly to give them much warning, and I finished off their day by yelling out my apology, too loud and too close. “He’s harmless!” I lied, as I swept past them.
I glanced over my shoulder as I jogged away. They were still standing there in a state of shock when the fog blotted them out. “Dammit, Ripper,” I yelled, as he made another high-speed pass, this time straight at me. I swear there was a grin on his face.
But it had been a funny scene, and I was still chuckling when we got back to the car. As I mopped my face with a towel, the picture popped into my head again. I buried my face in the towel, trying unsuccessfully to suppress my laughter and get the sillies under control. Finally, the cold breeze off the lake penetrated my sopping wet sweats, which snapped me back to reality.
I was tired, but it felt good. It had been a relief to get Felicia Martinez out of my mind, even for a little while. Jilly had called me several times in the three weeks since the funeral. He was at a loss as to how to help her. She didn’t show any desire to leave, and she went more or less where she was led. Vi looked after her, sitting quietly for hours with Felicia while the broken young woman sat Indian-fashion in her robe, staring into the fire.
Ripper piled into the passenger seat and stared through the windshield, patiently waiting for his housekeeping staff to take him home to lunch. I pulled on a sweatshirt, then slid in behind the wheel, and started the engine.
The smell of wet dog filled the interior of the car, and I cracked my window a bit. But well before I got to the main road I had the window all the way down and was berating my sidekick with, “Gas! Jeez, Ripper, why do you always have gas when we come to this damn lake!”
I let myself into my cabin and pushed the door shut behind me with one foot, already peeling off wet clothing with both hands. Ripper flopped in front of the fireplace, knowing full well I’d light it at the first opportunity. I got it going, then adjusted the flame and dropped a couple pieces of wood on the grate. Within seconds they were crackling and burning fiercely. I shut off the gas and walked away, hearing Ripper’s contented sigh as he stretched out on the rug.
Twenty minutes later I stepped out of the shower and groped for a towel. After scrubbing myself dry, I carefully examined the big man who stared back at me from the full-length mirror. He certainly looked fit enough: highly defined muscle structure, clear eyes, steady hands.
But the scars! Both knees were crisscrossed with reminders of several knee injuries (Vikings vs. Bears and Vikings vs. Lions). White scar tissue ran across the bridge of my nose (Vikings vs. Green Bay), and another one ran the length of my right jawbone (shrapnel). My left bicep looked like someone had used an ice cream scoop (made-in-Russia semi-automatic rifle). Finally an ugly white scar meandered across my belly, just above my groin, courtesy of a snake-mean little bastard with a switchblade (New Orleans, after Katrina).
After donning a clean sweatshirt a
nd jeans, I sat down and pulled on fresh sweat socks and deck shoes. I gave my hair a couple of licks with a brush before I walked back into the living room and over to the wet bar.
I mixed a Rusty Nail, then settled into my old rocking chair. I bought it at a garage sale about five years ago, and since then the various women who have visited my place have urged me to throw the thing out. Their reasons ranged from vague to totally unreasonable. But I like it, so it stays.
My cell phone rang. I glanced at the caller I.D. “Hello, Jilly,” I said.
“Jack, can you come over?”
“Sure. When?”
“Now would be good.”
“I’m on my way.” I clicked off and swirled the ice in my glass with a fingertip, looking at Ripper without really seeing him.
I had a feeling it was all starting. I felt a strange tingle of apprehension—or perhaps it was anticipation.
* * *
“What’s going on, Jilly?”
The old man grunted and stirred his drink. He downed half of it without hesitation. “Nothing good, Jack.” He paused, his face bitter. “Nothing good.”
He walked to an entertainment complex, then turned and stared at me with bloodshot eyes. “I record every phone conversation that comes into or goes out of this house. An old habit, and a good one, I think.” He turned to the recorder and pushed a button. His voice was weak. “Listen to this.”
The expensive speaker system filled the room with the sound of the receiver being lifted, and Jilly’s gruff “Hello.”
“You have a cute wife, Jilly,” a man’s oddly high-pitched voice said. “Send Felicia Martinez back where she belongs, and she’ll stay cute. If you don’t, you won’t recognize her the next time she comes home.”
