Ray Tate and Djuna Brown Mysteries 3-Book Bundle

by Lee Lamothe

  “I’ll meet you, if Marko can’t. He’s pretty worried, Zoe. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. It was … ugly.”

  The man made a sympathetic sound. “Life, right? You have to take what beauty you can, or what’s the point?”

  She thought he sounded vaguely poetic and sad.

  “Is my dad okay? You know my dad?”

  “Bobby? Me and Bobby, we’re buds,” Jerry Kelly said. “He’s a great guy. A real sport.”

  Chapter 23

  Marko Markowitz sat gingerly back against the wraparound corner booth at Gratelli’s. He wore a very loose white shirt, untucked, and smelled of liniments. He felt like a swami. The booth was red leatherette and cool through his shirt. He was still sweating from the fast but very long walk from his Mercedes, parked two blocks away. Jerry Kelly, striding in a flapping grey suit over a black T-shirt had gone past the Mercedes as he too made his way to Grat’s, clearly having parked the Saab even further away.

  “I feel,” Markowitz told Jerry Kelly when they were both seated, “like I’ve been whipped by an octopus. The country life. Fuck it. How’d you make out?”

  “It’s done. A hard day toiling in nature. We got all the stuff in one place. Boxed and sealed. What a fucking nightmare.” He snapped his fingers a couple of times at a waiter. “The fuck’s wrong with this place? Santo, quit fucking around.” When the waiter came to the table, Jerry Kelly ordered two cognacs with precise serving instructions: “Don’t fuck around, Santo, fill the fucking glasses, put the ice in your pants, and send the cherry to your mother. She lost hers. Cognac, a whole lot of it. Twice.”

  “A hard day, Mr. Kelly?”

  Jerry Kelly instantly went offensive. “Why you asking that? Somebody ask you if I’m busy, you telling ’em what I’m doing?” Santo slunk away and Jerry Kelly looked sadly at Marko. “Fucking wop. Nosy. But like most of them, sensitive, with a romantic streak, a heart shaped like a boot. We’ll leave him a good tip, he can get some really good olive oil for the hair on his back.”

  Marko shook his head, smiling fondly. “Did you have sport with small animals when you were a kid, Jerry? Little self-assigned biology experiments in the basement? See how far a kitten could run with its head on fire?”

  Jerry Kelly was amused and filed that away. “A curious boy, was I, Marko. Mysteries of life. I could’ve been a doctor or something, things had gone a little different. Friends used to say: boy, if old Jerry could just buckle down …” His voice trailed off.

  Markowitz, always looking for biodata, said, “You got a lot of friends, Jerry?”

  Jerry Kelly sat back while Santo silently put down the drinks. When he was gone, Jerry Kelly picked up the glass and held it to the light. “Prick probably ground up a shot glass and stirred it in.” He switched glasses with Markowitz and took a deep swallow. “Funny you should ask me that, Marko. I got, it turns out, one less pal than I did last time I saw you.”

  “Not Chyna?”

  “No, no, me’n Chyna are buds. It’s Gary.” He let the fumes from the cognac tear his eyes up. “Little Gary. He went by the wayside. Poor little Gary.”

  Marko bucked his teeth and squinted his eyes into slits. “Another Cambodian moment?” He began laughing, remembering. “That was pretty fucking funny, there, Jer’. I thought the kid was going into vapour lock.”

  “Suicide. He offed himself. Ah, fuck.” He gazed in the middle distance and became pontifical. “I dunno, Marko, I think it’s the pressure of this lifestyle. These young kids have got it all too easy. Broads, dough, cars, all that stuff. Not like in the old days, when you had to do a little deal, then a little bit bigger deal, work your way up, get a reputation as a guy that gets things done. Now it’s: do one good deal, whack the guy you owe the money to because it’s cheaper than paying him, and you got it all. It puts them under an enormous pressure for ever-greater success, striving for more, more, more. What happens, Marko, is they don’t have the grounding guys like you and me do, learning the basics, those little steps that are the foundation of this life, any life, really.” He lifted his glass and waited for Marko to lift his. “Gary. My poor pal. And what a pal he was. He’ll be missed by many.”

  Marko toasted and drank. “Gary. A prince.”

  “Anyfuckingway,” Jerry Kelly said briskly, “let’s move on. What we got is: all the dough is counted, bundled and boxed. Even without Gary, poor, poor unhappy Gary, I got it done. The slaves are still up there; Chyna I think wants ’em for the harvest. Maybe some late-night fiddling. There’s eleven mill, seven. It’s all sealed up and stashed up there. Ready to go, it’ll fit in a cube truck and, maybe, a regular van. What I need to know is where we’re taking it. Without Gary I’m going to need two drivers now, guys that don’t have depression issues.” He thought, working out the mechanics of the money move. “Three drivers. One for the van already up there, one in the cube van. I’m going to need a crash car too, in case someone tries to stop us. So, cube truck and the van and two guys to drive ’em, a crash car and driver. Your guys or my guys?”

  “Eleven-seven. Holy shit.”

  “Success equals profit; profit equals problems. Bigger success brings bigger profit, ergo: bigger problems. Both the blessing and the curse of the modern entrepreneur.” He flagged Santo and used his middle finger to make a circle over their empty glasses.

  He looked around the restaurant and evaluated the early dinner crowd, cocktailing after the workday. At the elbow of the rail, four men sat separately, their forearms on the wood, crowding their drinks, not looking at anything, just four guys who had the crushed look of guys who had spent a useless day doing what they uselessly did every other useless day of their useless fucking lives. Jerry Kelly thought one guy kept looking into the mirror on the back rail, but when a woman carrying a business portfolio entered the bar area he spun off his stool and greeted her with a handshake and a couple of air kisses and they left. Two prostitutes dressed like office girls stood drinking together, not looking at each other as their eyes rotated above their glasses evaluating the trade. Two of the men wore suits and had briefcases by their feet.

  Jerry Kelly turned his eyes back to the remaining man. He looked like one of the creative types from the nearby lofts being renovated into advertising firms or film studios in Stonetown. He wasn’t old, but he had grey-shot hair straggling over his ears and he had a beard that looked like it had been hacked at by a pair of scissors. He wore baggy blue jeans with smears of paint on them. From the back, under the man’s leather jacket, hung four inches of bright Hawaiian shirt. He wore ankle boots. Creative genius, Jerry Kelly thought, too fucking busy to look normal. He thought about going over and punching the guy out.

  The creative specimen looked at the doorway periodically and went back to sipping his drink. Jerry Kelly decided to wait a few minutes and, if the guy was still there, to go over and rub up on him a little. Maybe start something up, see if handcuffs appeared.

  Markowitz sipped at his mineral water and watched Jerry Kelly counting the house. He wondered, vaguely, about the circumstances of Gary’s end. Jerry Kelly had a mode he went into sometimes, always amusing but frequently unpleasant for others. “Jer-ry, Jer-ry, come home. The money.”

  Jerry Kelly ran his eyes back over the bar a final time and gave Marko a bright smile. “Read for me that guy, third from the end, beard, dressed like a kid. Whadaya think? Cop? Goof?”

  Marko looked. “Goof. Creative underclass. Hits on the chicks with his art and angst.” He shook his head. “Fuck him and his stupid beard. Anyway, who’s up there now?”

  “Lady Chyna and one of her tasty damsels. The slaves, they’re out and about the trees and shit. What else there is living in the woods and weeds, I don’t know. Once you get twenty paces from Chy’s house, you’re in the land of the crystal blues. Up is any direction you want.”

  “The stuff’s safe, though?”

  Jerry Kelly smiled. “It’s cool, Marko. Me and Chyna, it’s funny how we get along. I guess it’s because we’
re both spiritual. Her and the chick she’s banging are gonna stay inside for a couple of days, enjoy some quality time.” His face got dreamy.

  Marko looked at the lone hooker trying to position herself by the greying man in the kid’s clothes. “You want something for the night? My treat, you been living in a fucking car. There’ll be a new shift of broads in here in about an hour, you play and I’ll pay.”

  “Nah. I’m saving myself.” Jerry Kelly hung his head a little as though sheepish. “I’m trying to be good, for … someone. Someone special.”

  “Get the fuck outta here.” Two couples at the next table looked up in alarm at the depth of his voice. Marko made a face, like, Ooops, sorry, and lowered his head and whispered urgently. “Who, Jerry? Tell. Anybody I know?”

  “No, Marko. It’s pretty early days right now, but this one … Well, hey, she’s pretty cool. You’d like her, I think.”

  “She in the game?”

  “No, no. Jesus, a tire-biter? No, Marko, she’s … something else. We met a while ago and it’s been kinda gradual. Kinda snuck up on me.” He made the face of a guilty schoolboy. “But I think I maybe got a shot. After all these years, she might be the one.” He squirmed.

  “I gotta, I gotta meet this chick. Chick that nails Jerry Kelly’s feet to the floor, well, she must be a classic. A rare one.”

  Jerry Kelly made the sheepish look vanish and replaced it with mild sternness. “You know, Marko, I never understood that. Why can’t old Jerry have a shot? Why can’t old Jerry fall in … Well, maybe like someone. I dunno. My fault, I guess. When people started saying bad things about me I just let it go. Then other things got said, and I let them go, too. Finally it takes on a life of its own. Old Jerry is some monster, wreaks six kinds of havoc every day. But, Marko? It isn’t true. Maybe once upon a time, wild youthful exuberance, before life revealed its true meaning. But those were old days and people change. They got a right to change, to be allowed to change.”

  “Fuck, Jer, okay, okay? But listen, I gotta meet her. Seriously. I’ll be good. After this is done, this money thing, we’ll get together, all of us, you and your chick and me and Julia.” He put his hand above the table. “Deal?”

  Jerry Kelly took Marko’s hand. “Deal. And Marko, let’s keep it our little secret, okay? Guys start thinking Jerry’s got something of the heart going, well, there might be unrest, anarchy and I lose all the ground I’ve made.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “She’s a cool one.”

  “Will I like her? Will she like me?”

  Jerry Kelly looked at Markowitz’s eyes. “Marko, you’re gonna. I guarantee it. She’s a real keeper. Her, you? I don’t know. You have to be on your best behaviour, maybe then.”

  He saw the greying man at the rail punch into a cellphone. A minute later he got off his stool. Standing, the man looked fit and athletic. He poked at his change on the rail and headed for the door as a small slim black woman came in and down the room and darted toward his vacant stool. She moved with athletic economy and looked neither left nor right. No time for anybody, her posture said, so fuck off. She wore a short brown leather jacket, a funky looking batik skirt, leggings, and ankle boots. She had a short spiky hairdo, her legs were trim and shapely. She called something to the bartender and took a notebook from her pocket and, with her elbow on the rail and her head on her palm, went into a world of her own. She didn’t look up from her reading when the bartender put a drink on a coaster in front of her.

  Jerry Kelly gave the room another once-over, then turned back to Marko. “All right, the dough. Ready to go. Now what? What about Zo’? You forget about her, down there with the merciless beaners?”

  “Nope. I’m gonna call The Mig right now, tell him to get her ready to fly early tomorrow, assuming tomorrow’s the day. Even if it isn’t tomorrow, we’ll at least have her back and that’s one less thing we’re gonna have to do, last minute. So, I’ll tell The Mig to get her on a plane out. I’ll pick her up here and keep her on ice. If she doesn’t make it up in time and we have to stall the Presto, well, we’ll have to stall him. It’s his fucking fault anyway, setting up this blind telephone thing, where we can’t negotiate.”

  “I got questions about this, Marko. Real concerns. When you let Presto set the pace, you lose control. He can do what he wants, make us do what he wants. He could fuck us. We’re his fucking meat puppets.”

  “Jerry, Jerry. We got his kid, right? As long as we got Zoe we got his nuts. At some point we’ll have to present Zoe, sure, but he’ll have to run the money to the other side to get her. That’s the nexus; that’s where it all comes together. The Mig sends her home, we’re golden.”

  Jerry Kelly looked uneasy. “I don’t like it, Marko.” But he brightened. “Hey, worst case, we whack everybody in sight and take the money, you and me, and head to faraway points unknown. Let that fucking Colombian midget use his gardening tools on somebody else. Fucking runt.”

  “You, me, and your own true love, Jerry. You forgot about her already?”

  “Nope. She lives always in a special corner of my pumping heart.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve been driving all fucking year, it seems like, and I got another long run tonight, so I’m outta here. What else?”

  “You should use your guys for the run down from Chyna’s. Otherwise, you’re gonna have to go back up, come back down. It’ll have to be pretty soon, like really, really early tomorrow? When the Presto wants the dough boiled, it’s going to have to be closer than up there. Can you put something together, quick? Something safe?”

  Jerry Kelly mulled. “Yeah, but I can’t start on it until tomorrow. I got a couple of things to do tonight.”

  “Something to do with us?”

  “No, something separate from this. I mean, it’s important, this, but I got other businesses, other responsibilities. The world of Jerry Kelly, it’s multifaceted.”

  “Don’t wear yourself out, buddy. I mean, this is pretty important, but don’t let your health go to hell, okay? No matter how much money we got, if we don’t got our health then what do we got?”

  “True words, Marko. Wisdom. I appreciate it.” He rotated his neck, making audible clicks. “You know what? I’m still feeling pretty fresh, in spite of the drive down. I think I’ll get my night started now. Marathon man, iron man. I’ll do my thing tonight, this other thing I got to do, fast, and then I’ll take a crew up there early tomorrow, bring the stuff down. I’ll be just a fucking wet barking dog by tomorrow, but once it’s done, it’s done. You got a stash house you like? Somewhere cool?”

  Marko nodded. “I was thinking about that. I’m thinking Gherzanian’s new place, a warehouse out by the airport. He hasn’t started filling it up, so we can probably use it, pay him a short-term rental.”

  “Gherzanian.” Jerry Kelly made a snorting noise. “Fucking rug-rider. You ever been in one of his places? Stacked to the ceiling with all kinds of shit. Tires. Batteries. Hazardous shit eating its way through steel drums. Insulation. Where’s he get that stuff?”

  “He gets it from everybody. Refineries, gas stations, aluminum processors, metal shops, building contractors. Anyone wants to dodge the hazardous waste fees, the licences. Gherz’s got a good scam. He tells them he can dispose of haz waste for about half what the legit companies charge, cash only, no paper, no questions asked. He’s Mr. Fucking Shazaam! Put it on the doorstep tonight, it’s gone tomorrow. He rents a warehouse and fills it full to the fucking roof. Then he just walks away, counting his dough, leaving the place glowing behind him.”

  “But this place, the new place, is clean? It isn’t foggy with poison shit? I mean, I like a nice pair of tits, Marko, but not growing out of my forehead.”

  “I’ll give him a call, make sure the place is clean. If there’s a problem, I’ll give you a call on the road, around, what, early aft? That give you enough time to get up and back down? If we have to, we’ll arrange something else. Otherwise, you head to Gherz’s early as you can. I’ll head over there, meet you, and we can wait for the
next instructions together.”

  “You should make sure The Mig gets Zoe out, like quick, Marko. I’d hate to see the whole thing go into the shitter because there’s a problem with flight schedules.”

  “Check. Good thinking, Jer’. Pay this out while I call The Mig and activate his brown ass. I’ll meet you at the rail.” Marko stood up, easing himself painfully off the banquette, pulling his huge white shirt away from where it was stuck to his lacerations, but still looking pleased at finessing the drinks.

  Jerry Kelly picked up the tab and smiled and nodded. “Say hi to The Mig for me.” He waved Santo off and put the check into his pocket and bounced a couple of coins onto the tabletop. He watched Marko ease through the bar crowd, heading for the telephone.

  At the rail Jerry Kelly made a show of ordering two balloons of cognac. When Marko came to the bar, puzzled, he raised his eyebrows. “What, Marko?”

  “Fuck. The Mig isn’t answering. Nobody’s picking up. He grabbed her up okay, right?”

  “Presto talked to her when I was taking him up for a country ride. The Mig phoned and put her on the line so Presto could talk to her, ease his worried mind.” He pondered. “So, he’s got her down there, no question. Maybe they all went out for dinner, worm juice, some inchie ladas.”

  “We can’t do this deal without her, Jerry. The Presto won’t put the dough over unless he at least sees her.”

  Jerry Kelly stared at him. “Sure he will, Marko. That’s why the Chinese invented hatchets.”

  “Fuck it. I’ll try again later. Let’s get another round, then I’m going to get something off the rail, see if anybody wants to fuck a tent.”

  They stood as though settling in. When the fresh balloons arrived, Jerry Kelly suddenly spun and whipped away toward the door.

  “Go, Jerry,” Markowitz laughed. “You go, man.”