“Well?” Russ slid the fedora back on his head and leaned a forearm on the door frame. “Who are you?”
Omer shook his head with concern, his brittle blue eyes inspecting Russ. He sighed.
“You know, Mr. Smonig, you’re in a terrible mess, and I think you need all the help you can get! Now come along….”
Omer pushed past Russ and grabbed him by the hand.
“Hey, hey…” Russ protested.
Omer spun Russ into a chair at the kitchen table, grabbed his face in two delicate brown hands, and turned it to the light for inspection. The fedora was dispatched and Omer ran his fingers through Russ’s hair.
“What you need is not beer, but tea.”
In a flash, Omer had doffed his crusher and rolled up his sleeves.
Like an alligator whose tummy had been stroked, Russ snapped from his momentary trance.
“Who are you? What makes you think you can help me? Who told you I’m in trouble? Was it Jenny? Goddammit…”
Omer turned a pair of disapproving brown irises on Russ.
“We’ll have no foul expletives, if you please, Mr. Smonig.” Omer found a clean coffee cup in the cupboard, filled it with water, and produced an envelope of tea from his pocket. “Not only is it unbecoming, but distracting and full of negative energies. We must work toward a positive solution!”
“O.K., who the hell are you and what makes you think you can help me?”
Omer put the cup in the microwave and pressed a button. The oven hummed.
“The name is Phillips, and let’s just say I overheard your exchange with Mr. Bifulco about the steering box. Good Lord, man—don’t you think I know what you’re up to?” Omer gave Russ a disappointed, fatherly wag of his head. “And for a man who has seen as much adversity and hardship as Russell Smonig, this predicament is what I unwaveringly refer to as trouble!”
“I want half the reward,” Price blurted.
“What?”
“That’s right, half.” Price gave Sid a steely eye.
“The reward is how much?”
“Ten thousand smackers.”
“Shit, you want five thousand to stuff that fish? What’re you, outta your friggin’ mind?”
Price assumed “stuff” was mob verbiage for “turn a blind eye” or “make go away.”
“That’s right. I don’t see as how you have any choice.”
“Why not?”
“Otherwise parties’ll find out about you and the fish. People around here don’t take kindly to that kind of thing, friend. Know what I mean?” Price snarled.
Sid squinted, patting the air with his hands, sure he was misunderstanding somehow. “What is this?”
“You think you can just walk in here and kill a fish? It doesn’t work like that.”
Sudden realization betrayed itself on Sid’s face. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? That’s why Russ was acting so funny about the carp in the boat. Sure, Sid had heard about bass tournaments, what with their $100,000 prizes. He’d also heard about the competitiveness, the cheating, and how some guy who ratted about some bass-planting actually had his head vaporized by a shotgun blast. Had Sid Bifulco, career hoodlum, been so naive as to think that things in the country would be different from Newark? Had he been so naive as to think that every corner of the planet wasn’t loaded with rackets where the locals didn’t exactly invite competition? It all made sense. That’s why Jenny was so knocked out about getting a shad spot. She was just a broad in crimson hikers looking for the inside track and tangling him further in the rackets. Sid had foolishly believed these people fished for the fun of it. But fishing too was a racket, probably dressed up like a “contest” and with “rewards” for the payoff on long odds of big fish. It was like a numbers racket. Or something like that. His mind was swamped with all the possibilities.
At that moment, Sid began to seriously consider whether red shoes had anything directly to do with his foul-ups. Were they the disease or merely a symptom?
Price finally got the reaction he was looking for. Sid’s offhand exterior began to fade.
“Hey, uh, let’s say we siddown, have a drink…” Sid tugged distantly on one ear.
Sid figured everything would have been O.K. if he hadn’t caught the big fish. And that’s why Russ wasn’t so thrilled about the big fish, because his mob captain was gonna think he tried to put the fix on the contest. He only hoped the Bobs weren’t informers, or that the crew captain wouldn’t find out Sid planned to divulge all the inside fishing dope to Jenny.
Pouring two tumblers of Canadian, Sid handed one to Price and sat on the edge of the sofa.
“I see you’re beginning to get the picture now, aren’t you?” Price’s chest inflated.
Sid stared at the floor, mind consumed with potential organized crime constructs.
“O.K.” Sid paused, setting his jaw. “So how do we go about the reward thing?”
“Don’t go through with it. Let it go, Russell. There’s no sense in it, believe me. I know.” Omer sat on a kitchen chair with good posture, hands laced over one knee. Russ lay on the couch, hands folded on his chest like a good patient.
They spoke in round terms, which, of course, were apt to leave out all the hard edges, many of which were crucial to the specific matter at hand. Omer and the folks of Hellbender Eddy seemed to have developed a habit of miscommunication. He was fixed on Russ’s wife’s steering box, while his patient was focused on the International’s steering box.
“How can I? I can’t stop thinking about that tape!” Russ sighed, gulping some tea. He didn’t like tea, but this stuff was somehow different.
“Tape?”
“Yes, yes. It’s all on tape, and it’s lost!” Russ draped a forearm over his eyes. When he closed his eyes, he saw interesting colors. Damn good tea.
“What?”
“The thing with the car, the accident, the murder—it’s all on tape, it went to the video store, someone took it out, I don’t know where it is now….”
Omer leaned forward. Could a tape of the incident really be floating around after ten years? Could the tape have enough detail to recognize Sid by the light of the fiery wreck?
“This tape. Is Mr. Bifulco in it?”
“Yes, yes…”
“At the scene, where the murder of your…?”
“In the headlights. I can see it all. Can you imagine how this makes me feel, the thought of it on tape? Is there any more tea?”
“Where was the camera?”
“It was on the car seat, then on the ground.” Russ waved one hand at the ceiling in a hopeless gesture. “It was on by accident—found it later—nobody knew. Can you buy this tea anywhere around here?”
“Not even the police?”
Russ yanked his arm from his eyes.
“Do you think I’d be here now if the police had the tape? I should have gone to the law in the first place. But I…hell, I was scared, I was…”
“Where is the tape now?” Omer was standing, finger raised thoughtfully to his lip. So Russ had evidence of his wife’s murder all the while, but he was frightened for his own life should he go to the police.
“It was at the Show Time Videomat, Frustrumburg Shopping Center. In a box for The Elvis Conspiracy.”
Omer was momentarily transported back to Memphis, 1977, a late-night go-go bar, and a transaction with Presley’s pharmacist.
“But somebody else took it out—somebody named Price.” Russ sat up in agitation. “I’ll heat some more water.”
“What?” Omer spun around. The name on the bowling shirt, the cop at Chik’s.
“Price,” Russ repeated. “You want a cup?”
“Go ahead, take the thing.”
“Me? That?” Price jumped to his feet.
“Well, you don’t expect me to take it in for the reward? I’m on parole. I can’t be hitched up to no rackets. Besides, you gotta earn your part of that reward, pal. Stuffing the fish is small beans. I’m the one that bagged it, after all
!” Sid may have been in a tight spot, but he’d be damned if it kept him from driving a hard bargain.
Price wiped his hands nervously on his windbreaker and eyed the giant, white, tape-bound cooler.
“I dunno. What’ll I say? I mean…”
“Tell ’em anything you want, pal. Tell ’em you found it in the trunk of your granny’s Edsel. But if you want the five grand, you gotta earn it.” Sid stood, grabbed Price by the sleeve, and led him to the cooler. Groaning, he hefted it into Price’s arms. A grimace rippled over Price’s face as the cooler pressed against the wound on his chest.
“There you go.” Sid opened the door and began guiding Price outside. “But remember: it better be a good stuffing, and I want my five grand. Sure, I’m outta the rackets, and some guys might say I ain’t got no teeth. But I got teeth. And I still bite, know what I mean? Be a good boy, now. Don’t double-cross Bifulco.” The guest was ushered reluctantly onto the porch.
“But what about the evidence? I’ve got…”
“Yeah? Certain parties find out about this deal an’ I’ll tell ’em how this was all your scam. You’re the one wanted to play ball here, pal. So play. Beat it.” Sid slammed the door and killed the porch light to drive his point home.
Price staggered into the dark driveway clutching the enormously heavy, creaky cooler. Aside from the throbbing pain of the bullet wound on his chest, all he could think about was the numbered pieces inside. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind.
He supposed he could say he’d found it, but the Edsel bit was out.
Debbie got home and found her convalescent husband AWOL. It didn’t surprise her. Price just better not be with that woman with the big tits. That bullet wound might reopen from those bazooms pounding against his chest.
Sure, Debbie knew, and it wasn’t from any bras lying around the car. The bowling alley was a tempest of gossip. That’s why she made her rendezvous with Chik in private. O.K., so she was pregnant. Should that stop her from doin’ the dirty? Besides, Chik said it was kinky, and it did look hot on tape. All that red hair, her freckled belly like a honeydew melon, and on all fours barking like a dog.
Price would never go for doing videos, Debbie’s secret habit from before marriage.
Why had she married Price? Hey, she wanted kids, she didn’t want to work, he had a good job and was well hung. He worked a number of nights, which allowed her to pursue her hobby. What more could a wife ask for?
So when she got home and Price wasn’t there, Debbie wasted no time in giving in to her naughty tingling sensation.
At the VCR, she grabbed the rented French movie and found the empty Elvis Conspiracy box atop the VCR. Debbie noticed the VCR was still on and figured that Price had watched The Elvis Conspiracy. Popping the cassette from the VCR, she put it back in the Elvis box without registering its blank SUPER*PROCAM label. Tossing a third, blank TDK tape into her bag, she made for the car. Her plan was to run over to the Five Star and copy her latest “Chik Flick” onto the blank TDK tape. Her excuse for going back out if she should happen to run into Price?
To drop the rented tapes back at the Videomat.
It was the second time that evening that Bill the security guard found himself at the back door of the Show Time Videomat, only on this occasion he’d gotten called outta the can to respond. Bill was not happy about that. Neither were his bowels.
“Cockroaches! Cockroaches is what it is,” Bill spat, sweat beading on the neck flesh rolled over his collar. He shone his light on the doorknob and along the jamb. No crowbar divots, no hammer marks.
Omer decided to forego stealth for expediency. He jabbed his umbrella into Bill’s bacon. Mr. Phillips summoned a venomous tenor.
“Freeze! Don’t move! I don’t want to kill you, but I will if you turn around. Here. Cover your mouth with this. Hold it there and breathe deeply. Do it or I’ll blow you to little bits!” And as Bill stood there with what he supposed was a gun in his love handle, drawing ether into his lungs from a hanky, he suddenly realized he was scared shitless. Literally.
He rolled onto the ground.
Some minutes later, as Omer scrolled down the computer screen, headlights splashed the front of the store. Motoring up to the facade of the Videomat, a car came to a sudden halt.
Omer’s eyes narrowed, his jaw set, and his ears got pointier. Police? How? Why?
A silhouette cut through the headlights and stepped up to the glass door. Omer backed toward the rear exit. The front grates were still down and locked, so he’d have a few moments to slip away.
Bending over and turning sideways, the silhouette betrayed long hair and the ungainly crouching profile of a woman with a belly. There was a loud clatter.
“Shit!” the woman shouted. Omer could see her hurriedly picking tapes and tape boxes off the sidewalk, and then saw the return slot in the door flash.
A clatter of plastic sounded as two tapes entered the return bin and the pregnant silhouette headed back for the car.
Omer sighed. Of course. Only someone returning a tape into the after-hours slot. But the fleeting urgency put added flame under Omer’s kettle. He set upon the computer screen again, whispering:
“Price, Price, Price…”
Not finding the tape marked as returned on the computer, he wondered if it had been dropped off after hours in the return bin. Lo and behold! Right on top of a bunch of DVD boxes was the shape of two VHS boxes. One was some French romance, the other The Elvis Conspiracy.
Smiling at his own cleverness, he popped open the case for The Elvis Conspiracy and fed the tape into a video player behind the counter.
Video snow.
Fast forward.
More snow.
He went all the way to the end of the tape.
Snow.
Omer frowned. The tape was blank, and so was the TDK label. He remembered the woman in silhouette who dropped her tapes and cursed, the sound of her putting the tapes back in the boxes. Was it possible that in the dark she put the blank tape in The Elvis Conspiracy box by accident?
Hope against hope, he opened the other VHS box; it contained the French romance tape. No luck.
That would mean Price—or his wife—still had the tape of Fest’s killing.
The last thing Russ remembered was lying on the couch, talking to Phillips when…
Russ couldn’t remember. He didn’t remember Phillips leaving. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.
Staggering into the bathroom, Russ splashed some rusty water on his face and looked in the mirror. It suddenly hit him. Russ had made a second cup of tea, sat back down, and Phillips pulled a penknife from his vest. He asked Russ whether he’d ever seen one like it.
Russ stared at the water dripping off his face and could hear Phillips saying: “You see, it’s a very silver penknife, and it shines in the light, doesn’t it, Russell? It sparkles, and isn’t it soothing…”
“Damn! Hypnotized…” Russ said into the mirror, then drifted off to the living room where a quick accounting of his meager belongings revealed that nothing was taken, nothing was rifled. He found his teacup washed and in the drain board. Had he been drugged too?
Russ gripped his temples and stood in the center of his small musty living room, blood rushing through his brain, eyes tweaked tight. His mind was utterly aswirl with emotional clutter. Murder, videotapes, Sid, and a strange hypnotist.
Who were these people? How had this happened? Was it really happening? What was really happening?
Russ tried to picture his life only days before, when his biggest worry had been where the next sport was coming from or whether his truck would start or what magazine would dump the next rejection letter on him. Trivial stuff. If only he could trade today’s devastated crop of problems for yesterday’s spotty harvest of good news.
Something had to be done. Russ was a sitting duck for more evil twists of fate. If he sat at home, more doom would come knocking. He had to head it off. The fiasco must end.
Advice, he needed sage
advice from someone outside the vexing circumstances. Someone to stick a pin in his bed, put his feet on the floor of reason, feed him the coffee of good sense, and get him awake, out of the nightmare. Phennel Rowe? No—she’d just talk about embracing the Lord or something. She was a good listener, but Russ needed someone with his or her own feet on solid ground. O.K.—so he’d get in his truck—damn, in the shop. Wait, there was the Dodge. Hell, it hadn’t been started in months. But Lloyd said…of course! Lloyd! A fellow motor-head—a man of reason. He’d probably be down at The Pond trying to talk someone into having their eyebrows done!
Racing about the room, he finally found the keys to the Dodge at the bottom of a mason jar full of rubber leeches.
Sure, the sign on the Five Star door said “CLOSED,” but Chik’s Camaro and a Jeep Cherokee said differently. Penelope was wise to Chik’s ways. The dude was in there with another lady, “doin’ tape.” Many were the times that Penelope had been down in the “playroom” when a knock at the front door was ignored. Touché. She ran a hand over the doorsill and came up with the key. Holding it aimed at the lock, she paused and said, “Shit.” What good would it do to barge in on their thing? She tucked the key back over the door.
She snapped a resentful bubble, folded her arms, and turned from the diner. Hey, she and Chik weren’t exactly boyfriend and girlfriend, after all. She knew he did the dirty with other legs. Penelope did other guys, sometimes, when she could find one who wasn’t freaked by the blinking red light of her camcorder. Unfortunately she didn’t have one of those two-way mirrors like Chik had in the playroom.
Hopping her butt up onto the Camaro’s hood, Penelope sighed and looked both ways on 241. Empty, and she had hitched to the Five Star. A single flood lamp high on a telephone pole pooled light in the dirt lot. She snapped a defiant bubble, bursting fog into the spring chill. The dark silhouette of Little Hound Mountain loomed in the darkness behind her and the diner. Moon was peeking over the trees to the east.
Sleep with the Fishes Page 11
