EQMM, August 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Marty backed up.

  "Now the money. Throw it."

  "No,” I said.

  "What?"

  I wanted to have some fun. “Cut Andy loose first,” I said, “I want him behind me. When Andy is behind me, then I'll throw you your money."

  Marty shook his head, “Uh-uh. No friggin’ way."

  "Would it help if I said please?"

  "Just throw the money over here, jackass."

  I inched forward and Marty bared his teeth.

  "Don't! Don't come any closer, man. Just don't. I swear to God I'll drop you where you stand."

  More lame TV talk. I wrinkled my forehead. “Drop me? Did you really just say drop me? What is this? Bonanza? I don't think so."

  "Give me the money already."

  "Again, only if you lower your weapon and only if Andy is behind me."

  Marty released Andy's collar and, with some awkwardness, chambered a round.

  Wow—I'm telling you, the drama. I kicked myself for not dropping Marty and all his weary b.s. myself when I first came into the suite, and for the first time wondered if the Glock was really loaded at all and if Marty actually had the safety off. I couldn't see from where I was standing, so I remained still as a shred of doubt flickered in my chest. Great, I thought. Maybe all of Marty's stress sweat was because he forgot to unload the gun. I tried a softer tack.

  "Okay,” I said in my best soothing tone. I held up both my arms so my jacket hung open and spun in a slow circle. I then lifted the cuffs of my jeans. “See? Unarmed. Just lower your weapon. I'll give you the money and we can all go our separate ways."

  Marty snatched Andy's collar again and backed further into the suite. Waving the gun, he gestured for me to follow.

  I was fairly certain that once I called their bluff, I was going to beat Marty unconscious for pointing a potentially live gun at me, so I indulged his direction. This flash of arrogance on my part was, of course, my big mistake.

  At the blind corner just off the hallway came the blur of a baseball bat. The side of my skull detonated with scorching stars and the suite tilted. My vision spun like I was on the teacup ride at Wonderland and my legs wobbled out from under me. Suddenly I was grateful that Mr. Trump knew his carpeting too.

  Plush.

  The suite drained black.

  * * * *

  Voices arguing.

  I came to, but lay motionless, eyes closed, jaw set. Playing it cold as possible as I listened hard and cursed myself for being so utterly stupid. Through a pumping headache I counted their fierce whispers. Three in all. One more than I expected, but all of them whiny, all of them educated, and all of them totally pissed off.

  Not half as pissed off as I was, though.

  I blinked at a trickle of blood creeping past my eye and Marty saw me. He lifted a sneaker to stomp on my ribcage and as his foot came down I instinctively clasped his shin above the ankle and wrenched hard. His knee popped like a muffled champagne cork and a ridiculously high-pitched scream shrieked out of his throat. Marty then toppled into a coffee table, shattering the glass top and scattering empty Heineken bottles in a dozen different directions. I lunged to my feet. My head swam with thick waves of pulsing pain but I managed to get my balance. I seized Marty by the back of his track suit and yanked his ass back onto the jagged shards of glass.

  Now it was my turn to stomp. I mashed a boot heel on Marty's crotch. As he folded upright I quickly jabbed four tightly grouped fingers into his exposed windpipe. Marty's eyes mushroomed as he thrashed violently back and forth for air.

  I wheeled around to confront whoever'd suckered me with the bat and was shocked to find it was a girl. Blond and leggy in a black turtleneck dress, party heels, and some patterned stockings from Victoria's Secret's thrill-your-boy-breathless collection. Drastic hairstyle, razor bangs. It was a total surprise when she growled and actually sprang at me, her bat held high, and then bobbed left at the last second. As she made her move, I reached down and stripped Marty's gun from the ruins of the coffee table and swung it up, aiming it at her pert little breasts.

  The blonde braked. Smiled.

  "It's not loaded, tough guy."

  I cocked my head slightly to the right. “I know,” I said.

  Her face short-circuited. “Huh? You know? How do you know?"

  "Feels light,” I answered.

  "Really?"

  "Really."

  Then I whipped the gun at her head and the barrel shattered her nose.

  Blood shot out of the blonde's split face and she screamed. She crumpled to the carpet and dropped the bat. I retrieved the bat and went all Jimmy Rollins on her with a low tapping bunt to one of her biscuit-sized knees.

  More screaming. Now I was looking down at the blonde.

  "Five seconds, bat girl."

  The blonde's breathing heaved. She squinted up at me from the floor, one hand spidered across her bleeding face, the other grasping her swelling knee. She bawled.

  "EWBWOKEMYUKINKOSE!"

  "Four..."

  Tears of rage and choking, wet sounds.

  "Three..."

  The blonde suddenly realized it could get a whole lot worse and took the cue. She crabbed her way past me and hobbled out of the suite.

  When the door shut, I picked up the Glock again, checked the chamber, and ejected the magazine just to make sure it was empty. It was. I stuffed the magazine back into the gun and dropped the gun into my jacket pocket.

  Across the room, through the french doors, a red-faced Andy Grossman was now unbound and pointing at a bunch of loose bills scattered on the king-sized bed.

  "What the hell is this? It's like, what? Five grand in change? What the hell?"

  I backhanded some blood off my cheek. “Hey, Andy. Remember me?"

  Andy glared, “Huh?"

  "Your dad sent me."

  "My dad? Yeah, like duh. No kidding. Where's the rest of my money?"

  I walked around Marty. He was still looking for wind in the broken glass so I planted a boot in his ribs to keep him down. A grunt and he went fetal. I entered the bedroom.

  "Where do you get the sack to pull a stunt like this, Andy?"

  Andy Grossman smacked a lamp shade.

  "You said there was going to be fifty grand here!"

  Christ. I couldn't believe it. Where was the gratitude, huh? Save somebody from a watery grave and you'd think there'd be a little more respect, a little more love. But no. And there I was saving his life all over again and all I got was clobbered with a baseball bat, smart-mouth lip, and a hostile idiotic stare over money he thought he was owed for his feeble little con. Well, I thought, time to set the karma straight. In a purging frenzy I marched over and slapped Andy until he cringed beside the bed.

  "Oww! Hey! Stop! Stop it! Cut it out! Stop!"

  I ground the bat into his chest with both hands. “You ungrateful little priss."

  "Ow! Wait—I—"

  I stopped grinding. “Did you think of taking down your pathetic MySpace page, brainiac?"

  "Huh? What?"

  "Did you? I mean, really. The Ivy League piece of ass that just ran out of here? And Sopranos wannabe over there? I saw the three of you trust-puppies on your MySpace page two days ago after talking with your parents. Woo-hoo. Let me tell you, spring break in St. Lucia must've been awesome."

  "Aw, man—"

  "Christ, Andy, if you're going to such lengths to set up a scene, you might want to consider the details. Not to mention the fact that your little play here is pretty insulting. Hell, I'm offended and I'm not even Italian."

  "I'm sorry."

  I stood straight. I touched the huge welt and split skin above my right eye and it killed. My fingertips were crimson.

  "I see that girlfriend of yours again I'm going to smack her stupid. She could've killed me."

  "I said I'm sorry!"

  "Too late,” I said. I yanked a folded white envelope from inside my jacket and threw it on the bed. “Those are legal documents dissolving your fo
rthcoming trust and a notification that your parents have changed their wills. My advice is they keep them changed, but what can I say? They're giving you five grand wiggle cash so I guess they're softies. This is your reality check, genius. Quit gambling or say goodbye to the family green. Like, permanently."

  I turned and walked into the bathroom as Andy picked up the envelope with panicked hands. My veins buzzed with gritty adrenaline as I ran the faucet, selected a crisp hand towel, and swabbed the blood off the side of my cheek. I dabbed the ugly gashed egg above my eye and my marred Frankenstein reflection flinched back at me in the mirror. Thank God the blond girl hesitated and pulled her swing at the last second or it could have been a lot worse. Nothing felt broken, but so much for discreet surveillance gigs for a while. All in all, a stupid play. I should have just handed over the documents and the cash at the door and been done with it.

  I returned to the bedroom and then to the suite's sitting area. Sitting up now, Marty squirmed as I approached, his face pinching with discomfort like a fat, wet bug just shimmied up the crack of his butt. I pointed the baseball bat at the top of his skull.

  "You too, Robert De Niro. Leave. Playtime is over."

  He glanced at Andy.

  "Andy?"

  Andy scratched his head absently and stared at the documents deep-sixing his future financial safety nets. “Do what he says, Marty. Go find Emily before she calls the police or does something stupid. I'll call you later."

  Marty groaned and limped his way out of the suite.

  I turned back to Andy, who started scooping the five grand back into the duffel.

  "Hey, did you know your folks have been sending me Christmas cards every year since I saved you from that rip?"

  Andy stopped.

  "Rip? What rip?"

  "You don't remember nearly drowning when you were six?"

  It finally dawned on him who I was and where he recognized me from. “No way. That was you? I knew you looked familiar, but—no way. You?"

  "Yeah, me. Charlie Byrne, in the flesh."

  "And now ... you're what? A cop or something? Or do you just like going around busting heads and delivering bad news?"

  I stepped closer. “Never been a cop,” I said. “I'm kind of a private. I like to think of myself as a research facilitator. Your father's law firm is a client."

  Andy must have felt a bit braver with the reminder that his father had hired me, because the snotty, rich-kid surliness was back. “Gee, did my dad also pay you to tune up me and my friends?"

  I shrugged and flexed the bat up and down, “You kids wanted to play rough. Normally I go to great lengths to avoid it, but I can play rough."

  He frowned. “Nice attitude. Look, just leave, okay? You've done what you came to do. Just leave me alone already."

  I swung the bat and it made a big, hollow whooving sound as it sailed through the air. Andy drew back.

  "You took a big risk doing this, Andy,” I said gesturing around the room. “If your father'd been dumb enough to actually believe your threat and had gone to the police, the felony counts alone would've been federal. False imprisonment, menacing with a deadly weapon—I'm curious. Just how bad are you in the hole?"

  "I'll figure something out."

  "Come on. Quit dicking around. How bad?"

  Andy shook his head and scoffed at the money with contempt. “More than five measly grand, I can tell you that much."

  I stalked quickly across the room.

  "Hey, wait! Wait!"

  I braced the bat up under Andy's jaw line and slammed him against the wall. The back of his head bounced and he tried to squint away the sting.

  "God, you are such a pain in the ass, you know that, Andy?"

  "Please ... I can't ... breathe..."

  "As far as official business is concerned, yeah, maybe you're right. My job here was done when I served you those documents. But you know what I think? I think your parents deserve more of an explanation. Hell, I think I'm owed an explanation myself seeing that I saved your miserable life once."

  Andy struggled against the bat, “What do ... ulgk ... you want me ... to say?"

  "Hmm. Well, let's start with something simple like who. Who do you owe, huh? Tell me, please, for the love of God, tell me this is some low-level street shy."

  "S'nobody...."

  "Nobody? That's why your daddy called me up to babysit your staged kidnapping? Uh-uh. Look at me. As far as I can tell, you've been messing with some dangerous people lately. While I could care less if you're a colossal disappointment to your parents, I kind of care about keeping the work flow from your old man's law firm steady."

  "So ... emph ... what?"

  "So look. I know a few shy operators in this part of the state so maybe I can help you out of whatever jam you're in. But you need to be straight with me, okay? If you keep jerking me around, I'm collecting the fee and writing you off for good, as are your parents. Look at it this way: This here is a sink-or-swim moment for you, only this time it's your choice. You want to try it on your own with the five grand? Fine, be my guest. Or you can play it smart, clean up your act, and apologize to your folks. Make no mistake, those documents they drew up are real."

  Andy's face grew dark with constricting blood as I pressed the bat closer. His eyes cut around the suite. The money on the bed, the legal documents, the broken coffee table, and scattered Heineken bottles. Finally his eyes landed on mine. He nodded and I let him go.

  Andy bent over, coughed, and massaged his throat.

  "That hurt."

  "Supposed to. Now who is it?"

  He shot me a look as he leaned back against the wall. Then his shoulders sagged. His voice was suddenly weary and scared.

  "Okay. The guy ... it's..."

  "Yeah?"

  "His name is Donofrio, okay?"

  I stepped back and nearly tripped. A cold, trapped feeling washed up from my knees and I suppressed an intense urge to vomit.

  "Anthony or Dante?” I asked.

  Andy's eyes watered. “Dante."

  I dropped the bat on the bed and pulled out the Glock. I ejected the magazine.

  "Tell me you have ammunition for this,” I said.

  Our elevator, tinkling with a Bach piano concerto, plunged toward the lobby. On ten we were joined by Old Man Time wheeling a white oxygen tank, making his way down to the slots. My mind spun with possible options, all of which pretty much sucked.

  "Since when do University of Pennsylvania college pukes go to the street for shy money, Andy? I mean, Dante Donofrio? Are you out of your freaking mind?"

  "I know ... I'm sorry. I thought ... well ... it doesn't matter what I thought."

  "What happened?"

  Andy leaned in a corner. “It started with a private game with a bunch of finance hotshots out of New York. A friend of a friend of Marty's knew about it. Back of a strip club. Anyway, I got careless and cratered. Poof."

  "Poof?"

  "I'm like ace, king, and this geek with his suspenders and cufflinks was like queen, seven. The flop rainbowed Broadway ... ten, jack, queen, and I'm—like—sick, go for it. Guy pulls queens up with a seven on the turn and a full boat on the river. Someone at the club said they knew a guy who could back me, so I took the money and kept losing. Big time."

  "How much all in all? It isn't the whole fifty large you asked for, is it? Tell me you padded the ransom."

  Old Man Time eyeballed us. I grinned crazily back at him until he looked uncomfortably away. I suddenly realized I still had the baseball bat.

  "No. I padded it. Twenty-five."

  "With the vig?"

  "Yeah. With the vig."

  "And how far are you behind with Dante?"

  Andy pressed his fingertips into his eyelids and rubbed. “I missed the third payment last Tuesday."

  Damn it. Well that was that then. Civilities had all but dried up with Dante Donofrio. Me, I'd never seen the guy but the stink was Dante was one of those U.S. prime badasses who relished enforcing his books cr
eatively. Loansharking, extortion, bookmaking, a little prostitution, the odd drag-down scheme to do in the assorted lost and greedy. Occasionally there were rumors of a muscled boost. A smart operator. Never backed into a corner and never tapped what was forbidden, Donofrio kicked to the right people and stepped up to do what was necessary when asked—be it wet work from Philly or making inroads with the metastasizing Latino gangs. His brother Anthony merely dabbled in bribing politicos to secure paving contracts. Both Donofrios were what newspaper columnists around Jersey tactfully called “unsavory.” Lucky me.

  There could've been Donofrio crew peppered all over the Taj casino, right in the lobby in fact. The elevator eased to a halt and opened.

  "I need to check out,” Andy said as we stepped into the lobby.

  I looked left and right over the sea of faces and quickly shoved Andy towards the exit I thought was closest to my car.

  "Trust me,” I muttered, “you don't."

  Ten minutes later we were in my sand-colored Toyota Camry fleeing southwest out of A.C. at a good clip. I was pretty sure I had a concussion as my stomach continued to feel queasy and my head throbbed.

  "You got Donofrio's number on you?"

  "Yeah. Here. It's on my cell—” Andy scrolled through his glowing blue cell-phone queue and handed it to me. “But it's not Donofrio. It's his guy—Billy. Dante doesn't take calls. I talk to Billy."

  I scribbled down Billy's number on the pad mounted to my dashboard and tore off the paper. I tossed him back his cell phone and pulled into a convenience store.

  "We're stopping? Shouldn't we be, like, heading back to Philadelphia? My parents'? Someplace safe?"

  I opened my wallet and showed him a pre-paid plastic telephone card. I definitely didn't want a couple of the calls I was about to make traceable to me.

  "You want anything from inside?” I asked. “Bottle of water or something?"

  "No. I'm fine. Wait. Can you snag me a pack of smokes?"

  I shot him a look. “Not in my car you're not."