Tanzi's Ice

by C I Dennis

  “Did you leave your computer there, sir?” I heard myself calling him sir, and realized that the dynamic between us had changed.

  “I meant to leave it,” he said. He appeared to be calming down, and was getting his breath back. “That didn’t go so well,” he said, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “He’ll come around,” he said. “They always do.”

  “He just needs to find a way to save face,” I agreed.

  Brooks looked at my eyes in the mirror. “Exactly,” he said. “You know something about negotiating.”

  “I was a cop. We negotiated with people who had guns.”

  “I want you to start carrying your gun, Vince. Things have been a little out of control lately.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Not specifically,” he said, and he took out his phone to signal that our conversation was done. “Back to the hotel,” he said, before dialing.

  *

  We got back to D.C. at noon. Brooks told me we had some downtime, that the plane wouldn’t leave until four. I thought about Yuliana’s directive to come straight to her room, but I decided I needed a little downtime to myself. I took off the suit and my now three-day-old shirt and lay on the bed in my undershorts. It was time to change not only my outfit but also my persona, from newly-hired lackey back to Vince Tanzi, Private Eye. The combination of my new job and my philandering (and the ensuing guilt-fest) had left me little time to concentrate on the reason that I had gone to Vermont in the first place—my father was dead, and my siblings were somehow involved in whatever enterprise had been responsible for his death. I had tried to reach both Junie and Carla numerous times by cell and text, without success. That was beginning to worry me. The first thing I would do when we touched back down in Vermont would be to go find them.

  It was also time to connect with Barbara. Her words had been as clear as if they’d been tattooed on my chest. If you want to fuck her, go ahead, just don’t lie about it. I had, against my better judgment, fucked Yuliana. That certainly wasn’t the nicest way to put it, but it had happened, and it had happened the second time with the full knowledge that Barbara was pregnant. I could just see the therapist saying “And how does that make you feel?” And I’d say it makes me feel like a worthless scumbag, and I deserve to be eating out of dumpsters, not spearing Wellfleet oysters and sipping chardonnay with Ms. James Bond.

  I was about to make it even worse. I was going to lie.

  Barbara answered on the first ring. “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said back. There was a silence, and all I heard was the humming of the minibar fridge in my room.

  “Why didn’t you say you were taking a job?”

  “Most of the time I’ll be in Vero,” I said. “He’s paying me two hundred thousand a year.”

  “What? Why?”

  “He has it to spend. He said he pays people a lot to keep them from talking about his business.”

  “He must have something to hide.”

  “He does.”

  “Why are you doing this, Vince? We can live on what we have.”

  “It’s not the money,” I said. “At first I thought that if he was legit, the money might be great. Stash it away for the baby’s college fund.”

  “Oh,” she said. “That’s sweet.”

  “He’s not clean,” I said. “I saw him in action today. And I’m ninety percent sure that he or one of his friends is responsible for my dad being murdered.”

  “Oh my God,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Is your friend involved?”

  “Who?”

  “You know. The babe.”

  “Yes and no,” I said. “She wants out.”

  “And so you’re riding to the rescue.”

  “She and my father tried to get out, and that’s what got him killed.”

  “Oh God,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m jumping to conclusions that I shouldn’t. I…”

  “You what?”

  “I just…get nervous about you and her,” she said.

  “It’s under control,” I said.

  Every time you lie an angel cries, as the nuns at school used to say.

  *

  I had tried Junie and Carla several more times with no results, and I’d finally turned the phone off, as the battery was low and I’d left my charger in the plane. I had General Hospital on, which was one of the last remaining soap operas—all but a handful had folded. It made me wonder what was wrong with the world. Losing the soaps was a loss of innocence, even though their plot lines were about nothing resembling innocence. Glory used to tape All My Children, and we’d watch it at night, in bed. The characters became our friends. They had left without even saying goodbye.

  I pondered my own personal soap opera, and decided I was making too big a deal out of it. I’d fucked up before and lived. And it wasn’t as if I was trying to hurt Barbara, nor was I just looking for a friend-with-benefits in Yuliana. My feelings for her ran deeper than that, otherwise I wouldn’t be in such a predicament. But I needed to give it a rest.

  I had a Perrier open and was halfway through a tin of Pringles from the minibar. I’d worked on my knitting project for a few minutes, but my eyes had closed, and I was drifting in and out of sleep while the TV show played. It was a perfect way to spend an afternoon, and for the first time in days I was completely relaxed.

  There was a knock at my door. I got up and put a robe on. It was Yuliana.

  She entered the room and closed the door behind her. “Where have you been?”

  “Right here,” I said. “I dozed off.”

  “Your brother is in the hospital,” she said. “He’s in rough shape.”

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody beat him up,” she said. “They smashed his hands, with a hammer. Brooks told me.”

  “Oh my God,” I said. “How did Brooks find out?”

  “He didn’t say,” she said. “But he’s panicking. We couldn’t reach you.”

  “I turned the phone off.”

  “Don’t do that again,” she said, and she gave me a hard look. “I didn’t even think to try your room.”

  “Jesus Christ,” I said. I looked at my hands, and wondered what my brother was going through.

  “The plane’s ready,” she said. “Brooks wanted to get you back as soon as he could.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be ready in five and will get the car.”

  “It’s out front,” she said, and she went out the door.

  *

  Ed had already taken a cab to Ronald Reagan, and the plane was waiting for us with the engines running. I helped load the bags and was the last aboard. Yuliana took the copilot seat, and Brooks and I took the Barcaloungers in the main cabin. He hadn’t said anything on the way over except that he was horrified and would do whatever he could to help. Here he was being a super-nice guy again, as if the hard-ass extortionist from our morning sojourn was someone else. I wondered which one was the real Brooks.

  I decided, since he was being the Nice Brooks, that I would do some digging. I felt sick to my stomach about Junie, but if I was going to help my family, I needed to dig.

  “Do you have time for a question?”

  “OK,” he said. The jet was now moving, and I reckoned we’d be taking off soon.

  “The insurance policy,” I said. “Who funded it?”

  He took a while, as if he was deciding whether to answer. Like I said, smart negotiators say as little as they can get away with. “There’s a foundation,” he said. “A tax thing.”

  “The foundation paid?”

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s quite complicated.”

  “Intentionally?”

  He looked at me. “In a way,” he said. “Money is fluid, like water. It has to find a route to the sea.”

  “I doubt that the IRS would appreciate such a poetic description,” I said.

  Brooks smiled. “You’re t
oo smart to be my driver,” he said.

  “How deep into all this are you?”

  The jet’s engines began to whine as we prepared to take off. “Deep,” he said.

  “Too deep?”

  “Meaning what?” he asked.

  “You said things were a little out of control, and that I should start carrying.”

  “Just a precaution,” he said.

  “Brooks, you can fire me for asking this, but I need to know something. My brother is in the hospital. Are you connected to that?”

  “No,” he said.

  “But you know who did it.”

  “Yes,” he said. “And I will help you. Just be patient.”

  “Frankly, I’m not feeling too fucking patient right now,” I said.

  “I’m sorry, Vince,” he said. “I’ll fix it.”

  “We’ll both fix it,” I said, and I got my knitting out of my bag. I was ending the conversation this time. Two days of being somebody’s lapdog was about as long as I could stand.

  *

  Yuliana lent me her car and rode home with Brooks. It was a sleek little BMW, like Glory’s convertible, but it had a hardtop and all-wheel drive, which was fortunate as there was a thin layer of snow on the road from flurries that came and went in the dark Vermont evening. I made it to Fletcher Allen hospital in Burlington in less than an hour.

  Junie’s room was as dark as the night outside, and he was surrounded by pulsating machines that looked no less complicated than the cockpit of Brooks’ jet. I approached his bed and looked at him. He was sound asleep, with an IV in his arm that was probably loaded with pain drugs. My sad, profane, genius, addict brother had finally latched onto a free supply of his favorite junk. His hands were wrapped in surgical gauntlets that were crossed over his chest. I could only imagine the damage within.

  The nurse who had directed me to his room came in and stood by my side. She was quiet, and we watched him breathe. “I saw him at the Flynn Theatre, back in the ʼ90s,” she said. “I never knew a guitar could sound like that.”

  “Nobody did,” I said.

  “Did you talk to the doctor?” she asked.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “There are more than thirty fractures,” she said. “They operated on him all day. But they’re worried about infection, and they may have to amputate.”

  “OK,” I said. “Is he going to wake up?”

  “We have him on a heavy dose of meds,” she said. “Probably not tonight.”

  “I’m going to sleep here, if that’s all right.”

  “That chair folds out,” she said. “I’ll bring you some bedding.”

  She left, and I looked at my brother. He was snoring, like the Tanzis do. I put aside my thoughts about my fatherhood, or my infidelity, or my infatuation, or the whole soap opera. I had only one thing in mind now. I was going to find whoever did this, and he would regret being born.

  *

  I lay under a blanket on the chair-bed, listening to the gurgling of Junie’s IV and wondering if I was too stupid to be doing what I did for a living. I hadn’t even seen my father’s killers on the security tapes until my 74-year-old mother pointed them out. And I’d totally missed the connection about the phone call that Junie had received, telling him to go to the hospital, and that there would be an opportunity to steal some drugs. As soon as he’d arrived he had realized that whoever had called him was full of shit, as he’d put it.

  It was a setup, pure and simple. The person who’d called him had intended him to be seen on the security cameras. They’d lured him there, right at the same time that someone had suffocated my dad. They probably knew about Junie’s temper, and his animosity toward James Tanzi Senior. A smart person would have figured this out days ago.

  The other aspect of it was that Junie would have gone to jail, were it not for the DNA evidence, and that would have put him out of the way for years, or maybe life. I wondered if the frame job was intended to neutralize both of them at once. Junie knew things, and someone was covering their tracks. It was surprising that they hadn’t killed him, like they had my father. Maybe I’d figure that one out in a few weeks.

  I wondered what else I was missing.

  TUESDAY

  I used the hospital room bath to shave and clean up. It was a Florida-like temperature on Junie’s floor so I dressed in a fresh T-shirt from my bag. I called Pallmeister’s cell, figuring he was an early riser like most cops.

  “Is your brother OK?” he asked.

  “No,” I said. “It’s bad.”

  “Is he able to talk?”

  “He’s still asleep. They have him loaded with pain meds.”

  “Vince, I don’t know what to say.”

  “We’re going to get the motherfucker, that’s what you can say.”

  “We’re all over it. He was attacked in his apartment. Do you already know all this?”

  “None of it. I flew in last night.”

  “We think it happened late Saturday night. He was in there for a long time before he was found. Someone heard him screaming on Sunday, around noon. He couldn’t pick up the phone, or open the door.”

  I shuddered, thinking about it. “Any evidence? Leads?”

  “Not much. A bloody hammer, but no prints. No forced entry. He might have known whoever did it.”

  “I’ll be talking to him as soon as he wakes up.”

  “Call me if you find out, and we’ll collar the guy.”

  “I’m not going to give you the chance,” I said.

  “Don’t do that, Vince. We’ll put him away, don’t worry.”

  “Right,” I said. “And whoever did it will be out in three months for good behavior.”

  “Please, Vince.”

  “You won’t even know about it, John,” I said. “I’ll clean up my mess when I’m done.”

  I hung up, just as Junie’s eyelids opened.

  *

  “Melissa?”

  “No. It’s Vince,” I said. Melissa was the name that Robert Patton had mentioned. Junie’s ex-girlfriend.

  “Vince,” he said. “I’m fucked.”

  “You’re going to be OK,” I said.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Do you want me to find Melissa?”

  His eyes were just slits, but they suddenly opened. “You know Melissa?”

  “You just thought I was her. Your ex.”

  “Oh fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  “Who did this to you?”

  “Did what?” he was slurring his words and spoke in a near-whisper. I guessed he’d be back asleep in a short time.

  “Beat you up.”

  “Fucking guy,” he said.

  “What guy?”

  “Can’t tell you,” he said. “He said he’d break my hands.”

  I realized he was totally delirious. I tried another way in.

  “Is Melissa in danger?”

  “Uhhhh,” he said.

  “What?”

  “They won’t kill her.”

  “Junie—”

  “Bro,” he said, “Can’t talk. She got them to let me—Melissa.”

  “Say that again?”

  “Drink of water,” he said.

  “Sorry,” I said. I held a cup with a straw to his mouth, and he sipped at it for a full minute.

  “I’m beginning to fuckin’ wake up,” he said. “What were we talking about?”

  “The guy who smashed your hands,” I said. “I need his name.”

  “They did it to shut me up,” he said. “And it worked. I’m not going to tell you a thing.”

  “Why didn’t they kill you? Like Dad?”

  “I can’t talk, Vince.”

  “Did Melissa stop them?”

  “What the fuck? How do you know her name?”

  “I know a lot, Junie. I’m going to get you some protection. And then I’m going after them.”

  “They’ll kill you,” he said.

  “No, they won’t. Who did this?”

  “T
hey’re scared,” he said. “They’re closing down the whole thing. I was a loose end.”

  “What about Carla?” I said. “Is she a loose end?”

  “Carla doesn’t know shit.”

  “She must know something. Ginny was telling her not to talk to me.”

  “Fucking Ginny,” he said. “Talk about a bitch on wheels. They wouldn’t go after Carla.”

  “How do you know that?”

  He took a long time to answer. “Shit. You better check on Carla,” he said. “They’re ruthless.”

  “Junie,” I said. “Who did this?”

  Junie’s eyes were glassy from the early hour and the drugs, but he finally looked directly at me. “It was Ginny that got me to open the door. The big guy had the hammer.”

  “Ginny’s the one who had you beat up?”

  “They only let me live because of Melissa. I had a long time to think about it while I lay on the floor in my apartment. If they killed me and Melissa found out, she would bail. If they lose her, they’re fucked.”

  “What were you doing for them?”

  “Talked enough,” he said. “Leave it alone, Vin. I told you too much already. I’m dead.”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “I’m going to have a cop outside this door.”

  “Find Carla,” he said, and his head dropped back. He was asleep.

  *

  I called the hospital administration office but they were “in a meeting”. I doubted they knew shit about protecting patients anyway. After all, my own father had been killed in a hospital a little more than a week ago. I dialed Pallmeister again.

  “Hello Vince,” he said.

  “I need your help,” I said. “I want a cop outside his door. They may want to finish the job.”

  “Done. But I want something in return.”

  “What?”

  “You don’t kill anyone until you talk to me.”

  “I’ll call you when I find him,” I said. “But I don’t guarantee that he’ll have much of a pulse.”

  “You’re no use to anyone in jail,” he said.

  *

  A young state trooper arrived about ten minutes after I’d hung up with John Pallmeister. He looked about the age of Roberto, but with a little more facial hair, and he had the whole state cop outfit, complete with the shaved head. “Trooper Desmuelles,” he said. “Lieutenant Pallmeister said to take special care of your brother. I’ll honor that.”