I told Jake that this was the crucial part. If there was silence on the other end of the phone, he had her. Silence meant she was scared, that she had bought it. She'd be thinking about those hang-up calls she had gotten earlier in the week. My guess was, all she'd want was to get out of the relationship. Apparently, there was a whole lot of silence at the other end of the phone.
"Man," Jake said, when I saw him the day he got back, "you are shrewd. I did just what you told me. I underplayed it, saying how we had to back off for a while given how suspicious my wife was and how nuts her ex-husband could be."
"And …"
"'Back off,' she said. 'No, Jake. I'm sorry, but we can't see each other anymore.' I owe you, man. I owe you. When I called her from up there, you'd swear the woman was reading from your script too. She said almost everything you wrote, word for word. You're the fixer. That ball and chain almost all gone from my life."
"Almost?"
"Yeah, almost. See, me and the lady, we exchanged some jewelry and stuff over the years that … Well, let's just say I did too good a job selling your plan. Now she wants to give this stuff back."
"Why not just tell her to flush it?"
"Nah, man, that's just it. I tell her that, she'll think I didn't care and she'll get all suspicious-like."
"I'll get it from her."
Talk about hook, line, and sinker. Let me tell you something, I bit on his bait so hard, took that hook in so deep, he couldn't have thrown me in back if he wanted to. That's something else I needn't have fretted over. He wasn't going to throw me back. Throw me to the wolves … Now that was a different story altogether.
Jake called me the next day and told me where and when to meet her. He could not have been more gracious and profuse in his thanks. I was the King Fixer, Sultan of Solutions, Maharajah of Manipulation, Lord of the … You get the picture. Hell, after that phone call, my head was so big it tilted to one side. So I didn't get suspicious when he told me I was going to meet her in the parking lot of the Windjammer Motel up on Old Wells Road. All I had to do was pull my car next to hers. She'd hand me the jewelry and I'd be gone.
Meet her I did, in a manner of speaking. The parking lot was pitch dark and near empty when I pulled my car alongside hers. I waited for her to make a move, even tapped my horn to get her attention. No luck. I got out of my car and put my knuckles to her window. Nothing. The glass in her car was fogged up, I tried wiping it away from my side. I could just make her out. Looked like she was sleeping. I had that wrong.
When I pulled her door open, she fell out onto the asphalt, her head making a sickening thud against the pavement. Didn't seem to bother her much. She had other concerns, like that slice across her throat. She wasn't quite dead yet, a slow, feeble spray of blood barely reaching her chin. The surprise in her dying eyes was probably no match for the surprise in mine. I think she might've managed a smile if she'd had more blood to give.
You see, the solution to what was really going on popped right into my head. Even in the midst of my panic, in the milliseconds before the baseball bat caught me that first time, God's gift was in fine working order. She hadn't expected to see me at all. It was Jake she thought would be pulling up alongside. The whole thing: the robbery, the stolen cell phone was all a setup. It occurred to me that almost nothing Jake had told me was the truth.
My guess was that Jake had in fact tried to dump her and she had threatened to go to his wife. He'd just have to string her along until he found a sucker to take the heat off him. That's where I came in, the King Fixer. The rest of it about her being divorced and not wanting to break up his happy marriage was bull. No doubt, from the minute I left him at the Cinderella, he had a detective on my tail; snapping photos of me making the calls, lifting my prints off the phone, getting the phone records from the girlfriend's cell phone. And then, just before he set up this little rendezvous, he sent the PI's report to the jealous ex-husband with a desperate letter from my wife. Too bad I ain't married. But the ex wouldn't know that, would he?
Bang! The first smack of the bat caught too much of my neck. At best, it was a single to the opposite field, maybe a weak ground ball to the right side of the infield. But it did throw me off balance. I thought about pleading, denying my part in this, but no. I was the King Fixer, the Sultan of Solutions, the kid who knew to let the air out of the bus tires. I knew I had been dethroned. Jake was King. Long live the King.
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Bathead Speed
Originally published in These Guns for Hire (Bleak House Books, 2006)
When I kill for the kikes, I call meself Hank Greenberg. For the niggers, it's Hammerin' Hank. Don't love it that Hank is so popular amongst those two races, but let's face it, how many Jews were great home run hitters? Yeah ... I'm waiting, boyo. You can count the number on the thumb stuck up yer arse. Bonds stays healthy a few more years and the problem'll be solved. For the wops, it's Joe D. The spics, Roberto Clemente. When the contract is white bread, I go with Mickey Mantle. It appeals to me own sense of vanity. Like I put the Mick in Mickey. Sorry, Babe. Fook, McGuire, the cheatin' cunt. Don't kill for the Irish. No profit in it.
Me specialty or speciality, as me sainted mother would call it, is blunt force trauma. I can take it deep with a mighty blow or play "small ball," breaking every bone on me way around the bases. Either way, I always touch 'em all and never is the time I miss home plate. It's management's choice. He who pays controls the play. Nature of the business. I've rigged me iPod so to play the roar of the crowd and the explosion of fireworks in me ears when a job is complete. I'm afraid I've not yet figured out how to rig a curtain call. Some day.
When I began me career as a lad in the disco '70s, there was great affection for the long ball. Clients wanted the work done quickly, with a single swing. And the pitch … Oh, he got all of that one. If it ever comes down, it's a home run. Man oh man, have you ever seen a skull crack quite like that one? The '80s saw the advent of junk bonds and morning in America. And with them, please god, came a jones for cocaine and cracked bones. Jaysus, even had the odd client wanted to watch me do me work. Discouraged it. Whenever I'd break the shins, it was vomitville. No sound like it, breaking a man's shins. Came the '90s, back we went to tape-measure shots. 9/11 has brought back bunts and bones broken one at a time. All business is cyclical in nature. I come to the knowledge honestly.
Was the day I tried changing with the times. Mistake. Turned my back on ash as me material of choice and went aluminum. As effective? Maybe more so. Saved on equipment in the long run. But the sound! Jaysus and his blessed mother, couldn't stomach it me own self. That pinging was a horror. You kill a man, whatever the reason short of rape and child molestation, and he deserves more than a hollow ping! at the end of the road. Bollocks. Embarrassing, really, killing a man that way. Give me a solid thud, crunch, snap. That's music for a man to die by. Lately, I've gone the way of Bonds and tried some of those maple bats from north of the border. Sweet. Lovely feel. But I'll take ash when the job's to be done right.
Yer thinking, how'd a thick-headed donkey like meself develop a taste for baseball? Fair question. First, I think it was out of necessity. Tis always the way, is it not? Came stateside when I was eleven. Da had a run-in with the Brits, the hoors. An explosive personality, me father, if ya catch the drift. Till I landed stateside, had a hurly near glued to my palms. A hurly, you say? A lethal piece of hardwood shaped roughly like a human femur. Hurling? Take a week to explain. Let it suffice to say it's bloodier than politics or ice hockey and a fair bit more entertaining. The sport the real Fighting Irish play.
Guess I saw baseball as the closest thing to it, minus the carnage, of course. I'd more than make up for that. I was quite the prodigy. Couldn't field worth shite, but I was a natural DH. Ron Bloomberg can kiss me arse. Shame me career predated the DH. Coaches tried burying me in right field. And in spite of me shortcomings, made it one game short of the Little League World Series. Didn't show the qualifying games on TV back in the day, only the f
inal on Wide World of Sports. Would've shown those Chinks a thing or three had we made it to the finals.
Pushing fifty now and still I've the bathead speed of a thirty-year-old slugger. Tiger Woods come to me, I'd get his club head speed up a good five miles. I've got the whole set-up in me house: batting cage, videotape, Virtual Reality exercises on the computer to keep me hand-eye coordination sharp. Do yoga, trunk strengthening, and quick-twitch muscle exercises every day. Read every book, seen every instructional tape on hitting that's been produced. Fook Einstein. Ted Williams, now there's a feckin' genius. Charlie Lau was a cunt. Set hitting back a decade with his bat release shite.
Still, with all me own equipment, I love showing off for the colleens at the local batting cages. No matter the town I'm in or the job to be done, I manage to get a session in at the local bat-away. Particularly love the jobs in college towns or hamlets with a minor league squad. Visiting California, Florida, or Arizona is a pleasure. Always baseball to be played. Always a blonde to be had. Hustled me more money than Paul Newman and Tom Cruise put together. Though it grieves me hard to say it, I'll cede the number of blondes to them boyos.
Currently, I'm on Long Island, expensive fooking shitehole. Bad timing as well. The Ducks, the local minor league squad, is on the road and the colleges are out of session. Needless to say, me mood's not great. I'm still waiting for me wedge and instructions. Don't like this much to be up in the air, but the money's too good to turn away from. I've waited for two days now and me patience is near as thin as me own hair. The phone, praise god. Salvation at last. Instructions of a sort.
The bar was crowded but dark. I was in the loose-fitting, road gray Detroit jersey. Very retro. No name across the back. Even if there were, Greenberg wouldn't resonate with this bunch. More likely think I was a dentist than a slugger.
"Hey, Hank," she says, strolling up to me seat at the bar. Raven hair framing a green-eyed goddess' face. "Whatcha having?"
Loaded question that. Let it hang there like blue smoke. Moved on.
"Sam Adams."
"Not Guinness?"
"You'll want to watch that. Stereotypes'll get you in trouble," I warned.
"Max! Two Sams."
"Max is it? Know all the barmen on Long Island by their first names?"
"Not on the entire Island. Just Suffolk County." The sarcasm dripped off her tongue like honey. "Slainte."
Impressed me. Clinked glasses and put their contents down in a swallow.
"C'mon, Hank, let's take a ride."
Another loaded line. Curious. Said, "Where to?"
"Your motel room. I want to see your stuff."
Christ, I wondered, did she say anything that wasn't loaded?
Got in her yellow Vette. Stopped at me room. She stayed in the car. Picked up me Louisville Slugger. Burned The Mick into the top of the barrel me own self.
"Now where to?"
"You'll see," she purred.
Drove through a darkened industrial park. Pulled into an empty parking lot in front of what looked to be a warehouse. The local bat-away. She had the keys. Stepped inside the darkened hall, punched numbers into a keypad, threw a light switch. Have you ever entered an empty church? Was what it felt like for me. This was me own St. Paddy's.
"Fast cage is over there." She pointed to the far right end of the facility. "What size helmet?"
"Yer joking me, lady. Helmets are for pussies. No offense intended."
"None taken. It's your funeral."
Got in the cage. Stood in the right hand batter's box. "Whenever you're ready."
Five seconds later, a yellow ball whizzed by me at the knees. I made no move. Judged the speed at ninety. Next ball, same thing. Statues have made more movement. This time I eyed where the ball was coming from. Third ball I smacked right through the square in the netting through which the pitch had come. Next ball, same result. And the next and the next and the … Jumped into the lefty batter's box. Closed my eyes. Listened. Smacked the ball just above the hole in the netting.
"Shite!"
"I'm convinced," she said. "You're the best I've seen."
The pitching machine went silent. As I stepped out of the cage, the lights dimmed. Nothing more frightening than a dark church. Got into hitting position.
"Fuck is th--"
The tail end of the question was shoved back into me mouth along with me front teeth. Something snapped. Heard it more than felt it. Coughing up teeth and blood, I was down, dazed, me arms and legs as useless tits on a tennis racket. After a second she came back into focus. Standing over me, a hurly in her hands.
"Manny Alcazar," she hissed. "Remember him, Mr. Clemente?"
Mind racing. Yeah, shite, I recalled. A thick-bodied, squat spic, took his time dying, too. He was one of my early nineties one-bone-at-a-time jobs. Didn't know why management wanted him done or done that way. Never questioned the instructions.
"Yer father," I choked.
"You caught on about five minutes too late, asshole. Fucking shame that I snapped your vertebrae. Would have liked to have you feel the bones breaking."
"The hurly?"
"Shite and onions, my mother's Irish, you prick."
Last thing she said to me. She put down the hurly and picked up me own bat. Poetic justice, I suppose. I watched her shatter me legs. Well done. She'd a powerful swing. The girl had real potential and there was little doubt, with proper training, mind you, I could have added a good ten miles an hour to her bathead speed.
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Reed Farrel Colemans' Biography and Bibliography
Called a hard-boiled poet by NPR's Maureen Corrigan, Reed Farrel Coleman is the former executive vice president of Mystery Writers of America. He has published twelve novels--two under his pen name Tony Spinosa--in three series, and one stand-alone with award-winning Irish author Ken Bruen. His books have been translated into seven languages.
Reed is a three-time winner of the Shamus Award for Best Detective Novel of the Year. He has also received the Macavity, Barry, and Anthony Awards, and has been twice nominated for the Edgar Award. He was the editor of the anthology Hard Boiled Brooklyn, and his short fiction and essays have appeared in Wall Street Noir, The Darker Mask, These Guns For Hire, Brooklyn Noir 3, Damn Near Dead, and other publications.
Reed is an adjunct professor at Hofstra University, teaching writing classes in mystery fiction and the novel. He lives with his family on Long Island.
Bibliography
Dylan Klein Series
LIFE GOES SLEEPING (1991)
LITTLE EASTER (1993)
THEY DON'T PLAY STICKBALL IN MILWAUKEE (1997)
Joe Serpe Series (written as Tony Spinosa)
HOSE MONKEY (1st Joe Serpe book, 2006
THE FOURTH VICTIM (2nd Joe Serpe book, 2008)
Moe Prager Series
WALKING THE PERFECT SQUARE (2001)
REDEMPTION STREET (2004)
THE JAMES DEANS (2005)
SOUL PATCH (2007)
EMPTY EVER AFTER (2008)
INNOCENT MONSTER (2010)
HURT MACHINE (2011)
Written with Ken Bruen
TOWER (2009)
As Editor
HARDBOILED BROOKLYN (2006)
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Copyright © 2011 by Reed Farrel Coleman
All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Down and Out Books, LLC
3959 Van Dyke Rd, Ste. 265
Lutz, FL 33558
www.DownAndOutBooks.com
First eBook Edition: October 2011
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover design by JT Lindroos
ISBN: 978-1-937495-08-4
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The following is a preview of Counting to Infinity, the third book in the Jake Diamond series, by J.L. Abramo.
One
The scent of deep-fried calamari floated in through my office window like an invitation to triple-bypass surgery. I could almost have tasted the squid if not for the Camel nonfilter dangling from my lip. I was working the Sunday Examiner crossword, grasping for a four-letter word for Egyptian goddess. I was sure Darlene would know it, but I was being stubborn. It was well after noon on a Sunday and not a single telephone call. I had vowed that I would hold off ordering lunch until my desk telephone rang at least once. The last time I'd tried that, I hadn't eaten for two days.
When Darlene called out my name from the front room my heart sank.
"Use the telephone," I called back, "while we have one."
The phone rang. The blinking button indicated that it was Darlene. I wanted to call in my food order to Angelo at Molinari's Salumeria two floors below before picking up the interoffice line. I got a grip on myself.
"Yes, Darlene," I said.
"Get out here, Jake, before this gorilla trips over his own shoelaces and blows my head off."
The urgency in her voice was convincing.
I pulled open my desk drawer to fetch my .38 police special. I figured it wouldn't take much more than two hours to locate it beneath all of the accumulated debris. Near-empty cigarette packages, partial bottles of antacid, books of matches from every dive in San Francisco, long-expired fast-food restaurant discount coupons.
I closed the drawer.
Truth was, I hadn't fired the .38 in so long it would more than likely have exploded in my hand.
The Brooklyn Rules Page 4
