by Jack Getze
“Perhaps if I include a one-half interest in the restaurant itself—in addition to my liquor business?” Luis says.
My man is feeling confident. Is Luis in possession of material facts of which I am unaware? Maybe something to do with that door handle?
“I’m impressed,” Bluefish says. “How about you, Carr? You’re not going along with this dumb idea, are you?”
I’ve never gone wrong trusting Luis yet. El Hombre. He’s got a mean plan, I know it.
“Sure I’m going along,” I say. “Here’s my offer: Max wins, you get your new account at Shore, plus I’ll agree to launder cash for you, say one hundred grand a month.”
Bluefish scratches his narrow chin. “You’re actually making this tempting.” He sighs. “Max? What do you think?”
A bus going the same way zooms by in the fast lane, a big steel box loaded with senior citizens and their rolls of slot change headed for Atlantic City. Max the Creeper shrugs. Like maybe the Suburban went over a bump.
“Max will stomp him,” Max says. Speaking in the third person like a half-wit. Unlike Mama Bones’ thick Italian accent, I suspect Max is not cultivating misconceptions.
Bluefish says, “So what’s the rules, Poncho?”
“Bare hands, no weapons,” Luis says. “The fight continues until only one man is able.”
“You want to fight Max bare handed? Sounds like a waste of time,” Bluefish says. “Max?”
The driver’s huge head bounces up and down maybe an inch. My pulse ticks much higher. This duel is going to happen. Luis versus Max the Creeper. A pint of sour milk boils inside my stomach.
“Max stomp him quick,” Max says.
Bluefish stares out the car window. “Well, why the hell not?”
“If I win, you forget about these favors?” Luis says.
Bluefish shrugs. “If you win? Right. You know where to turn off, Max. I can’t notice a five hundred dollar bill on the sidewalk, not pick it up.”
SEVEN
The Suburban’s headlights slice through the inky air like white lasers, searching the blacktop gliding toward us. Pine and oak trees border both sides of the confined two-lane road, a thick, black wall of forest. Above the treetops, a narrow strip of sky shimmers with stars. Bluefish’s window is down, and inside the rush of wind, a night bird makes lonely calls.
I’m definitely getting nervous. The only thing keeping my heart rate below two hundred sits calmly beside me. I’m pretty sure Luis—mi amigo—can handle anything.
The Suburban’s red glow dash lights fire up the angled edges of Max the Creeper’s profile. Almost inhuman, really. Cartoonish. Trick imaging, yes, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s a monster driving me and Luis down some highway to hell.
Bluefish saying, “So, Max, tell the guys about your first job. The one you had when you were thirteen.”
Bluefish thinks this is funny. He covers his mouth with his fingers. Call it a silly hunch, but I’m going out on a limb and predict this revelation about creepy Max’s teenage past is going to make me worry even more about Luis’s future.
“Max work with circus,” the Creeper says. Talking about himself in the third person again, his voice a crackling whisper. Broken glass thrown on sandpaper.
“No, tell them what you did for the circus,” Bluefish says.
“Max wrestle bears.”
Bluefish fakes a cough. “Notice he said ‘bears,’ guys. Not ‘bear.’”
The Suburban swings into a private driveway. Six-foot lengths of treated logs bridge the roadside ditch where water trickles through tall grass. A battered mailbox, shaped like a black squirrel, stands sentry. How cute, except the critter’s head has been shot off.
Seventy-five feet off the blacktop, the forest opens into a grassy clearing with a mulched playground for kids, slides, a jungle gym, and parking for two dozen cars. Three brick barbecues line one side of the parking area. Probably where Bluefish holds his company picnics. Buries his wives and girlfriends.
The Suburban rolls to a stop against the parking lot’s log boundary. Luis’s hand is locked onto the door handle, his gaze pinned on Creeper. Luis’s body language reminds me of a house cat. Watching like Max is a mouse.
Trouble is Creeper is more like the Giant Rat of Sumatra.
Bluefish saying, “Do I even need to get out of the car, Max? I mean, how long could this take?”
I hear Max the Creeper click a switch. All the Suburban’s doors pop free, and Luis is outside before I smell fresh air. I saw his hand move this quickly once, when some pachuko hoisted Luis by the collar and my favorite bartender went for a switchblade in his back pocket. But Luis’s whole body is a blur this time. Like that house cat, making his move.
Poking my head outside, watching Luis over the SUV’s roof, Luis stands loose and ready beside the Suburban’s flank while Max is still squeezing out from behind the wheel like some ugly gob of toothpaste.
When Luis kicks Max’s door, stomping on the hinged steel like he’s breaking down a locked vault, Luis times his explosion precisely as Creeper’s noggin rises between the top of the Suburban’s door and the frame. The chunky sound of steel on Creeper’s head—like someone dropped a stick of butter on the floor—makes me wince. Max staggers to one knee, blood oozing from his temple. His shoulders weave, and he tumbles face first onto the parking lot’s shredded bark. The earth shakes like somebody dropped a piano.
My heart’s drumming, hard rain on a cardboard roof. The two guys in suits have scrambled out of the Suburban’s rear seat, slowly at first to watch the fight, then knocking me down, pushing past, as Max goes down. They want Luis. One rushes around the grill, the other goes for the rear bumper to trap him. My lungs want more oxygen.
Luis stoops out of my view from the top, then reappears like magic photography back inside the Suburban, sitting in the driver’s seat. One hand extends a gun toward Bluefish’s head. Luis must have taken the weapon from Max. A tear of sweat rolls down my right flank.
I see Luis’s end game, at last, and jump back inside the Suburban. Same seat I had before, behind Bluefish. Luis hits the override button as soon as my door shuts, raising all the windows and locking the three of us inside. Luis grins as he hands me the gun. What an hombre. “Watch carefully Bluefish’s hands. If you lose sight of them, shoot.”
It would be my pleasure, I think. I’m no killer, but if Bluefish has another gun on him, and I don’t shoot when he goes for his weapon, Luis and/or I could suffer serious and permanent injury.
Bluefish is no risk taker, however. He shows me the back of his hands, one poised by each ear. How sweet. He’s wearing his missing wife’s wedding band. Gold, and not perfectly round, the circle squared with tiny corners.
I line up the muzzle with the back of Bluefish’s demented brain, although I am seriously starting to worry about the two guys in suits. Locked out, they are hammering the windows and yanking on the doors and now firing weapons.
I duck. Cracks appear on the window beside Luis’s head, but the bullets don’t penetrate. Bulletproof glass? I’m not only impressed with Bluefish’s expensive and professional defenses, but also the fact Luis must have figured this out earlier. I remember him tapping the glass with his knuckles.
Luis throttles the Suburban into a bark spewing K-turn.
Bluefish says, “You humps are as good as dead.”
EIGHT
Plenty of parking at the Mexican Grill when Luis bounces us back into his gravel lot. With no bartender to mix drinks for over an hour, Luis’s thirsty customers obviously sought refreshment elsewhere. In Branchtown, drinking loyalties have limits.
I’m breathing like a normal running Labrador again as Luis flips off the engine. My heart-rate’s taken a dive, too. Probably down to a smooth one-eighty. Don’t think I was meant to aim guns at people. Or maybe it’s the dead-ass blank stare Bluefish just gave me. Looking at this guy gives me the idea I might be out of my league.
Luis swings his shoulders to confront Bluefish, holds
up the car keys like a prize. “You will keep your word, forget about the favors you asked?”
Good thing I’ve got Luis, El Hombre. The man is in a league of his own.
Bluefish nods, reaches for the keys. “Sure.”
Don’t know about Luis, but Bluefish’s tone and manner do not sate me with confidence. In fact, it’s impossible to even hope he’s telling the truth. Or maybe I’m just the skeptical type. Being a stockbroker and all.
But I am not the only one. Bluefish’s fingers snatch air as Luis yanks the keys back. Luis says, “I would be a fool to let you leave if you only plan to kill us.”
Glad Luis agreed with my zero reading of Bluefish’s Sincerity Meter. Bluefish better be careful what he says next, too. I know for a fact Luis has the stomach to kill.
“I’ll keep the bargain,” Bluefish says. “I’m pissed off, yeah, so maybe it don’t sound right. But I’ll forget about the favors, leave Shore alone and the restaurant alone. Ragsdale’s debt can wait for Vic to come back.”
Bluefish tried that time. I have a small hope he might live up to his word. No confidence. Just hope. And actually, “forget about the favors” isn’t exactly “I won’t have someone shoot you in the head” either.
Luis gives him the keys to the Suburban.
Inside an empty Luis’s Mexican Grill, I cover a stool at the horseshoe bar, right under Luis’s collection of authentic caballista sombreros. My favorite bartender sends Umberto home, flips off the television and begins to toss trash, wipe glasses and towel the counter.
When the bar’s clean and ready for tomorrow’s setup, Luis pours us each a shot of Herradura Gold. A nightcap of warriors. Actually, I was more of a foil. Maybe a prop or the comic relief—like the real Poncho to Luis’s Cisco Kid.
We salute and drink.
Luis says, “Have you given thought to what happened tonight?”
“I’m trying to block it out.”
“Do not,” Luis says. “This is a serious matter. Bluefish will almost certainly try to kill us. Perhaps not right away. He would be wise to wait, perhaps put us off our guard by letting us think he kept his word.”
“Sounds sneaky enough for Bluefish. Did you get a good look at that pumpkin-faced creep Max who was driving...before you changed the shape of his head, I mean?”
Luis ignores me. “We must make plans, take special care. Before this is over, we may decide killing Bluefish first is our only protection.”
I pull my wallet, find the yellow scrap of paper Mr. Vic gave me that Friday night. I show Luis Tony’s name and telephone number.
“Who is Tony?” Luis asks.
“My boss said I should call him in case of trouble with his daughter. I did, and he took care of it. Rags is gone. Maybe he could take care of Bluefish, too.”
Luis switches off the beer signs. “Is this Tony a lawyer? Or a thug like Bluefish?”
“I don’t know.”
“It is of little consequence, I think. Most likely this matter must be settled between ourselves and Bluefish.”
Luis is ready to close the restaurant. I’m not sure, but I think he may have himself a steady girlfriend these days. I slide off the barstool. “You mean you and Bluefish will settle it, Luis. I’m not much of a fighter.”
Luis shakes his head. “This is not true, amigo. Myself, I am experienced with many weapons. My favorite is the knife, and I handle even the large ones with skill. Yet your words can be more cutting than my biggest knife. Austin Carr fights with his brain and his mouth. And he fights very well.”
Now that’s an interesting take on my Gift for Gab. I always saw my verbal proficiency as a shield, not a weapon. But who am I to argue with a Toltec warrior?
NINE
A year ago, I lived in a pickup-mounted camper. Thousands of dollars in debt, including overdue alimony and child-support payments, my wages were being garnished and the ex-wife had a restraining order preventing me from seeing our children. I had very little to lose in those days. Taking risks came smooth and easy.
Now my support payments—all my bills—are current. I get Ryan and Beth every Wednesday night for dinner and again every other weekend. I can afford a two-bedroom apartment and a leased Toyota. More important, my ownership interest in Shore Securities could fund my kids’ college educations, provided Carmela and I and the people we hire run Shore well.
Point being, all of sudden I’ve got plenty to lose. That’s why I’m turning loose Brooklyn Tony on Bluefish. I have no idea what happened to Rags after Tony dragged him out of Shore’s offices last week, but I know Rags hasn’t bothered me or Carmela since. Maybe Tony can pull off the same kind of disappearing act with Bluefish.
Tony examines me standing on his porch with the soft brown eyes of a German Shepherd. Calm, relaxed, just inside the threshold of his home in Gravesend, Brooklyn, Mr. Handsome extends his paw for me. “Come on in.”
He practically lifts me inside with his giant mitt. Tony’s got on an extra, extra large gray golf shirt and navy sweats, but there’s no missing the muscle beneath the loose cloth. This guy snatched me off the porch like I was a newspaper.
“Any trouble finding the place?” he asks.
His hand weighs on my shoulders like a backpack loaded for the assault on Everest. “No problem,” I say. “And I really appreciate you’re seeing me. I’m a little embarrassed coming for dinner.”
Tony’s body hardens like fast-drying glue. “Embarrassed?” His brown eyes narrow into a glare that fills my blood with worry. Jesus. Is this what they call the prison stare? “What?” he says. “You got a problem coming to Gravesend?”
Yikes. “Hell, no. I mean embarrassed about putting you out. Making your wife cook for me. I would have been happy to take you and the missus—”
“Oh.”
“—out to dinner.”
Using his hand like a puppeteer, Tony twists both our heads to greet a dark haired young woman striding our way. She’s wearing a black skirt and a furry, sleeveless sweater with yellow and black horizontal stripes.
“Is this Vic’s friend Austin?” she says.
Tony saying, “My wife Gina.”
Gina’s a knockout. Long midnight hair, maybe ten or twelve inches past her shoulders. Huge, oval, yellow flaked brown eyes. An ear-to-ear smile whose sincerity feels generated by an even bigger heart. The smile and the striped sweater remind me of honey bees and summer days. Sweet stuff, this Gina.
She offers her hand. “Austin.”
I give her the full-boat Carr grin when her fingers brush mine. I feel dizzy, spinning in a field of perfumed July flowers. Hey, wake up, Carr. Time to snap out of Gina’s spell here before I erect myself a tower of trouble.
“Can I get you a drink?” she says.
“Know how to make a Slippery Nipple?”
“But Carmela’s doing okay?” Tony says. “That prick Ragsdale was a serious loser.”
“Was?”
“Slip of the tongue. I took him to the ’splaining department is all, told him what might happen if he ever showed up again at Vic’s place.”
I nod. “Great. Thanks. No, Carmela’s doing fine. It’s this other thing with Bluefish why I called.”
Tony and I sip after dinner sambuca in the Farascio’s playroom, a tennis court sized basement with two bowling lanes, a pool table, a card table, a mini-theater with a big screen TV and recliners for eight, a juke box, a soda fountain and enough cushioned perimeter seating for the Rutgers marching band.
“But you said at dinner Bluefish promised to keep his end of bargain,” Tony says. “I don’t see the problem.”
“Neither I nor Luis trust him.”
Tony’s teeth crunch one of the three coffee beans floating in the sambuca. “I don’t personally know this guy Bluefish, but I heard of him. I don’t see him getting where he is in this world without keeping his word.”
“Even with people he’s about to kill?”
Tony grins. “You got a point there, pal.”
Gina calls fr
om the top of stairs. “Telephone, Tony.”
I can’t see her, but I definitely remember what the touch of her hand did to my heart beat, the circulation in my extremities.
Tony stands. “Let me check out a few things,” he says. “I’ll get back to you.”
“Thanks, Tony. I’d appreciate any help you can give me with this Bluefish character.”
“Don’t thank me yet, sunshine. Let’s see if I can help.”
TEN
Mama Bones saying, “You should-a called me first.”
I wedge the phone between my ear and shoulder, freeing my hands to sign a stack of company checks Carmela’s presented me and wrenching my back. We’re busy at Shore today, the guys scoring big by calling up and working Walter’s accounts with enthusiasm and purpose. The big accounts are solid behind Walter, but he’s left a lot of crumbs on the table, the man too busy going after our clients. Don’t tell those AASD jerks who suspended my license, but I’ve been helping Shore’s bond desk fill orders and racking up a few commission dollars myself. My trades get routed through a phony rep number.
“Hey, I’m talking here,” Mama Bones says. Her voice crackles through the telephone.
Walter’s banging the phones, calling Shore clients whose names and numbers he swiped on the way out of here. The bastard. I heard twice today from my clients that Walter called them, told them Shore was bound to go broke, that we’ve already hired a bankruptcy lawyer. My pal Walter.
“Hey, Golly Gee!” Mama Bones says.
I stop signing checks. Nobody’s called me Golly Gee in a while. Not since I moved here from California and learned to curse properly, like a New Jersey native. “Mama Bones, I did tell you. I called to see if you needed help with that bingo game thing, and when you asked what happened when Bluefish came to Luis’s on Monday, I—”
