by Jack Getze
Maximilian Zakowsky
Max stares at Ann Marie on the tiny black and white recording monitor. Look at her, rubbing that silly deodorant under her shaved arms. Pulling those little black panties over her round tight ass.
He completes another set of push-ups and rolls onto his back for sit-ups, but switching positions this time so he can watch Ann Marie’s TV image finish dressing. She’s hooking a lace bra under her pillow-size breasts. Stuffing her soft flesh into cups. What would she do if he went next door right now, to her hotel room, and gave her a kiss?
He sighs. Maybe Ann Marie is the woman to take Maximilian Zakowsky away from this life. Endless days of sit-ups and push-ups, arm curls. Exercising until his body groans. And for what? For crazy Bluefish? For a place to live? For Jerry, Max’s one friend in the whole world?
Ann Marie has been very nice to Max. She has sex with him almost anytime he wants. And why would she get dressed like this, in full view of the camera, unless she knows he’s watching? Ann Marie must be doing this just for Max.
He checks the red light on Bluefish’s recording equipment. Everything is good, working fine. Jerry and the rest of Bluefish’s boys will be lining up to watch this tape, Ann Marie’s breasts so special to look at.
Max wipes the sweat off his forehead and stands up to catch his breath. Bluefish says Ann Marie doesn’t know about the camera. But with Ann Marie playing with her breasts inside the bra like this, kneading herself, she has to be putting on a show for Max.
He touches the zipper of his pants.
THIRTEEN
I extend my tongue full length, French-kissing my third martini. The now-empty conical glass winks back at me, another subtle indicator of full-boat overindulgence. Could this warning blinker—a lighthouse perched above the jagged coastline of reality—suggest my ineligibility for a fourth see-through?
My only hesitation to leaving the bar involves a strawberry blond. She’s sitting on a nearby stool, upstairs at the Martha, and the lady seems to like my smile. Grinning back at me in a very particular way. I have the feeling if I stay right here drinking, Ms. Strawberry may wander over here and rub me up. She’s got “I do what I want” written across her forehead.
Logic, Shore’s business and my children's college education luckily snag hold of my gin rotted brain. Checking the bartender’s watch, I see Brooklyn Tony has been up in Ann Marie Talbot’s room more than an hour. If he’s trying to bribe that woman from the American Association of Securities Dealers, he could put Shore out of business, maybe install my pink ass in a white-collar prison. The U.S. District Attorney here is running for Congress. He loves to make an example of corporate criminals.
I throw down cash and slide off my stool. I must be nuts letting Tony go up to Talbot’s room, let him represent Shore Securities with the AASD. What was I thinking? At the very least I should have held out as long as physically possible, let the contusions and concussions speak later of my attempt to prevent Tony’s madness.
Besides Carmela, who walked in ten minutes ago, the bar’s packed with lingering sunset gazers and silver-haired seniors ordering early-bird specials from the bar menu. Through the crowd, the strawberry blond and I find each other again.
Too bad, I have to go. I only get a glimpse on my way out, but Ms. Strawberry’s wearing a scooped-neck black dress that frames her bosom and drapes her hips like liquid chocolate. A diamond earring twinkles at me, but not as brightly as the lady’s smile. If Johnny Depp as that movie pirate had a blond sister...
I wave and disappear into the elevator lobby.
Figures. Probably the love of my life back there and I’m ditching the bar and a chance to meet her because everything I have, everything my children need, could be sliding down the big financial drain as I speak. Or think. Or whatever the hell it is I’m doing.
Goddamn, I might as well have gone for the martini quatro. The third one buried me anyway.
The elevator doors rattle open before I push the button, and Tony’s dark-haired wife, Gina the Luscious, rushes out, almost crashing into me. What the hell’s she doing here? Her way-past shoulder length black hair dangles loose and uncombed. Her cashmere sweater sports a torn seam across the right shoulder. And Gina Farascio’s gorgeous face is drawn tight, her mascara smeared by tears.
The instant I catch her shoulders, preventing our collision, the lights go off and the Martha’s fire alarm fills the hall with high pitched electronic screaming and blinking red light. The piercing, throbbing whine stabs at my ears, the ugly noise somehow louder in the near dark.
Gina’s eyes go wide and wild, the intense red beacon flashing directly above us from high in the elevator lobby’s corner, the bloody light adds a frightening visual quality to the fire alarm screaming. If I’ve got my bearings right, the crimson bursts signal a location for the stairway. My heart is drumming.
It figures that lives are at stake. I have five or six ounces of Bombay Sapphire in me, not to mention the vermouth. Plus—let’s see if I can put this delicately—my brain’s missing some blood thanks to Gina being so close. My corporal contents have shifted.
A crowd of alarm driven bar patrons streams into the small elevator lobby, but instead of opening, the elevator doors lock shut. I reach for Gina’s hand as the swelling crowd of panicked seniors herds toward the stairs. I don’t see or smell any smoke, but Gina and I don’t have any choice but to go along. We’re swept up like leaves in a water-filled gutter.
I slip my arm around her waist to keep us together.
Outside in the parking lot, Gina and I huddle with two or three dozen other bar patrons, hotel guests and staff. Branchtown fire crews unload hoses while others rush inside the Martha Washington. I don’t spot Tony, Ms. Strawberry or Ann Marie Talbot anywhere in the crowd, but Carmela’s out here with Gina and me, Mr. Vic’s daughter talking with three young women and a uniformed cop.
FOURTEEN
Gina Farascio’s unruly gaze fixes on two Branchtown police cruisers bouncing into the Martha’s parking lot. Behind the black-and-whites, I recognize Detective James Mallory’s dirty brown Crown Victoria. He hits the driveway at thirty miles an hour.
I’m guessing Branchtown’s Bravest found something inside the hotel of serious interest to Branchtown’s Finest. Arson? Or maybe somebody got burned.
The number of people waiting to return has dwindled considerably, no doubt a casualty of alcoholic thirst. I could use another see-through myself. In fact, I’d head back to Luis’ right now if it wasn’t for Bluefish’s now-missing one hundred thousand. I’m beginning to consider final resting spots.
“Carr.”
I shift to see Detective Mallory stalking me from behind. He’s got two uniformed officers with him and a tense, don’t-screw-with-me expression. Actually, the only time he doesn’t have that nasty cast on his face is when he’s coaching Little League Baseball. Even then he talks to the kids like the umpire instead of a coach.
He grips my arm. “Talk to me, pal. Over there, by the patrol car.”
Mallory tugs me over hands on, like he’s dragging a convict up before the judge. He nudges me against the black-and-white’s rear fender and pushes his face up close. I think he might have had a beer with lunch. Sam Adams? Our noses are almost touching.
“Know a woman named Ann Marie Talbot?” he says.
Gulp. “Yeah.”
Mallory’s eyebrows snap higher. I can almost feel wind.
“She’s an investigator with the American Association of Securities Dealers,” I say. “She’s been auditing Shore.”
“Did you see her today?”
“No.”
“You sure? I found your name on a pad by her telephone.”
Double gulp. Why was Mallory up in Talbot’s room after the fire? My stomach begins to fill with battery acid. Is there a criminal reason why I haven’t seen Tony or Talbot?
“I had an appointment, but didn’t go,” I say.
Mallory grins. Now his breath smells like gasoline. Maybe he was drink
ing brandy. “You’re a bad liar, Carr. You expect me to believe you were at her hotel, but you didn’t keep that appointment?”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. It’s the truth. I sent an associate to keep my appointment.”
Oh, my, that was dumb. Sometimes my Gift of Gab turns into Big Stupid Mouth.
“Yeah? And who would that be?” Mallory says.
I suck a big breath. Considering what Tony was carrying, and what he may have been doing with it, I’m not the smallest bit anxious to reveal his identity. Or Shore’s semi-serious AASD troubles. Oh, man, when am I going to learn to keep my trap shut?
I stall. “Tell me what’s going on. Why all the questions?”
Mallory right hand jumps up and pinches my shoulder. I want to knock it away. “Who went to see her, Carr? Tell me.”
If people exercised the right to remain silent, our prisons would be empty. “If you want me to say another word, Jim, explain what’s happened. My lawyer’s phone number is programmed into my cell phone.”
His intense gaze holds on mine, trying to intimidate me. Fat chance, Jimbo. I watched you throw baseballs all one summer. I’ve seen stronger arms on a sand crab.
Mallory saying, “Your five o’clock appointment was canceled, Carr. Ann Marie Talbot is dead.”
FIFTEEN
Mallory’s words smack me. Not as hard as Max the Creeper did last night, but enough to provoke the physical reaction I’m sure Mallory hoped for. I feel my eyes go big like saucers. When my breath comes back, it’s quick and shallow.
“Who did you send up there, Carr? Tell me now or I’m taking you in on suspicion of murder. Let the newspapers and TV stations have the news.”
I labor for a deep breath. I need oxygen. I need the Lone Ranger. The Cisco Kid. Luis. Okay, Carr, think quick. Tony Farascio is Mr. Vic’s friend. Tony’s carrying one hundred thousand dollars in what I assume to be unlaundered gambling money. And anyway you look at it, thanks to me, Tony went to see Talbot on Shore’s behalf. I do not want to give Mallory Tony’s name.
“Who the fuck was it!” Mallory is screaming at me. “Tell me.”
But Shore’s troubles can only blossom into full-boat disaster if I start lying during a murder investigation, playing hide-the-truth with Branchtown cops. When you’re sinking in heavy shit, it figures as pure folly to dig yourself in deeper.
“His name is Tony Farascio,” I say.
“Spell it.”
“F-A-R-A-S-C-I-O.”
“He works for you?”
“He’s a friend of Mr. Vic’s.”
“What, he’s a lawyer or something?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe just a friend.”
Mallory’s eyes narrow. “But he was on Shore Securities business?”
“Uh...I guess.”
The tall cop pushes closer. His nose brushes mine. An Eskimo kiss. Gee, Jim, does this mean we’re going steady?
“Was he or wasn’t he, Carr? I thought you were running the company while Vic’s out of town.”
I cough to clear my throat. That backs Mallory up. Maybe I should tell him I have TB. “Mr. Vic told me to call Tony if I had trouble with...” My sentence dies. I’m wandering down a dangerous path here. I keep talking this way, explaining myself, it’s going to sound like I—or Vic, Shore, somebody—hired Tony Farascio to threaten or even kill Talbot.
“Trouble with what?” Mallory asks.
“Just trouble.”
Mallory shakes his head. His jaw sets like black-flecked white marble. “Screw this, Carr. You’re coming back to the station, spend the night answering questions. For now, just tell me what this Farascio looks like.”
The sun’s long gone. Stars flicker above the Navasquan River. I don’t see Gina the Luscious anymore, and the last stragglers have wandered back inside the Martha. The Branchtown Fire Department rumbles from the parking lot. Everything’s finished. Especially me.
“Six foot,” I say. “Two hundred pounds. Dark wavy hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. Handsome as a movie star.”
“Eye color?”
“Brown. Like a puppy dog.”
“Listen to me, Jim,” I say an hour later. “Every night our back office tells the clearing bank in New York what to do with the money and securities taken in during the day’s business. We send the bank a list of names and account numbers, what cash and stocks are to be deposited in each.”
Mallory and I are in a twelve-by-twelve-foot police interview room with a wooden desk and two wooden chairs, the furniture coated with multiple layers of brown paint that was old twenty-five years ago. The puke green, chipped-plaster walls haven’t been washed since Richard Nixon was President. The square-tiled floor smells of lemon disinfectant.
“If the bank goofs,” I say, “leaves one dollar of a client’s funds in Shore’s catch-all account, then technically we’ve co-mingled client moneys. And if we don’t catch it, if the banker doesn’t bother telling us, just fixes it himself the next day, our permanent records become inaccurate.”
Mallory nods with satisfaction. “I get it. So if this co-mingling charge were to hit the newspapers, Shore would lose a lot of business, maybe even close. You or your boy Farascio killed Talbot to keep this report from going public.”
He waves papers at me I assume came from Talbot’s hotel room. How else would he know about the co-mingling charges?
“Exactly,” I say. “Shore hired Tony to kill the AASD investigator because everybody knows a murder trial would make us look good.”
“I don’t think your friend Farascio expected to stand trial,” Mallory says. “He figured to burn the place down, cover his tracks.”
The interview room door opens and Mallory’s partner leans in holding a manila envelope. The young detective looks nineteen in his schoolboy haircut and new, tan-colored J. C. Penney suit. He looks like an Eagle Scout.
“Here’s the fax from Washington,” the kid says.
Mallory opens the folder, reads a few minutes while I wonder what he’s looking at. I don’t have a rap sheet, but maybe Tony does. Maybe I shouldn’t have given up Farascio’s name. I definitely should not have let Tony go see Talbot. Mr. Vic’s going to choke me when he gets back from Italy. Or, more likely, Tony, Bluefish or Max will have throttled me long before the boss gets home.
When I get out of here, I’m never going to stop drinking martinis.
Mallory’s had enough of the file. He tosses the manila folder onto the tear stained, fear scratched table between us with a tiny splat. The papers and photos slide partially out of the manila, pulling my eyes like a cheesecake calendar. What is this crap?
“How long have you and Anthony Farascio been friends?” Mallory says.
“I told you. We’re not friends. I never met the guy until this week.”
“Right. He’s a total stranger. That's why you sent him up to deal with the AASD for you.”
“He’s Vic’s friend, not mine.”
Mallory grins. His bony fingers pick up the manila folder again. He slides out a photo-fax, nudges the grainy image across the table.
It’s a shot of a burned-out building, probably a restaurant and bar judging by the blackened sign in the foreground. The sign gives the joint’s hours as 10 a.m. to 2 a.m.
Mallory saying, “The Feds call Farascio, Tony the Torch.”
He slides a second photo toward me, this one featuring three, tarp-covered bodies, all with blackened feet peeking from under a dark-spotted canvas.
“He gets paid to burn things for insurance money,” Mallory says. “Sometimes there are people inside.”
SIXTEEN
A hard noise echoes inside my apartment. Rapping at the door. Who the hell needs me so badly at—I check the digital clock on my nightstand—three o’clock in the morning? Mallory had enough of me by midnight. And it sure isn’t Ann Marie Talbot. Is it wishful thinking to hope it might be Tony? With Bluefish’s missing cash?
I slide out of bed. The toasty cheese smell of toma
to pie lingers in my living room, but the sensation’s not exactly pleasant. I stopped for eats on the way home from Branchtown’s ancient brick police station, and my stomach tells me I should have chosen lighter fare than Roman Ricco’s greasy pizza. Ricco’s idea of an olive oil drizzle resembles what’s left in the pan after you fry a pound of bacon.
Bang, bang, bang. Can’t be the Creeper. The front door would already be lying flat.
Peeking through a slit in the curtains, I see Gina Farascio huddled at my door. She’s wearing the same torn sweater and wild eyes I saw at the Martha.
What I don’t see until I open up is Gina’s handgun. She yanks some kind of shiny chrome revolver from her black purse, pushes it against my chest and rushes me back inside.
“Where’s Tony?” she asks.
Her voice wavers with emotion. Fear or anger, I can’t tell which. I’ve been too interested in her comely smell, the shape of her anatomy, that inner radiance shining from her eyes. And pretty much in that particular order.
Gina kicks the door shut behind her. “Tell me where he is or I’ll shoot.”
Where’s Mallory when I need him? I’d even settle for the Eagle Scout. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Tony since about six. Before the fire.”
The good news: Gina removes the revolver from my chest. The bad news: she lifts the gun’s muzzle level with my nose. The really ugly news: her thumb cocks back the hammer. Judging by the large bore on this chrome puppy, I’m a few PSI’s away from decapitation.
“Turn around and walk me through the house,” she says. “Slowly. No tricks.”
Gina drops her lusciousness onto my leather couch and stuffs the gun back in her purse. “Sorry,” she says. “I figured he’d be here.”
Her huge oval eyes gaze up at me. My fear turned quickly to anger when she lowered the weapon a minute ago, but now my arms are itching to embrace her. And it’s more than lust talking. I want to soothe her soul. Honest.
