by Jack Getze
Franny knees me in the nuts. Next, she throws a forearm under my chin, grabs my belt and throws her weight into my Adam’s apple and my belly at the same time. Whoa. She governs my center of gravity like ace pitchers control a baseball. Lifting and pushing...back we go.
Franny’s bum rush forces us both outside, narrowly missing Susan, but El Capitan doesn’t stop until I’m sailing off the porch. And what a shove by Ms. Strawberry. I’m on the cement walkway leading to Susan’s porch, looking up at Franny Dahler-Chapman two seconds after brushing past Susan
“When you feel like getting up, go wait in the car, Carr,” she says.
Funny.
FORTY-TWO
Understanding and maturity often arrive late in a boy’s life. Like youth, dreams are hard to leave behind. But when the dawn finally comes, and a boy grasps at last that his life will never involve five hundred thousand dollar European sports cars, million dollar yacht parties and famous beauties like Scarlett Johansson...well, that’s when a boy becomes a man.
At least I sure the hell hope so. Because it’s about time I grew up. Way overdue, in fact. See, worrying about my testimony tomorrow before a Special State Grand Jury, it occurs to me, were I rich like I always figured I should be, I’d have a hotshot attorney postponing my appearance or otherwise devising some totally legitimate loophole to excavate my ass.
But no, Big Money is not mine. I can’t afford an unbeatable mouthpiece. I never will. Nice things like top shelf defense attorneys are forever beyond my reach. So is Scarlett Johansson. I believe I understand this now. The Fast Lane down Easy Street is closed to Austin Carr.
Tomorrow, I can either identify Mama Bones and make Franny happy, or I can somehow not identify Mr. Vic’s gray haired mother and make Bluefish smile, not to mention Mama Bones.
The consequences of both are obviously the subject of some concern. If I please Franny, Bluefish might kill not only me, but probably Beth, Ryan, Susan, Susan’s friends and neighbors, not to mention everybody's lawns, dogs and goldfish. On the other handjob, if I fulfill my verbal agreement with Bluefish and refuse to point the finger at Mama Bones, Franny promised me jail-time for perjury and conspiracy to commit murder.
Why can’t one of my options be careful and supervised use of a reliable time machine? Why can’t I go back to that afternoon in Luis’s restaurant and tell Bluefish “fine” when he first mentions doing business with Shore?
At least it’s nice to know I’ve reached maturity.
I take my mattress off the bed in my Trooper Mansion bedroom and lean that sucker against the wall. I start with a few kicks, then step closer and start punching, right, left, right, left, until my arms are tired and I go back to kicking, kicking, kicking until my legs feel like wet cement.
I take up punching again.
I go on like this for, I don’t know, half an hour. When all four of my limbs are numb with exhaustion, I crumble to the floor. My mouth is open. I’m panting. Sweating.
Tears slowly fill my eyes. When the water finally overflows and tickles my cheeks, I stand up, fists trembling and bellow like a wounded bear for all my lost dreams.
“Scarlett!”
FORTY-THREE
“Could you repeat the question, please?”
Quiet, individual sighs blend into a raucous, collective groan that echoes around the oak paneled Trenton courtroom like a barking pit bull. The wave of verbal animosity finally crashes over me and dissipates.
Seems my dumb responses and other delaying tactics wear thin on the assembled State Grand Jury. Gee, I’ve only been on the witness stand two hours. And I’ve already given them my name and address.
“Mr. Carr, please pay attention,” Franny says. “This is very important. You’re taking up the grand jury’s time. Now, once again, look around the courtroom. Do you see the woman who had Anthony Farascio's body removed from the restaurant that night?”
Franny sports quite the courtroom demeanor. Impressively dressed. Authoritative. Articulate. In possession of all the facts. And pissed as hell at me for dragging this out, although staying very much in control for her audience.
“Please, Mr. Carr. Look at the target of this investigation. Do you see that woman from the restaurant here today?”
I have to admire the way Franny uses word emphasis. Every gaze in the courtroom focuses on Mama Bones. Hard not to, the way Franny drags her description out. I’ve heard any good prosecutor includes acting classes in his or her training, but Franny is so good she might need an agent.
I stare at Mama Bones. Her gray hair. The sharp eyes that miss nothing. And dressed today like the sweetest grandma you ever saw, including blue hair, hand knitted shawl and aluminum walker.
“Mr. Carr. Please.”
Guess it’s time to get this over with. I take one last deep breath before I drop the five hundred pounder: “I can’t be sure.”
Franny’s cheeks flush. “What did you say?”
I search the back of the courtroom for something to focus on. I memorize the details of the double door’s right side, the six-inch brass hinges. “I said I can’t be sure it’s the same woman.”
El Capitan’s sea-green eyes burst into flame. The small courtroom barks again with whispered conversations. A knot expands inside my gut.
Franny almost spits at me. “Mr. Carr, you identified this woman, by name, on two...no, three separate occasions. In your sworn statement to my office, in fact, you described Angelina Bonacelli exactly, and swore under oath, on the Bible, that you’d known this woman by sight for more than seven years.”
I nod in complete agreement. “Of course I know Mama Bones. She’s the mother of my business partner, Vic Bonacelli. I just don’t know for sure she was the woman in that restaurant.”
Franny snatches some papers off the prosecutor’s table. “You were certain before. My transcript shows you voluntarily mentioned Angelina “Mama Bones” Bonacelli, by name, as the woman who supervised the disposal of Anthony Farascio’s body.”
What drama. Franny’s long pointing finger reminds me of Madame La Farge.
“Yes, that’s true,” I say. “That’s what I thought. What I’m saying now is, though, I can’t be sure the woman in that restaurant was the same woman I see sitting here today. I’m just not certain.”
First Franny’s cheeks balloon. Then the air hisses out between her teeth like a punctured tire.
FORTY-FOUR
Franny Dahler-Chapman trashes her empty Starbucks cup, snaps open her briefcase and seizes a red manila folder. My Branchtown lawyer, Randall Zimmer, Esquire, begins to tap the eraser end of his pencil on a new pad of lined yellow legal paper. The preliminaries are over. It’s time, lady and gentleman, for the main event.
Franny pushes an eight-by-ten glossy photograph at us across the polished walnut desk. After handcuffing me in the grand jury room and locking me up, not letting me use the telephone for three hours, Franny now has questions. A minor Chapman-Zimmer skirmish in the hallway was followed by calmer negotiation which led to the three of us sitting down in this courthouse conference room.
“Talbot told you about the AASD report she’d prepared,” Franny says. “You knew those co-mingling charges would ruin your business. But when you went to her room that night, you probably weren’t intending to kill her. So what happened? You argued and lost your temper?”
I glance at the photograph. It’s a black and white shot of Ann Marie Talbot after the murderer choked and burned her, a close-up of her barbecued head. At least that’s what the black marker printing says on the back. Could be a horror-movie prop or a ruined, bone-in roast. The disgusting, barely human thing seems to be oozing some kind of black gravy.
Mr. Zimmer saying, “My client’s alibi is well established, Ms. Chapman. Should you decide to prosecute him for Ms. Talbot’s murder, you will in fact be the first witness I depose.”
Zimmer’s hawk-like eyes are the same dark caramel as the walnut desk. Looking at him, feeling the love, I am deeply and truly sorry for e
very lawyer joke I ever told. When you need one, a clever, juiced and tough-in-the-clinches attorney can save your sorry ass. Spending the big bucks goes down easy when your job or even a prison sentence is at stake. Right this second, having Mr. Z for a champion glows inside me like a double shot of forty-year-old bourbon.
“Would you mind looking this over as well?” Franny says. She shoves a three or four-page document at me, loose pages stapled together in the upper left corner.
Despite Mr. Z’s mighty parry and thrust, El Capitan’s green eyes shine with confidence. I saw a lightning flash of defeat in the Grand Jury room earlier, but now Ms. Strawberry’s back on offense, certain of her superior power and numbers.
I pick up the stapled papers wondering what the hell Franny throws at me now, but I wait until Mr. Z gives me the okay before I read. If you’re paying five hundred an hour for advice, it’s important to listen. Lawyers also like you better, work harder, when you follow orders. Especially big Germans.
Page one is like a cover sheet. A centered title. Oh, my. I’ve never read a Forensic Pathology Summary before. Must be like an autopsy report.
Should I put on rubber gloves?
FORTY-FIVE
OFFICE OF THE MEDICAL EXAMINER
Seaside County, N.J.
Forensic Pathology Summary
Body No. 244: Talbot, Ann Marie
External Examination
Body is clothed in a green, acetate-rayon dress which has been scorched, melted and destroyed along the tops of both shoulders. Burns are visibly consistent with position of body to charcoal burner and fire damage at scene.
A hand-lens examination of the burned fabric reveals loose fragments of victim’s carbonized tissue. Body is wearing no undergarments, stockings or shoes.
I glance up at Franny. “Talbot didn’t strike me as the kind of woman who dressed commando.”
“Maybe you raped her and kept her panties as a souvenir,” Franny says.
So much for playing Sherlock. Back to my perusal.
I think Franny’s mad she didn’t get to award me her previously offered carrot.
Body is that of an adult female Caucasoid, sixty-five and one-half inches in length, one hundred nineteen pounds in weight. Outward appearance consistent with stated age of thirty-four years. Hair and eye-color are indeterminable due to carbonization and/or destruction of all indicative facial and cranial tissues. Portions of the left sphenoid bone, left eye orbit, the left zygomatic bone and arch, as well as the left portions of the maxilla and mandible are exposed and burned.
Visible contusions on victim’s neck suggest manual strangulation prior to burning, although condition of surviving tissue prevents observation of typical asphyxia results, i.e., broken facial capillaries and/or cranial hemorrhaging.
Examination of oral cavity reveals absence of all teeth and indications of prior elective removal. Matches dental records of stated victim.
Visible carbonization and destruction of tissue on thumbs and fingers. Suggests effort to prevent or delay identification.
Back and buttocks unremarkable.
There are no tattoos or significant scars.
Rigor mortis is firmly established. Lividity is prominent and consistent with position of body at scene.
The internal examination tells me more than any normal person would want to know about liver weight and stomach contents, but a couple of phrases catch my eye. One, the doc’s exam of the respiratory system “strongly indicates manual strangulation as cause of death,” and two, all of Ann Marie’s burns were “administered post-mortem.”
Choked dead, then burned. Kind of like kicking a dead horse, if you ask me. Suggests a lot of anger.
“What I find interesting is that the murdered woman may not be Ann Marie Talbot,” Zimmer says. “You don’t even know the victim’s eye color.”
Guess Mr. Z was reading over my shoulder.
“The DNA results are due tomorrow,” Franny says.
Mr. Z shoots up like a geyser to full height, stands there smirking. He pushes aside his chair and encourages me to do the same, then turns back to Franny, says, “Please call my office when your intuition becomes reality. Mr. Carr is done with your questioning for today, and he will no longer accept your protective custody.”
“The body is Ann Marie Talbot,” Franny says. Without getting up, she points her right forefinger at me. “And if he didn’t kill her, he knows who did.”
Mr. Z glares at her. “The truth is, Ms. Chapman, you are angry with my client over his testimony before the Grand Jury this morning, a Grand Jury that I am sure would very surprised to learn the DNA results are not back. Your mistake and your anger have caused you to falsely imprison Mr. Carr for several hours today. At present, I am only considering charges, but I can assure you there will be serious legal consequences if your behavior toward my client and the public good continues.”
Franny doesn’t blink. “Are you curious what I think’s interesting about this forensic summary?”
Zimmer clutches my arm. “No.”
We show Franny our backs, and I stay close as my legal guide and seer reaches for the doorknob. Mr. Z’s manicured fingernails are as perfect as clear plastic.
“Only two reasons I know to have your teeth surgically removed,” Franny says. “Singers sometimes do it for the sound, to change their tone or timbre. Prostitutes do it to give more expensive blow-jobs.”
I try to stop, but Zimmer pushes me through the now open doorway. My right heel skids a few inches in protest. I can’t help it. I’m curious about the effects of tooth removal on oral sex.
“I think you found something in Talbot’s past and tried to blackmail her into changing that report,” Franny says. She pushes up from the walnut table. “When Talbot wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t let Shore off the hook, you killed her.”
Over his shoulder, Mr. Z says, “You should be writing screenplays.”
Franny strides into the hallway as we’re walking away. I’d like to find out how much a toothless BJ costs, but Zimmer’s hand is pulling my elbow, forcing me farther away from the blond I like listening to. I guess he’s right. She’s not exactly friendly.
Two uniformed cops strut side-by-side toward us down the otherwise empty passage. Behind them, late afternoon sun through streaked windows casts moving, undefined shadows on the floor. The cops wear shoes that click ominously on the cream colored marble.
Franny calls out. “You’re going to jail very soon, Carr. Murder. Conspiracy. At the very least, perjury and lying to a state prosecutor.”
Mr. Z won’t let me stop or even turn to look.
“And maybe that AASD report on Shore Securities should be part of my court filings on Bluefish this afternoon,” she says.
I don’t understand her threat until Mr. Z explains on the courthouse steps. If Franny includes Talbot’s preliminary AASD report in the complaint file against Bluefish, Talbot’s co-mingling charges against Shore will be public record. Accessible to the newspapers.
If the reporters dig it up—and it sounds like Franny will make sure they do—the headlines alone are going to bury us.
My shares in Shore Securities won’t be worth the price of a first-class stamp. Only scholarships will put my kids through college.
I’ll be back living in a Chevy camper.
FORTY-SIX
Clooney’s bar is lousy with pretty, sophisticated women. All the other birds fade to gray, however, with Gina perched among them. Arrow straight, raven shiny hair covers her ears and splits in two over each shoulder. Wonder how she lost the curls? Below a trim row of bangs, Gina’s super-sized, almond shaped eyes are shadowed like an Egyptian princess. A thick necklace of oblong gold rectangles completes the Cleopatra package.
I bow before sliding onto the stool beside her. “You summoned me, your Highness?”
Actually, Clooney’s was sort of my idea. I found Gina’s message saying she wanted to talk when I came home from the courthouse. I suggested a drink overlooking the oc
ean, maybe dinner if we found the right mood. Sure I’m half in love with Franny. She’ll always be Ms. Strawberry, a vision across the Martha’s crowded upstairs barroom. But one-half for Franny still leaves one-half for the new widow Gina, right? Tony was no pal of mine.
“I hear you refused to identify Mama Bones to a state grand jury today,” Gina as Cleopatra says. Her long fingers twirl a classic martini glass.
“And I thought grand jury proceedings were secret.” I check my surroundings, make sure our conversation doesn’t become public information as well.
“A friend of a friend was in the room,” Gina says. “The friend said Dahler-Chapman went ballistic.”
“Promised to put me away for twenty years. She’s really pissed.”
Gina sips her drink. “I think I might know why.”
The bartender’s gaze asks me what I want. I order a double Wild Turkey on the rocks, wondering where Gina’s going with this one. Not much of a secret why Franny’s feeling foul.
“Okay, I’ll bite,” I say. “Besides the fact I stiffed her on my testimony, maybe ruined her case, why is Dahler all over my ass?”
“Because she and Ann Marie were good friends. I saw them together once.”
“What? When? Where?” My heart rate rises.
“It was eight or nine years ago,” Gina says. “I saw them at a private party in northern New Jersey. Tony went out one night to play poker. I was jealous, so when it got late I drove to his friend’s, found Tony and his pals frolicking with four half-naked prostitutes. Two of them were Ann Marie and Franny Dahler.”
“Why didn’t you say something before?”
“I didn’t put it together until this afternoon when I saw the picture of Dahler in the newspaper. It reminded me of Ann Marie, the two of them that night. That’s when I left the message on your telephone.”
