Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery)

by Jack Getze

  When he pops the Buick’s trunk, I resist too late and Creeper easily pushes me inside the tight compartment. Going down, I bang my head on the trunk hinge.

  Creeper tucks my feet and shoulders inside, slams the lid. The compression of air pops my ears. Total darkness engulfs me.

  After what seems an hour drive, Creeper hoists my body from the Buick trunk and stands me up. We’re back in New Jersey at some private marina, maybe in Leonardo or Atlantic Highlands. Pretty sure I can see Sandy Hook directly across the water. The salty smell of the ocean invigorates my mood. Maybe we’re going fishing.

  He cuts the tape around my ankles and walks me out on a wooden pier. This should be fun, the crack of dawn a perfect time to bait fish, and those burlap bags Creeper brought along from the trunk should, like blankets, keep us warm. It’s going to be cold out there on Sandy Hook Bay.

  Creeper leads me to a skiff tied at the end of the dock. The small, flat-bottomed boat holds a pile of lead weights and heavy linked chain.

  Uh-oh.

  FIFTY-NINE

  Cold out here on the glassy waters of Sandy Hook Bay. Downright bitter. My teeth chatter like castanets, my nose runs and the skin on my arms has more bumps than a fresh plucked chicken.

  Creeper’s massive shoulders paddled us a mile offshore in nine strokes, faster I think than a two hundred horsepower, turbocharged Evinrude. Now he’s planting the oars and unfurling curtains of burlap. Gulls squawk and circle overhead. Marine vultures, each of them. Hungry and waiting.

  The pointed bow, flat-stern skiff barely rises and falls on this morning’s light swell. My butt’s flat on the boat bottom, an aluminum bench poking me in the ribs. A thick, gray mist hovers above the ocean’s relatively calm surface, a smoky fog that smells like spoiled clams.

  Despite my gloomy surroundings, immediately preceding events and the obvious implication of Creeper employing a chain filled boat to transport us, I’ve been making a wholehearted effort not to over-analyze my future. Up until now, that is. But somehow the cold air, the chattering teeth...well, logic suggests it might be time to focus on my impending death. Use the bitter cold of eternity as motivation for my absolutely finest Gift of Gab. Come on, Carr. Let him have it.

  “Mmmm. Mmmm.”

  I forgot my lips are sealed with duct tape. This makes communication more difficult, certainly. On the plus side, however, when my golden tongue somehow does get me out of this impossible and dangerous impasse, Letterman, Oprah, Ripley’s—they’ll all want interviews. I’ll have to hire a PR chick.

  “Lay down on the burlap,” Creeper says.

  I roll onto the brown, itchy shroud. Intended shroud, that is. I still have a shot. I have plans. But I wish those damn seagulls would shut up. Too much competition for Creeper’s attentions.

  “MMMMMM,” I say. Louder I hope.

  The big man stares at me. His gray eyes are softer than I imagined, the coldness not out front. But the crooked smile that forms on his razor-thin lips...well, that’s reminiscent of a gash once received from a broken beer bottle.

  “You have final words?” Creeper says. “Okay. Is big American tradition. I see plenty of movies.”

  He rips the tape from my mouth. My lips are half ripped off. But the Great Spirit smiles on me. A chance for redemption. Take your very best shot, boy. This IS your Last Battle on Earth.

  “Why are you killing me?” I ask. “Gina Farascio is the one who planned your boss’s assassination, had you shot, killed your friend Jerry. Obviously you know that. You just broke her neck.”

  Creeper starts wrapping me in the torn-up burlap bags. Burrito el Broker. He says, “My boss and my friend both die in your friend’s restaurant. Right after you leave, too. You are part.”

  This is a bum rap. “I didn’t know, Max. That’s why Luis sent me away. So I wouldn’t be a part of the killing. Maybe Luis didn’t even know. I can’t imagine him allowing such a thing in his restaurant. But even if Luis knew—and I don’t think he did—you can’t blame him. Bluefish wanted him dead.”

  Creeper’s monster shoulders roll forward, a shrug that slightly rocks our boat. He continues to truss me in the scratchy burlap. The gulls squawk louder, like they might be getting excited.

  Creeper is not going to be an easy sale, and the birds know it, too.

  “It was Gina, Max. It was always Gina. As soon as I asked her husband to help me fend off Bluefish, Farascio’s family must have decided to take Shore for themselves. It’d be easy with me in charge, Mr. Vic out of town.”

  You need a kicker on that one, Carr. Come on. “And they would’ve taken Shore if you hadn’t of gotten rid of Tony and Gina for me.”

  Creeper’s done with the burlap. Forget the burrito image. I must look like a cheese stuffed, whole wheat Hoagie roll. Creeper’s tennis racket hands snatch up a truckload of chain link. Then, one loop at a time, Creeper begins to package me in my ocean-going steel jewelry.

  “I’d be signing over Shore to the Farascio family right now if you hadn’t killed Gina. Truth is I owe you.”

  Creeper threads two loops around my waist. The weight of the chain presses the rough burlap tight against my skin.

  “Owe me?” he says.

  I suck a gulp of air. “Definitely. You saved me—I don’t know—maybe a couple of hundred grand over the next couple of years. You might deserve a big reward.”

  He throws more steel around my neck.

  “Reward?” he says.

  My body chills like I’m at the bottom of a grave, the cold dirt splashing against my throat and face. But I must battle on. “Ab-so-fucking-lutely,” I say. “Very big. How about I write you a check tonight for fifty thousand, plus tomorrow we write up a contract for your services? Full-time employment at Shore Securities. What do you need? Two hundred grand a year?”

  Creeper removes a brass padlock from the pocket of his Dockers. His cucumber-size fingers struggle to line up the two ends of the chain. “I think no,” he says.

  SIXTY

  The urge, of course, is to panic. I mean, this reward baloney is not fooling Creeper. But...and this is a big but, a real redline rule of sales...to switch arguments now is guaranteed failure. Positive doom.

  Think going over Niagara Falls in a tea cup.

  See, with any client, you can never give up, never let them believe they know better than you. You have to maintain expert status or the whole relationship sinks. You keep pushing benefits, asking for the order.

  When he can, a big hitter like my ex-pal Walter Osgood will pick on some unique area of the client’s psyche, some weak spot where the customer is particularly soft and vulnerable.

  What was that story Beth told me about her time with Creeper?

  “Max,” I say. “Your boss is dead. So is your friend Jerry. Where the hell are you going to go? Back to the circus? Maybe they’ll let you clean the cages of the lions and tigers. Those big smelly cats.”

  Creeper jams the lock through both ends of the chain, his jaw muscles flexing. But he hesitates...frowning before snapping that puppy shut. Oh my God. He’s thinking about it. Creeper’s actually considering my desperate and semi-ridiculous proposal.

  Time to ask for the order.

  “Work for me, Max. You won’t be sorry. Let’s go to my office right now, I’ll write you that check for fifty thou. What do you say?”

  Creeper stares at the still open padlock. A passenger jet heading into Liberty-Newark cruises low in the steel blue morning sky. My heart knocks against my ribs.

  Click. Creeper locks me up. The chain around me seems to double in weight, an anchor pushing me against the aluminum hull of the boat.

  “Max no talk good,” he says. “Cannot be stockbroker.”

  I work hard to adopt a full-boat smile. I know it looks bad. I mean, he shut the padlock, converting my ass into a two hundred fifty pound, semi-verbal fishing sinker. But the truth is I swear I’ve almost got him. I know it sounds nuts, but I’m telling you. I’m close to closing him. Come on, Carr. Drive this b
ig ugly puppy into the doghouse.

  “You don’t have to be a stockbroker,” I say. “In fact, you don’t have to say a word to anybody if you don’t want to. I’ll tell my employees you’re a mute.”

  Max shakes his head. “You big liar. Your own daughter say so. Also a wimp. Elizabeth tell me about your electrical sex with wife.”

  Huh? How does Beth know about that? “You mean Susan’s Mobachi 3000?”

  Max snorts. “Yeah.”

  At least snorting is what I think his thick ugly nostrils are doing. He could be just cleaning his nose. You don’t pick up a lot of social etiquette wrestling bears.

  I take a deep breath. Turn it around, Mr. Golden Tongue. Turn this wimp thing around. “That should make your decision easy,” I say. “I’m a trusting soul, Max. It’s true. I want to get along, let everybody do what they have to do. For a tough guy like you, I’ll always be an easy mark. In other words, I’m such a wimp, you can always kill me later. Anytime you feel like it. Like after you cash that fifty thousand dollar check.”

  Creeper’s gaze falls to the padlock. “Is stupid idea. Max no stockbroker.”

  Son-of-a-bitch, this sale is still alive. “Forget stockbrokers, Max. You say nothing to anyone, except maybe ‘Get the fuck out of my way.’ I want you to drive my car, Max, be my bodyguard. Gina and Tony’s friends might try something.”

  Creeper fingers the lock. His gaze climbs to the brightening Sunday morning sky. A pastel blue now, warming the damp air.

  Like a pre-1990 computer, I can hear Creeper’s square head ticking. Slowly, he twists to look at me. I sense curiosity in his gray eyes.

  “What kind of car would Max drive?”

  SIXTY-ONE

  One Month Later...

  “Are we going for Mexican again?”

  Ryan’s six-word query comes across as one long whine. I know my son doesn’t like hot sauce or even overly spiced food, but I thought my budding all-star shortstop enjoyed Umberto’s relatively mild chicken chimichangas. He never said he didn’t.

  “It is my Wednesday night to pick the restaurant,” I say.

  Beth shakes her head. She’s glaring out the passenger window in the backseat of my Camry. “And that means Luis’s. You haven’t picked another place for us to eat on Wednesday in like, what? Three years?”

  “What about that night we went to Zorro’s for a masked cheeseburger?”

  Beth says, “Masked cat was more like it. And the only reason we went there was because Luis’s was closed for a few days after the fire.”

  I brake the Camry at a red light on Broad Street. A mile-long white stretch limo pulls up beside us, diverting my mind from repartee’ with Beth. Why do these limos always have blackout windows? Like if we actually saw Bruce Springsteen or Harlan Coben, we might jump straight out of our cars and attack them?

  Green light. I push down on the gas pedal. Thanks to the ex-wife’s change of heart, I have Beth and Ryan again on Wednesday nights, plus every other weekend. When I showed Susan’s attorney how well Shore was doing, what my new ownership percentage was, the man became very interested. When I showed him how I’d named Susan custodian of the kids’ college mutual fund accounts, well, he became almost friendly.

  So did Susan, actually. Soft and gooey. She actually smiled at me tonight when I picked up the kids. Nothing like a mid-five-figure bribe.

  Being the one to “capture” Creeper probably helped my cause as well. Though I discouraged the idea, primarily because the perception was inaccurate, the media continually played up the sensational angle of a father using his Gift of Gab to trick a murderer, his daughter’s kidnapper, into surrendering. In truth, I probably would have made Creeper my driver, as promised, if some shell collecting beach bum hadn’t seen Creeper with Gina’s shotgun, called 9-1-1 right away on his Nokia.

  Those Keansburg cops swarmed over us like locusts fifty feet from the dock, had Creeper in handcuffs before I could explain the special conditions of his new employment.

  He must have had outstanding warrants.

  We hit another red light. “Tell you what, kids,” I say. “As a special treat, in celebration of this modest family reunion, I’ll take the two of you back to the Locust Tree Inn for steak and lobster. Bluefish and the Creeper won’t be there, but maybe we’ll meet some other—”

  “NOOOO,” Ryan and Beth say. Their combined voices vibrate the Camry’s windows.

  I was only kidding. I’m hitting Luis’s tonight for reasons other than tequila and burritos.

  “You are a silly man,” Mama Bones says. “You see those two pretty girls at the end of the bar?”

  “Yes.”

  Luis’s Mexican Grill is filled with Bonacelli clan members tonight—all the Bonacellis and the happy, recently encouraged crew of Shore Securities. We’re having a party to celebrate Mr. Vic’s return from Tuscany, not to mention the surge in new accounts shared by all.

  “Luis is in love with the girl on the right,” Mama Bones says. “One with dark hair and dark eyes. Her name is Solana.”

  I give Vic’s mother the full-boat Carr grin. Don’t want Mama Bones turning me into a toad.

  She lets the twinkle in her eyes spread across her whole face. Wrinkle by wrinkle. “You such a goofball, Austin. You’re lucky I’m not ten years younger.”

  Ten years? Hell, twenty wouldn’t give her a shot. “I’m sure you were something, Mama Bones.”

  “You better believe it.”

  I nod and grin like one of those bobble head dolls. I have another question on my mind. “So, before I get back to my kids over there—”

  “Where?”

  I nod, pointing with my head.

  “Oh, you got very beautiful children.”

  “Thanks. But please, a question. Were you the woman who called me from Clooney’s that Saturday night, the person who set me up to see Franny give Gina that DVD?”

  The smile on Mama Bones’ face freezes. “How you figure that out, smarty pants?”

  I knew it. “Just a hunch.”

  “Hunch, huh?” Mama Bones touches her chin. “Yeah, I’m the one who called. I wanted you to see that state copper with Gina. That copper playing every side of the fence.”

  Mama Bones might have her villains mixed up. Blood can be thicker than truth. It was Gina who wanted to sell out Shore Securities to Brooklyn. “But why show me that DVD? What was I going to do about it?”

  “What you did worked out fine, smarty pants. It’s sad about my niece, but now Vittorio keeps his business.”

  I touch Mama Bone’s shoulder. She’s going to be very unhappy with me later. “I’m sorry about Gina, Mama Bones. She was a very special person.”

  Mama Bones lowers her gaze. Wonder if she’s up for a mob promotion now that Bluefish is dead?

  “I’m going back to my table,” she says. “My Vittorio will be here soon. I know he is anxious to see you. But when you come over to my table later, I want you to meet my sister’s girl Nicky.”

  “Right.”

  “She gotta a great figure.”

  SIXTY-TWO

  When Beth, Ryan and I finish eating, we walk three blocks to Carvel’s for ice cream. Though it’s fun to show and share with my children things I liked as a kid, my job as parent isn’t only to be protector and pal. Once every visit—six times a month—I exercise them like boarding horses and rein the discussion down trails my children might not like to travel.

  “So you two are studying hard in school, right?”

  They both nod, Beth with somewhat less enthusiasm. I used to slip in questions like this when I thought they least expected interrogation, another technique I learned watching television cop shows. But ambush with teenagers is hard these days. Too many video games with terrifying monsters.

  “The grades are still good, right?” I ask. “Both of you?”

  “I got all A’s and B’s for the year,” Ryan says.

  Silence from my daughter. Uh oh.

  “Beth?” I scrunch my eyebrows when she glan
ces at me. Never underestimate disapproval as a training tool.

  “Maybe I got a C or two this time,” she says.

  My ex-wife will have a hissy fit. Beth has been all A’s and B’s since kindergarten.

  I lick my double-fudge chocolate on a sugar cone. “School is extremely important,” I say. “Life is about choices. Good grades and more schooling gives you extra choices. Bad grades, no college, your career options are pretty much restaurants and hospitals. Waiting tables or changing bedpans is what our current, aging population most craves. The Baby Boomers are eating their way into early bad health.”

  Ryan stares straight ahead. I may have gone too far with my explanations.

  “We know the speech, Daddy,” Beth says. “We need a college education to earn The Big Money.”

  After I drop Beth and Ryan at Susan’s new house, a four-bedroom ranch two blocks from the beach, I head back to Luis’s.

  I’m at the bar, being introduced to Luis’s girlfriend, Solana, when Mr. Vic parades inside the restaurant like he’s the first astronaut coming home from the moon. Talk about your favorite son. Takes him fifteen minutes just to hug and kiss his five sisters, Mr. Vic being passed from table to table like a bottle of ketchup. Shaking hands, slapping shoulders, laughing with the men between lip smacking the women.

  With the Bonacellis, one virus today gets you twenty colds tomorrow.

  An hour later, we’re finally alone. Mr. Vic says, “So business is good despite the bad publicity?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say.

  We’re drinking margaritas at the corner table beneath Luis’s wall-mounted television. The Yankees and Red Sox are playing a pre-season game in Boston. The whole U-shaped bar—a baseball bleacher section in disguise—cheers the TV, a buffer between us and the Bonacelli-Shore revelers. Much to the baseball fans’ chagrin, Luis let Mama Bones turn up the house music for dancing. The combined roar is deafening.