The Things We Do for Love

by Benjamin M. Schutz

  We finished the song and walked back to our cottage. Jane went straight to bed. I sat out on the balcony waiting for word from Rocky Franklin. For the first time in years I wished I had a cigarette. Not even to smoke it. Just to see its red eye in the darkness.

  It was well after one o’clock when I decided to turn in. I reminded myself that no news is good news, but it isn’t. It’s just bad news ripening.

  CHAPTER 34

  I woke up slowly, stretching under the covers, arching and twisting to work out the tension I felt. Eyes finally open, I saw the clock: 10:32. Rolling out of bed, I slogged into the bathroom, washed my face, brushed my teeth and went to the dresser to get some clothes. Slipping into my shoes and pulling on my shirt, I saw an envelope wedged into the corner of the mirror. I pulled it out. It was sealed and my name was printed on it in block letters. At an angle Jane had scrawled “This came at 8:45. Didn’t want to wake you, so I signed for you. Gone to breakfast. Hope you slept well, Savannah Jane.”

  I ripped open the envelope. It was Rocky’s reply.

  1. Boat registered to Tiburon Enterprises, subsidiary of Angelo Carnesecca, loan shark and laundromat, out of L.A.

  2. Dick Richards, an alias for Niccolo Ricciardi, muscle for Carnesecca. Tied to four hits. No convictions.

  3. Ballantine called Carnesecca’s private line twice on last day you were there.

  4. Crawford never heard from Ballantine.

  5. Coxworth positively ID’d photo of Ricciardi.

  6. Trumbull family terrified. Wouldn’t talk to me.

  7. Find a hole. Kendall en route. ETA 11:05.

  Rocky

  I folded up the note and ran from the room. Minutes later I was banging on Kevin Dean’s door but no one answered. The front desk clerk told me that he was at the service gate supervising delivery of some new equipment. I scribbled a message to him and gave the note to the clerk.

  “Get this to Mr. Dean immediately. It’s an emergency. One of the guests is in great danger.”

  The clerk gave the message to a porter who ran out the back door. I sprinted through the dining area, then checked the sundries shop and the tennis shop. I ran down the beach looking for her on a lounge chair or in the water. I stopped staff members and described Jane to them. No one had seen her.

  My anxiety soared as the number of places she might be safely found plummeted toward zero. She wasn’t in the beach bar. I tried the dive shop.

  The boy on duty had seen her. “Yeah, man. She come down, maybe an hour ago. Boat boy took her out.”

  “Where to?”

  “Don’t know, man.”

  “Is the boat boy here?”

  “No. He’s gone north beaches. Be back soon.”

  “Did he take her south, then?”

  “Don’t know, man.”

  “Was she alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  I looked out at the dock. Moored at the end was the small boat used for taking people out to the yacht. I was sure they wouldn’t let me take it so I had no intention of asking permission.

  “How many beaches are south?”

  “Two.”

  “Which one has a deep water cove. High rocks at each end?”

  “That be Sugar Bay.”

  “Any way to get there by land?”

  “No. No roads down there. Only way is by boat.”

  “Okay, thanks. Well, that’s where I’ll be. Sugar Bay.” I made sure to enunciate my destination with unmistakeable clarity.

  I walked to the end of the dock and looked out to sea. The boat was tethered from the bow. The motor had a simple pull starter. I looked back at the dock house. The boy was digging out some snorkel gear for two couples.

  I stepped into the boat, undid the line, yanked the starter cord and sat down. Turning the tiller, I aimed for the channel cut through the reef. I found it, went into open sea and headed south.

  Behind me, the boy from the dive shop stood at the dock’s end yelling and waving his arms.

  Throttle open, I hugged the coastline, getting drenched as I pounded along. I cut back the throttle and slowed to check out the first beach. It was empty. I raced on full throttle toward Sugar Bay. My shoulder was stiff and sore from gripping the tiller.

  The nearest tower of rocks came into view and I cut back the throttle. I swung wide of the rocks, saw the channel and steered toward the beach. A large pink towel was spread on the sand. I looked up and down the beach for Jane and saw nothing. My fear became a black lump of dread, the conviction that I was looking for a dead body.

  At that moment, a plume of water spouted up and I saw Jane’s snorkel break the surface. I waved to her and she began to swim over. I let the engine idle, and threw out the anchor. Jane came alongside, spit out her snorkel and pushed her mask up off of her face.

  “Hi,” she said, “Nice to see you.”

  “Likewise, believe me. Let me help you on board. We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Why? We have plenty of time. Our plane doesn’t leave until four-thirty.”

  “No, we don’t. I just found out that Ballantine’s investor is a mob laundromat and they’ve sent a man down here to protect their investment.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you’ll either agree to the deal, like the Trumbulls agreed to drop their lawsuit, or you’ll probably have a fatal accident.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. Why kill me? What does that accomplish.”

  “You said it yourself. The other three can recoup most of the audience the original group had. If you die on the brink of success, that’s great publicity. The group rebounds from tragedy. Nothing sells like sex, but death is the next best thing. Better yet, no one knows that you were going to reject the deal or split from the group. You’re not out there as a competing act. All they need is a new singer to put in front of the group. How many Heather Heywoods do you think are out there? Nobody will think twice about stepping into your shoes.”

  “That may be true, but what are they going to sing? Without my songs, they’ve got nothing. It’ll take them a year to regroup. The music business has a thirty-second attention span and a ten-minute memory. Without an album, a year from now we’ll be a question in Trivial Pursuit.”

  “The songs you’ve written, where are they?”

  “At my apartment.”

  “Copyrighted yet?”

  “No. I was going to send them to the copyist when I got back to L.A.”

  “I guarantee you that your apartment has been trashed and they’ve got your songs. What are you going to do about that? It’s your word against theirs.”

  “I don’t care. I’ll sue. I’ll tie them up in court forever.”

  “Do you hear yourself? Without you around they can take them right into the studio, then spend a year looking for a new songwriter.”

  “This can’t be right. I know Nicky and I haven’t seen eye to eye on things but he would never do this. I mean, kill me?”

  “Jane, I don’t think this is Nicky’s show any more. He’s a greedy, impatient guy and he took on some partners who are calling the shots now. I’m sure they’re the ones who fronted him the money for the video you made. You described it yourself. All the money goes through Nick. There are countless ways for them to skim money off the top or launder dirty money. Over the course of a group’s career that could be millions of dollars to them. Now that they’ve got Nick and this group, other groups are going to come along and the money starts to multiply. You could screw all that up. You don’t think that makes you worth killing? To these people you’re a little blond bimbo who makes funny noises. They’d kill you as soon as look at you.”

  Jane was ashen. “Let’s get out of here. Things are even worse than you know.”

  “Why? What is it?”

  “I called Nicky this morning and told him the deal was off, and that I didn’t care what the group did.”

  “Shit. That’s all they were waiting for. Sit back by the motor. Hold onto the tiller
until I get the anchor up.” I brought the line in hand over hand. This was the worst possible place to be. The hit had to look accidental and the body easily found. That way there would be no investigation and the least possible delay in resurrecting the deal. An accidental drowning would be perfect. Plenty of people would recall that Jane was a novice in the water.

  “Oh no,” Jane groaned.

  I turned my head. A power boat was bearing down on us. I tried to calculate our chances of getting the anchor up and moving before she rammed us.

  “We’ll never make it,” I yelled. “Jump. Swim for it.”

  I jumped left and Jane went right as they rammed and splintered the boat. I bobbed up and down in the wake and lost sight of Jane as the boat went past. A head popped up and arms lunged at me. I jerked back, rolled away and swam for my life.

  My arm was killing me. I dove below the surface, turned and saw my pursuer. He swam along in no obvious hurry. There had to be a reason. I glanced around. The cruiser had turned back and was sitting in the center of the cove. I couldn’t see Jane anywhere. She had to be on the other side of the boat. I guessed at my chances of getting out past the reef and around to the next beach. Maybe there was a road there and I could get some help. I swam toward the reef when a shot rang out and ricocheted off the rocks behind me.

  The man behind me was gaining on me. I set off in another direction. Half a dozen panicky strokes later another shot made me stop. A couple more sprints to nowhere and I’d be exhausted. My pursuer would have no trouble drowning me. I wasn’t ready to make my stand yet. I dove down and swam along the edge of the cove. When I surfaced, another shot pinned me down.

  I swam to my right, each stroke more ragged than the one before. I stopped without a shot being fired. When I surfaced, I spit water and gasped. I couldn’t see my pursuer.

  I sank again, thrashing with my good arm. When I bobbed up, my pursuer was close by. His black hair was plastered to his skull in the shape of an arrowhead. He was smiling.

  This time I gulped air and held it as I sank again. He moved in closer, waiting for me to surface. I tucked in my chin like a turtle.

  I came up and he was on me. His hands circled my neck. I went under and he pressed down. I looked into his face, his eyes wide, cheeks puffed with air, veins distended. My eyes rolled back and he pressed harder. I grabbed his upper arms yanked him forward and butted his nose. Blood was everywhere. I was free. I grabbed him in a bear hug and buried my head on his chest. We rolled over under water and I rode him downward like a sled. I kicked as hard as I could. He twisted and writhed from side to side. We picked up speed.

  I felt the pull of the seawater rushing past me. Hold on, hold on. My arms burned with the poisons of fatigue that moved like sewage through my veins. You wanted to show me the bottom, motherfucker, let’s go see the bottom. The water sucked us down. We smacked into the grate on the mouth of the pipe. He was pinned to it like a bug on a board. I slid my arms from around him. His hands clawed for me, but his arms were fixed to the grate. I pulled my legs up and pushed off from his stomach. The pull of the pipe threw me toward the rim of the cove. I broke water, gasped and dove under. He was spread-eagled, wide-eyed, with blood drifting by his face like a veil. When the last bubbles escaped his mouth, a small fish swam inside. My fate looked much better on him.

  I rolled up just below the surface, gulped air and dove back down. Two pairs of legs were running in the shallow water. I felt like I was swimming through Jell-O. One pair of legs caught up with the other. I saw Jane’s head go under the water. She was having her accident. She twisted and turned. Her nails dug deeper into the wrists that held her under.

  I staggered up out of the water and lumbered toward the man who was drowning her. Shots rang out around me. I saw a second boat in the cove.

  There he was, bent over, with his arms extended. The son of a bitch was whistling, like he was just washing his clothes. My first punch hit him in the kidneys. He gasped, let go of Jane and lurched toward the beach. I followed up by kicking his nuts up between his ears. Jane was staggering around in the water. Hands at her throat, she was gasping and choking. The whistler was trying to crawl away. I jumped on him, grabbed an ear in each hand and rammed his face into the sand. I sat there feeding him the beach until two island cops pulled me off.

  CHAPTER 35

  We spent another two days at the resort, courtesy of the island police. The coroner’s inquest into the drowning death of Niccolo Ricciardi resulted in a finding of justifiable homicide. The other man, Sidney Bufano, was bound over for trial and held without bond. Jane and I would get to visit the island again in about three months.

  Nicky Ballantine was being questioned by the U.S. Attorney’s office about Angelo Carnesecca, money laundering, skimming, payola, tax fraud and a variety of other misunderstandings. My bet was that Nicky would roll over on his old buddies and go into the witness protection program. If there was any justice he’d come out selling aluminum siding in Topeka.

  The label had someone on the island twenty-four hours after our accidents. Jane and I sat in our room and listened to their new, improved offer: one LP guaranteed, one video, no tour support, one-hundred-thousand dollar recording budget and no veto on lyrics, producer, or cover art. Jane understood that all the free publicity and the mystique of “the group that people were willing to kill for” was too much for the label to ignore. This deal was for a novelty item, a curiosity. She agreed to it anyway. It was their chance. If the music didn’t sell itself, so be it.

  We flew to Dulles Airport. Arnie Kendall, who had been on the police boat that had stormed the cruiser in Sugar Bay, sat behind us. The pilot announced our approach to the airport. I nudged Jane awake.

  “Huh,” she said. “Where are we?”

  “We’re about to land,” I said. I was in a mild Halcion fog.

  Our smooth landing did nothing to disturb that. We rode the mobile lounge to the terminal.

  “Do you think there will be any trouble?” Jane asked. “I just want to get in and out of there.”

  “How long is your layover?” Arnie asked.

  “About an hour.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said. “Some diehard fans, the terminally curious, a few reporters maybe. Arnie will take good care of you.”

  I turned back toward Arnie. “Franklin Security Services is providing three uniformed men for you. It’s your show to run. When Jane is safely on her way, note the time so we can pay them. Send me the bill for your services.”

  The lounge pulled up to the dock. Through the glass doors I could see the gathering crowd. The doors opened and people began to walk out. As we moved toward the front, I saw three or four microphones extended. They were about as welcome a sight as a spiked tongue depressor. I almost turned and told Jane to follow me out, but caught myself. Let it go, man, it’s over.

  Arnie stepped in front of Jane and said, “Follow me, Ms. Summers.”

  Jane gripped my wrist. I looked into those amethyst eyes and that generous mouth one last time.

  “Good luck and …” Her chin trembled.

  “Goodbye, Savannah Jane,” I said, rescuing us both.

  Arnie went right, pulling Jane in his wake. I went left and searched the crowd for Samantha.

  “Leo,” she said, gliding through the crowd toward me. She slipped inside my arms, took my face in her hands and kissed me ferociously. She stepped back and looked me over. “Are you okay?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I hugged her close to me, kissed her back, and walked with her through the airport.

  I looked back one last time and saw the top of Jane’s head moving behind Arnie’s broad back. I felt a big piece of me was walking away with her and it was okay.

  Samantha followed my eyes. “Is there anything I should know?”

  “No, there’s nothing to tell.”

  “Good.” I felt Sam slip her hand into my back pocket.

  “What’s all this about going to work for some company, becoming a bo
ss in a detective agency?”

  “It’s a long story, Sam. I took a hard look at how I’ve been living and why and whether I want to do that anymore.”

  “And what did you find out?” she asked, stopping and turning to face me.

  “I realized that I’ve always thought it was those moments when the shit hit the fan, when everything was on the line that you found out what kind of man you were. My work, my whole life has been a way to maneuver myself to those moments. Now I’m not so sure that’s the only way to measure yourself. Maybe the harder route is being present and accounted for, day in and day out, without the high drama. Just showing up no matter what. I don’t know. I’m not sure I can change but I want to try.”

  Sam searched my face. “You’re doing this for yourself, right, not for me?”

  “Yeah. You’re in there, but I’m doing this because I want to. I want to live and grow old with a woman. I want to find out if I’m the kind of man who can do that. That’s how I want to measure myself now.”

  Sam smiled, kicked up a heel and leaned against me. She slipped her tongue into my ear and whispered, “Let’s go home. I want to try this new you on for size.”

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Leo Haggerty Mysteries

  1

  No doubt about it, Charlie Babcock had spit right in my eye. A nice thick one to boot.

  I pushed back from my desk and spun around in my chair. Round and round I went like a dog checking out its bed. I slid my new glasses up onto my forehead and rubbed my eyes. Nothing worked, the cases were still there. I had given them one last chance to take wing and they had obstinately refused. Who did they think I was, Harry S. Truman? I looked at my watch. Two prime Saturday night hours gone, shot, pissed away, and nothing to show for them except some freshly sharpened pencils and a notepad that now sported hospital corners.

  I took a deep breath, adjusted my glasses, and stacked the case files in ascending order of awful. Three weeks ago I’d fired Babcock for falsifying expense vouchers. Since then, he’d contacted every person he’d had under surveillance and told them who was watching them and why. No doubt he’d vastly improved on our severance package. I let him go with just a busted lip.