by Mike Faricy
Oh God, Candy thought, watching him come through the door. “Hey, pal, next time cut one of the legs off before you put that on your fat head. If you want me to take you seriously, you better stop acting like an absolute moron. By the way, breakfast was barely okay. The eggs were a little too runny. I could do with some orange juice next time, and was that saw dust I detected in that sausage or just gristle? The coffee could be a bit hotter. You might try warming the mug first. I like to—”
“Shhh-hhhh,” Mickey signaled, finger to his lips. He handed the instruction sheet to her. He wasn’t going to speak, hoping she would gradually forget what his voice sounded like yesterday.
“What’s this?” she asked, holding the piece of paper at arm’s length. “Get my glasses, they’re in my handbag,” she commanded, and nodded in the direction of her purse on the floor, making no effort to move off the bed.
He quickly did as he was told and handed her the bag.
Once she had her glasses on she quickly read the directions he had given her, then she read the brief script and his warning to not stray from his prepared text. “Yeah fine, let’s get this over with,” she said.
He punched the call button, waited until he heard the phone ring, then handed the cellphone to her.
Coach Buddy jumped from his kitchen chair at the sound of the first ring. He debated letting it record a message instead of answering. He finally answered after a number of rings and his heart sank the moment he heard his wife’s voice.
“I have been kidnapped,” she read woodenly. “Do not contact the police. You will be given instructions later today.”
Coach Buddy didn’t say anything, he stood in his kitchen, exhaling through his nose, thinking slowly, gradually coming to a realization. Kidnapped? He could live with that. “Okay,” he said and hung up.
Candy sat still for a moment feeling her face flush with anger before clicking the phone off and muttering, “Bastard” just loud enough so Mickey could hear.
Mickey took the phone, gave her a thumbs up and backed toward the door, not sure why she was so upset.
Chapter 23
Coach Buddy ran through a kidnapping play book in his mind. The kidnappers would contact him, demand money, and if he refused to pay they would kill his wife. It sounded a lot easier than pushing her down the basement steps while she carried a laundry basket. The first thing he had to do was create a series of alibis, make sure folks didn’t think he had concocted this bit of good fortune.
He thought about contacting the police but decided to wait until there was a body. Best to just stay away from the whole thing and hope for the best. Maybe there was a game tonight at the high school, he could show up, and make sure he was seen. He whistled as he left his house, nodded to a woman picking up fresh dog poop with a plastic bag over her hand. “Morning, lovely day.”
What’s that old fart up to? she wondered.
* * *
Candy was still steaming, pacing back and forth in the small room, arms folded across her chest, fists clenched, talking to herself. “That old bastard. Okay? I’ll give him okay. He had better get me out of this dreadful place and fast, or I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that he killed his first wife. So help me God, if I have to go back to Vegas and dance again, I’ll do it, I don’t care. Okay? I can’t believe he said that. We’ll just see how smart he is when I tell him the whole story is on the tip of my tongue and I’d just love to sit down and tell the cops everything. Okay, my sweet ass!”
Chapter 24
It was just past three in the afternoon, Mickey was back from the main post office where he had mailed payoff instructions to Coach Buddy three hours earlier. The instructions, minus any of Mickey’s fingerprints, would arrive with tomorrow’s mail and be one hundred percent, absolutely untraceable.
He figured they could get the ball rolling today, have the bastard get the money, or at least start the process. Another day or two with this crazy woman storming around downstairs and who knew what would happen. He’d become pretty much of an expert when it came to pissed off women, and he was positive he had one on his hands now.
He stood in front of her with the panty hose pulled over his face, thinking it would be a good idea to let Coach Buddy hear her voice for a moment so he didn’t panic and call the cops.
“There’s still no damned answer,” she said thrusting the cellphone back to Mickey. “It just rolls into the stupid message center, like it did the last time, and the time before that.”
This wasn’t making sense and Mickey absently scratched the breathable cotton panel on the back of his head. Why wouldn’t he be there to take the call? They told him to stay there and wait for the damn call.
“He’s written me off, I know him,” she said, shaking her head. “The bastard has written me off. Probably hopes you’re going to kill me, save him the trouble. He’s got me insured and . . . wait a minute.” She glared at Mickey, thrust a finger toward him, backing him up one step at a time while she fired questions.
“You didn’t plan this with him, did you? Is this all a plan, just to scare me off? Are you supposed to kill me, is that it? He’ll just play stupid, not at all hard for him, and then my body is found, and he gets another insurance check. Is that it?” She backed him across the room until he bumped against the wall, with nowhere else to go.
“No, honest, I don’t even like the guy,” Mickey stammered. “I’ve hated him ever since I was a kid. I just, I mean we just, all of us, decided that it was payback time. Figured he’d never miss a hundred grand, not with all the money he has.”
“A hundred grand,” she shrieked. “That’s it? That’s all I’m worth? This is about a lousy hundred grand, and now you can’t even get that from him? Get it from him? What the hell am I talking about? He won’t even take the damn call. I’ve made that bastard millions, literally millions of dollars. He’s just been along for the ride, the old fool. He’d never be worth a nickel if I hadn’t diversified and invested for him, and now, he won’t even take a damn phone call from me?” She walked dejectedly back to the bed, sat on the edge, arms folded, and quietly stared at the floor.
Mickey stepped away from the wall and stood in front of her. “Look at it this way, he’ll get the instructions I mailed last night. He can’t ignore those,” he said, sounding as if he was trying to convince both of them.
“And if he does?” she kept staring at her feet. “What if he does ignore them? Doesn’t do a damn thing but hope that you carry out whatever threats you made. Are you supposed to send a piece of me to show him you mean business, carve off a toe, a finger or maybe an ear? Then what, bury me in a hole with a limited amount of oxygen, and tell him he’s got twelve hours to deliver? He’ll sit in front of his damn TV, watching a game with two teams no one has ever heard of before and just wait you out. Nice work, looks like you really drew a losing hand on this one, dumb shit.” A lone tear suddenly ran down her cheek.
“Sorry,” she sniffled, and shuffled into the bathroom. She pulled some toilet paper from the roll and then loudly blew her nose.
Mickey stood there wondering what he should do. “Do you think he’ll go to the police?”
“The police?” she called from the bathroom, genuinely surprised at the question. “You gotta be kidding. No, he won’t go to the police. He won’t go there for two reasons, like I said before, the best thing you could do for him would be to get me out of his life. The worst thing he could do to himself would be to get the cops involved. He doesn’t want them to take another look at his first wife’s death. He got away with that one.”
“You ever meet her, his first wife?” Mickey asked as Candy reappeared.
“No,” she shook her head. “Like I told you, I met him in Vegas. He was out there with a sign on his forehead that said rich, stupid tourist, one-way ticket out of this town and I took it. So, no, I never met the woman. He’s got a picture of her in the front hallway. I know her name was Esther and she wasn’t much fun. He never mentions her, in fact, other than the
photo on the wall there isn’t anything of hers around, not one thing.”
“I remember her,” Mickey said. “She was one of those old time religion types, you know, someone, somewhere might be having a good time and if she could just find out where, she could put a stop to it. Used to chaperone the dances when we were kids, the two of them. You didn’t play on one of his teams you weren’t worth shit. And, if you did play on the team, unless you were the star, he made your life miserable. You know,” he said suddenly sitting down next to her on the bed, “in close to fifty years, however long he made life miserable for kids up at Kefauver High, he never had a winning season. Honest. He’s in the state record books as being the worst high school coach in the whole damn state.”
“He had this yellow wiffle ball bat,” Mickey shifted and faced her. “You remember, those bright yellow ones, hard plastic, he even put black friction tape on the grips. Christ, he’d hit you across the ass going in or coming out of the shower. It makes a very distinctive smacking sound. And he always had that damn whistle around his neck, all the while yelling, ‘move it, move it, move it’. He was a bully, picked on kids, and with that plate in his head, Christ, you were afraid he was gonna kill you.”
“Well, news bulletin to you and all the other kids who thought he was a war hero,” she said, half laughing. “He doesn’t have a plate in his head. I’ve heard some of the stories, he was never in the service except for maybe twenty days before he got out on a medical discharge. Never really did much with his life except terrorize children and push his wife down the basement steps for the insurance money.”
“He met and married you.”
“Yeah, he met and married me,” she repeated half to herself, saying it like there was a lot more to the story, but not offering up any other information.
“Sorry for the other morning,” Mickey suddenly blurted out. “I mean the pepper spray and all. I hope I didn’t frighten you, and sorry you got sick.”
“Yeah, well, let’s just move on from that. Sorry about the kick to your sweet spot, but it seemed like the thing to do at the time.”
He winced slightly at the memory.
“You mind if I ask how you plan to work this? Is he supposed to move this money into a numbered account for you? Or into some offshore corporation you’ve set up?”
“No, he gets it, we make sure he isn’t followed and he gives us cash. He doesn’t hand it directly to us, we’ll have him leave it somewhere. That’s why we decided on a modest amount. One that could be obtained without the need for any authorities to get involved. It’s not your typical million-dollar deal, but it was the desire, of all of us involved—”
“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing, do you?”
“Well, now just a minute. We—”
“Yeah, I thought so from that first moment in your car. I knew I’d been kidnapped by a moron, no offense, but it figures. You have no idea what in the hell you’re doing, and this old fool has just thrown you a curve,” she said, biting her lower lip, drumming her fingers on her knee. “Give me that phone again.”
He hesitated for a moment. She reached over, grabbed it from him, punched in a number, put the phone to her ear and waited. He made a halfhearted attempt to reach for the phone, but she pushed his hand away and turned her back toward him.
“Yes, yes, this is Candice Belsmer, could you connect me with Mr. Preston’s office. Yes, thank you. Just wait,” she said, turning to Mickey. “I think I’ve got a way out of this for all of us, just— Yes, Bentley Preston, please. I see, well, this is rather urgent, this is Candice Belsmer, would you mind interrupting him and asking him to take my call. Yes, thank you. Meeting,” she half whispered. “The guy’s probably practicing hitting damn golf balls in his office with the door closed, these guys never . . . Bentley. Thanks for taking my call, so sorry to interrupt, listen I wanted to make a transfer before close tomorrow, the Grand Cayman account. You can check your records, but I believe the last time we did this was back in February. No, I’ll be in tomorrow at say, eleven o’clock.” She looked over at Mickey and nodded.
He wasn’t sure how to respond.
“Yes, perfect. Oh, yes, I suppose you would need that, let’s make it two million, even. Yes, wonderful, looking forward to seeing you tomorrow at eleven to sign that paperwork. Thank you, Bentley. " She pushed the end button and handed the phone back to Mickey.
She got off the bed, walked into the bathroom, and stood in front of the mirror. “I’m going to need you to take me home tomorrow morning before the meeting at the bank, I’ll want to pack a few things, get some clean clothes for my flight.”
“Did you just tell that guy two million dollars? What the hell just happened here?”
“Let’s be honest, this whole thing has gotten away from you. You could be asking for a hundred bucks and you still wouldn’t get it from Buddy. He doesn’t want me back, unless it’s in cube sized chunks from a butcher shop. The answer to his dream would be that you carry out whatever threat you made.”
“I can tell you right now what he’s doing. He’s out running into people all over town, so they see him, making purchases, all under ten dollars by the way, the cheapskate. So he can demonstrate, if ever asked, that he had nothing to do with this kidnapping. Then, hoping I’ll show up dead, he can sit all day in front of ESPN, eating Coco Puffs and watching one mindless game after another. The only reason I’m even alive is that I made a recording the night of our wedding.”
“Isn’t he worried about that recording getting out there?”
“He might be, but to tell the truth, I’m more than a little tired playing the model wife. Big deal, I get out of town once every three months, kick up my heels and raise a little hell. I’ve been working on getting out for a while, it’s a little sooner than I planned, but the more I think about it, this will work just fine. I’ve got the accounts set up, a condo, credit cards. I’m not taking everything from him, just half. Hell, by rights I could leave him with the original insurance amount. After all, I’m the one who made all that dough for him, but I’m not going to do that. I’ll be nice and split it, fifty-fifty. Oh yeah, and I’ll give you a finders fee, your hundred grand. What do you care where it comes from? Deal?” she said and stuck out her hand for Mickey to shake.
He tentatively shook her hand, not sure what he had just agreed to.
“Great, now will you please take those stupid panty hose off your head? They’re really bugging me.”
Chapter 25
Dell was rotating his shoulder as he walked past Mickey’s car and into the basement. Another long day, and at the end of it his body reminded him in no uncertain way about the aches and pains of sheet rocking for a living. He worried about the rotator cup and planned to spend some time icing it down that night.
Of course, then there was Mickey, and this Candy woman, not to mention Coach Buddy. He noticed the door to her room was open at about the same time he heard the laughter and music coming from upstairs. He hurried up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time.
“So, he says to me,” it was Candy talking and laughing. “Well, can I just watch then and I’m thinking this guy can’t be that stupid, can he?”
Mickey was laughing, leaning against the counter with a beer in his hand and there, standing in front of the stove, wrapped in a white terrycloth bathrobe, sipping a glass of wine and stirring a large pot was their latest project.
“Here, Mickey, now taste this. See what I mean about slicing the garlic really thin, you get that subtle little flavor. Go ahead, try it.” She held a large wooden spoon toward Mickey with an open hand underneath ready to catch any potential drip.
“Mmm-mmm, hot,” said Mickey, blowing on the spoon for a second before taking another taste.
“What in the hell are you doing?” Dell said.
“Oh, Dell, hey you gotta try Candy’s spaghetti sauce, here, it’s to die for, man. Really good,” Mickey said.
“Oh, where, are my manners? Candy, I mean Candice Belsm
er, my lifelong friend and pal, Dell Dolan. Dell, meet Candy.”
“Hi, Dell, it’s a pleasure,” Candy said.
Dell just stood staring, a blanker look than normal on his face. After a long silence, Candy turned back to her pot of spaghetti sauce.
“Can we talk?” Dell said, and headed back down the basement stairs without waiting for Mickey’s answer.
“What in the hell are you doing, man? Are you nuts? You let her see you? You told her your . . . no, make that our names? I mean, Mick, what the hell?”
“Relax, I’ve got it all taken care of. We’re paid, in full, she’s going to do it herself. She’s gonna ditch the coach, and start off fresh, on her own. You don’t have a thing to worry about. So, just calm down.”
“Calm down!” Dell half shouted. “Calm down? I’m stupid enough to let you talk me into being a part of your hair brain scheme and now you want me to calm down? Mickey, you don’t kidnap someone and then cook spaghetti sauce with them once they offer to pay you.”
He thrust a finger in Mickey’s face. “And you sure as hell don’t tell them your name or show your face, not to mention mine. I’m going to end up doing hard time on this one and it serves me right. I’m going to spend the rest of my life behind bars because I was stupid enough to get mixed up with you and this latest stupid idea of yours. Mick, I’m going to lose everything here, my house, my job, the lake place. It’s gone,” he said and shook his head.
“Take a deep breath and calm down for a minute, Dell.”
“No. It’s all gone. Federal charges. Then that other woman will come out of the woodwork, Huey’s kid. Oh this is just great. Huey will be on us like ugly on an ape. Only a matter of time before they decide what facility they’ll lock us up in and just throw away the damn key. Perfect, just perfect, not only will they lock me up, they’ll lock me up with you. And you know what? It serves me right, it just absolutely serves me right.”
