Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) (10 page)

TWENTY-SIX

Mama Bones keys the entrance to what looks like a giant log cabin. The scrub-pine forest has been cleared to within a hundred yards of the roofed, plank board porch we stand on, a boardwalk that encircles the two-story, all-log building. Behind us, a dirt clearing offers parking space for a Boeing 747 beside our white Escalade. An owl hoots. The Jersey night air smells of rain and dry pine needles.

Inside, Mama Bones flips a light switch.
A thirty by thirty foot lobby greets my eyes—a four leather lounge chairs, two overstuffed sofas, a green felt card table, brass lamps and two televisions. Pine floors. Pine walls with animal heads.

“Some joint,” I say.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Mama Bones says. “You’ll only be safe here a day or two.”

“Then what?”

She shrugs. “It’s up to you. I bring you here, make you safe for a while because you’re with Gina. The rest of your life is up to you.”

Nice. Mama Bones would make a great
Shore Securities sales manager. “You’re leaving me here all alone?”

Mama Bones shakes her head no
. “Gianni is going to give you his bug-out bag.”

“Oh
, boy. Whatever the hell that is. What about Gina?”

“I
’m taking her somewhere else.”

I sigh. Mama Bones has that conversation-over tone in her voice, not to mention the upper hand. Gina’s her family. Guess I’m lucky to be alive, actually. But I’ll have to be even luckier to
stay
above ground. Every time I think my situation can’t get worse, it does. At least Ryan and Beth are safe.

“The b
edrooms are upstairs,” Mama Bones says.

I glance toward the stairway. The hand-carved log railing and banister is a sculpture. Twisted tree branches, bull horns, cowboys and horse heads grow from the wood
, living images of the Wild West.

“Who owns this place?”

“Bluefish,” Mama Bones says. “Gotta be the last place he’ll look for you.”

Gina steps out of the Escalade to hug
me. It’s a halfhearted embrace. Indeed, the way Tony’s dark-haired widow dabs back tears with a tissue reminds me of a silent movie. Over-acted. Standing beside the Escalade with me, Gina looks at her aunt, says, “Did you tell him, Mama Bones?”

“He knows plenty,”
the older woman says.

“Mama Bones?
We discussed this. Austin needs to know the story on Ann Marie. To protect the business...for himself, yes, but also for your son and your granddaughter Carmela.”

Mama Bones shifts her gaze
outside the Caddy SUV to stare at me. Like she’s trying to decide if she wants to turn me into a frog. Why did I think that? Who put that in my mind? Think happy thoughts, Austin. Happy thoughts.

“If you don’t
tell him, I will,” Gina says.

Mama Bones grunts
and slides her face out the window. “Ann Marie Talbot is not just any accountant for the AASD. She does favors for Bluefish and others before him. She was being paid to put the squeeze on you, help Bluefish take over Shore Securities.”

The owl hoots again
and a chill climbs the skin on my back. There’s more. There has to be.

“And...” Gina says.

“And that’s why my son Vittorio go to Italy, why he leaves you in charge of Shore,” Mama Bones says. “Vic knows Rags can’t pay his debt to Bluefish, so Bluefish will come after Vic. Vic also knows the AASD investigation is rigged against him.”

“Mr.
Vic left me to take the heat? He was willing to risk
my
family’s lives, as well as Carmela’s?”

Mama Bones nods.

That son-of-a-bitch. I’m going to drive a full set of MacGregor golf irons up his spaghetti-eating ass. Plus the leather bag and cart.

B
ut below my surprise and anger—I always figured Mr. Vic for a worm, not a snake—another more logical jewel of thought blossoms and bubbles to the top. “Do you know who killed Ann Marie Talbot?” I ask.

Mama Bones glances at Gin
a. Mrs. Farascio nods.

“Brooklyn believes Tony did it for the hundred
thousand,” Mama Bones says. “That’s what Bluefish told them, anyway. Said he had a video recording of the murder that the Branchtown cops took. A DVD. Brooklyn believed him and must have okayed a hit on Tony.”

“Nunzio’s been jealous of Tony for years,” Gina says.

“Where did Bluefish get a video of Talbot’s murder?” I say.

“Don’t know. I
t’s only rumor I heard.”

“But you don’t think Tony really did it?”

She looks at Gina. “No.”

Why do I feel her answer might be different if Tony’s wife wasn’t here? Wasn’t it Mama Bones who told me
Tony was “a bad, bad man?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

I am
so
pissed at Mr. Vic, I can’t sleep. By leaving me here to deal with his problems, knowing the space involved serious danger, that son-of-a-bitch con man Bonacelli might as well have stenciled bull’s eyes on my children.

Some anger must be self-directed as well, as
I certainly have to question my ability to choose business associates. First Walter, now Mr. Vic. And that does not even account for wacko Rags. I couldn’t have done any worse picking co-workers if, as a source pool, I’d used Seaside County’s special holding cell for violent suspects.

Hard to believe my golfing-buddy boss,
Vic Bonacelli, would do this. Except, thinking semi-objectively for unbroken hours, enough moonlight to see only gray through Bluefish’s second-story window, I figure putting
my
family up as a target must have been the only way Mr. Vic could think of to protect
his
family.

Not that I forgive the dickface
.

My body heaves and pitches, my molars grind all night, imagining what I’m going to do the next time I see him. Scream in his face? Punc
h his classic Roman nose? Use a thirty-four-ounce baseball bat to adjust the worst golf swing in Seaside County?

Just before dawn, I’m glad for the
Vic-hating insomnia. As the northeastern New Jersey sky finally lightens to blue steel in the bedroom window, the quiet hiss of slow-moving automobile tires announces someone’s arrival.

The approaching tire
sounds roll me off Bluefish’s California king. I know Branchtown’s Godfather Wannabe sleeps here because above this swimming pool sized, feather-soft bed rests a twenty-three pound specimen of his namesake fish.

I slept
—no—
rested
on top of the blue satin bedcovers because I didn’t want to worry how clean his sheets were, what dried body fluids or particulate remnants I might be touching. Yuk. I can’t believe I even thought of that.

Two long strides put me at the window. This is the only bedroom with a view of the driveway and front
door parking area. That’s why I picked it.

Crows squawk somewhere close as I carefully
inch back the curtain. A Lincoln Town Car glides to a perfectly silent stop. The driver door pops open and Max the Creeper squeezes out like toothpaste.

Oh, joy. The sight of him kicks my heart rate
up two notches. My legs want to flee down the stairs, race out the back, run through the forest until I’m safe and hidden.

Maybe later.
Instead, I remain frozen by the window while Creeper thunders up the steps and rattles keys unlocking the split-log front door. Doesn’t he have to huff and puff or something? Blow my house down?

Creeper
sure is making a lot of noise, though. Hope that means he doesn’t know I’m here.

Maximilian Zakowsky

Soon as he sees the complicated electronic controls—so many dials, switches and gauges—Max wishes he made Jerry come with him. The only thing Max knows about electronics is how to use an on/off switch. Plus, English is mostly a hard language for Max to read. Big words are impossible. What if he misses an important warning, an instruction? What if, in trying to use this meat smoker, Max burns down Bluefish’s hunting lodge?

Like
Jerry always says, screw it. All Max has to do is make
heat
, not cook the
meat
. Ha-ha.

Max locates what he hopes is the main on/off switch, and then the digital control with a
gauge for recommended temperatures. His thick forefinger finds and pokes the up-arrow on a switch, and presto, a red number appears. Two hundred degrees should be plenty. Today’s mark is already half-dead.

Bluefish’s meat smoker is big enough to hold two whole deer, one on each rack. But clearly Max’s job will be easier if he makes t
he space as large as possible. The mark may come to life when he sees where Max wants to put him.

Max slides out the
smoker’s chrome rack and sets the table-sized equipment on the floor, leaning it against the bare block basement wall. The clink of metal hitting cold cement echoes in the nearly barren room.

Max
climbs the stairs and shuffles through the lodge’s big living room, across the porch and down the front steps to the Lincoln Town Car. A pale blue sky shows where the east wind lives. The air smells of coming rain and lightning.

God
himself is about to get pissy.

From the Lincoln’s trunk, Max lifts the mark off the spare tire and onto his shoulders. Though limp now, the young man fought hard earlier. A tough and loyal soldier, this man didn’t make a sound or give up one piece of information when Jerry cut him.

But the mark is not so tough and loyal that Bluefish’s smoker won’t make him talk. Fire and heat make people speak for thousands and thousands of years.

Even lions make noise when fire come
s. They cry like babies.

TWENTY-EIGHT

I scramble to the bedroom window again when I hear Creeper’s Jurassic weight stretch the front porch boards. Through dusty glass, I watch Creeper shuffle-skip down the front steps, the big man’s arms and hips maintaining a bouncy rhythm all the way to the Lincoln Town Car. Looks like he might be whistling.

Gee, how nice Creeper i
s in such a happy mood. Skipping. Bouncing. Whistling. Maybe Bluefish wants him to strangle some puppies.

Creeper pull
s open the Lincoln’s trunk. I have a good angle because of where he’s parked, and I can see a man inside, apparently dead or at least dead drunk. He doesn’t twitch as Creeper snatches him up by the crotch and neck, throws him across his bathtub-sized shoulders. I can see the guy’s black clothes and shape.

The Creeper
keeps a jaunty gait as he hauls the familiar human back toward the lodge. The black sack of fertilizer on Creeper’s shoulders is dressed like, and sure looks like, Gianni or Tomas. Whichever, Mama Bones’ nephew isn’t dead yet. He lifts his head slightly, jerks his eyes open while he’s bouncing on Creeper’s shoulders.

Glad he’s not dead. But this means I have to do something. Mama Bones and those two men
—Mr. Trim and Mr. Fit—pulled
my
ass out of a nasty spot a few hours ago. I can’t run away from their trouble.

Well, I
could
. A lot of stock jockeys I know would duck for an exit. And like I said before when I jumped on Rags, I’m no hero. I have no desire to test myself against Creeper. Are you kidding? It’s just that...well, if Creeper has captured Gianni or Tomas, whichever, what does that say about the present physical condition of lovely Gina Farascio and my charge, Mama Bones?

In particular, I keep thinking about Gina.

Although, maybe right now isn’t the best time. My breath comes in short shallow gasps. My heart’s clunking like a broken electric fan. Creeper does unhealthy things to my blood pressure. Worse even than General Tso’s deep-fried chicken balls.

I unzip
Gianni’s bug-out bag. That takes half a minute as the camouflage canvas carryall is the size soccer goalies carry—think park bench. When I
do
get inside, the bounty includes a red climbing rope with clips and fittings and hooks, a pair of new blue jeans, a dark wool shirt, a green down jacket, a cell phone, sixty bucks cash, dry matches, a compass, eight protein bars, a waterproof tarp, a twelve-inch K-Bar hunting knife, water bottles and a snub-nose Smith & Wesson .38.

Fully loaded.

With an extra box of bullets

I’m tiptoeing down the lodge’s basement steps when someone
—I assume Gianni or Tomas—screams. The sound pokes my gut like one of Umberto’s rare-but-deadly over-spiced burritos. Like a King Cobra bite, Umberto’s mistakenly prepared killer chili combo gives you less than one hour to consume an antidote.

The narrow, dank stairway feels like a mine shaft, the rock
walls smooth and gray, the wooden steps uneven and warped. I travel down to the basement one careful step at a time, the Smith & Wesson held in front of me like an airline vomit bag.

There was nothing in my Series Seven stockbroker’s study guide to indicate the correct grip for revolvers, but I do my best at the bottom of the st
eps. I imagine fictional detectives played on the television show
Southland
as they deploy the two handed, arms extended grip. Weapon at eye-level.

I read in the newspaper once that even
real
cops think
Southland
was right on.

Stepping forward, w
hat I see in Bluefish’s cement basement rattles my already shaky courage. Hell, I damn near pee my pants. Creeper has Gianni—I recognize the lower hairline now—hoisted in the air, Gianni’s bare feet stuck inside some kind of appliance. Directly beneath Gianni’s tootsies, an electric heating element glows red hot.

“Get him out of there,” I say.

Creeper glances at me over his shoulder. His gaze sneers at my revolver like it’s a giant cockroach.

Gianni screams again.

I fire at Creeper’s knees.

The guns
hot slams my brain with sound, the explosion bouncing off the walls and around the cement room like a foul ball in the empty seats. My vision blurs and my sinuses sting.

Creeper doesn’t bli
nk at the noise. His gaze drops toward his feet, focuses on the new white chip in the basement’s cement floor.

Can’t believe I missed. Creeper’s knees are as big as steamer trunks.

Another Gianni scream reaches my battered eardrums. The sound is heart-wrenching. I step closer and raise the weapon to target Creeper’s nose. My finger pressures the trigger. Funny, but I don’t think killing this man would bother me much. Creeper is the kind of monster who could have killed my children the other night without a qualm.

The big man must read my mind because he pulls Gianni’s feet
out from the oven thingy. I resist an urge to shoot anyway. Creeper’s going to kill you if you don’t kill him, a voice whispers. Think of it in terms of Beth and Ryan’s future. Making sure they have one. Instead, I use the Smith & Wesson to wave Creeper away from the aluminum appliance. What would I do without TV and the movies? First the two handed grip, now the gun as casual directional aide. Who needs a police academy?

When Creeper i
s tucked away where he can’t reach me in less than three strides, I tell him to put Gianni down, then walk backward toward the big cooking thing.

“Is
smoker
,” Creeper says. Grinning at me with ugly teeth. But he still holds Gianni across his shoulders like a bagged wild animal.

“I don’t care. Put Gianni
down—carefully—and walk over beside whatever it is. Then snuggle up. This thirty-eight won’t blow your head off, but you won’t hear the shot either.”

Creeper lets Gianni
’s weight slide off his shoulders, stooping so that Mama Bones’ nephew drops gently onto the bare cement. Silence returns to the basement air. My gunshot played out like the last chord of a rock anthem.

I use Gianni’s hunting knife from the bug-out bag to cut the duct tape binding his wrists and knees.
“You okay?” I whisper.

Gianni groans
and mumbles two or three words I can’t make out. His bare feet are black on the bottom, smoking, with white blisters bubbling up like bacon. My stomach warns me I might get sick. I tighten my grip on the revolver.

A new
voice on the stairway says, “Put down the gun, Carr.”