Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) (21 page)

FIFTY-SEVEN

Perhaps
I perused too much Carlos Castaneda-type mystical literature in my youth, but all I can think about on my way down Gina’s cellar steps is could this be my Last Battle on Earth? Am I prepared to give these moments the attention my life’s purpose deserves? I try to absorb every detail of my surroundings, let loose my inner warrior’s imagination for fight or flight.

Wish I could remember how Castaneda’s
Don Juan shaman character created a double. Boy, would I like to be somewhere else.

“Take it slow,” Gina says.

She’s four or five steps behind me on the cellar stairs, yet I can
feel
that shotgun aimed at my back. My skin senses that weapon like it’s a glowing, white hot poker. The Radiator of Death.

I mean, Gina’s
definitely
going to kill me. I’ve seen the DVD, asked way too many questions, because, as we all know, those of us with the Gift of Gab never know when to shut the hell up. It’s a universal fact.

I nearly choke over my next assertion. “I can keep my mouth shut, Gina. You don’t have to kill me.”

“It won’t hurt,” she says. “I’ll make it a head shot.”

Ringo and Ginger Baker, my
dad’s two favorites drummers, are playing a duet with my heart rhythm—back beat, jump beat, downbeat. Everything all at once. The air grows staler as I pass the basement and approach the dark bottom of the stairs. Gina flips a switch and an overhead light pops on showing dark-stained wood shelves covering three of four cement walls. Typical garage junk fills the shelf space. Beach chairs. Lawn food. Stacks of clay gardening pots. Broken exercise equipment. Discards of suburban life on the Jersey Shore.

“If I let
you live, I’d always worry you would hurt me with the information,” Gina says. “Or somebody like Franny would make you talk to save their own ass. I’m sorry, sweetie. You’re a pretty good fuck. But I can’t take the chance or the stress.”

“W
hy did you bring me home with you last night?” I say. “Why even let me have the chance of finding that DVD?”

“When you came back
inside Clooney’s last night, I could tell by your face you’d seen Franny give me that DVD. I had to find out how badly you wanted to watch it, if you knew what it was. I also enjoyed taking you away from her.”

Other than folding Gina up in one of her
own collapsible aluminum beach chairs, I see nothing in this cellar that could help me take away that shotgun. I see nothing, that is, until I spin all the way around to face her.

My racing heart almost stops.
Max the Creeper is balled up like a spider beneath the cellar stairway. In the spilt second I debate whether I should speak, leap or do nothing, Creeper grabs the initiative. Any action on my part is instantly too late. Talk about fast.

As her white-stocking foot touches the last step, C
reeper grabs Gina by the ankle and yanks, dumping the naked, dark haired beauty, screaming, onto the cellar floor.

Ka
-boom
. The shotgun tumbles loose onto the floor and goes off, blue fire flashing from the muzzle. Gina’s scream and the explosion batter me. Stacks of burnt-orange clay flower pots explode inches from my left hip. A wisp of smoke rises from the shotgun toward the center of the room.

Creeper pou
nces from behind the stairway—two blurry fast steps and he has Gina by the head and shoulders, his arms around her like tree trunk size constrictor snakes.

I lunge for the shotgun. In the air, a hear
Gina’s neck snap.

My
chest slams the cellar floor, my outstretched fingers successfully grabbing the shotgun. I roll hard to the right, trying to give myself some distance, but Creeper’s on me like a cave in. His forearms press my arms and shoulders flat against the cold cement. His hands encircle my throat. A sulfur smell fills my nose.

The way I figure it, Austin Carr will be a full-boat dead man in two-to-three seconds, soon as Creeper breaks
—what did that autopsy report call it—my hyoid bone?

Though my arm is pinned to the floor,
the fingers of my right hand can touch the shotgun. I can barely wiggle my wrist, let alone grip the weapon. But this is my Last Battle on Earth, and I’m about to lose, about to pass on to that other world, that Great Mystery about which we poor humans know so little and worry so much.

I have to try something
.

Maybe I can twirl
the shotgun a little with my fingers, reposition the barrel so the muzzle aims at Creeper’s knee and leg. Give him a kiss he won’t forget. Yes. There. Like playing spin the bottle.

Creeper’s weight presses on me like a stack of marble tombstones.
Impossible to breathe. I’m blacking out.

My
thumb finds the trigger.

FIFTY-EIGHT

When my thumb squeezes the trigger, nothing happens. Figures. The shotgun must be jammed. A final and desperate piece of bad luck for Austin Carr.

I try once more, a near-death panic pushing my actions, giving me a miraculous surge of will. Still nothing. No explosion. And this time my furious attempt to fire
the weapon makes the gun stock rattle on the cellar’s cement floor.

Creeper’s
beady little gaze snaps toward the noise.

This
is beginning to look like The End, that often forecasted demise of Austin Carr and his full-boat smile, the semi-orphanization of Elizabeth and Ryan Carr, two school age children who—

Air rushes into my
empty lungs. Creeper has decided he’d rather have his paws on the shotgun than my throat. What a strange tactical decision, especially considering the shotgun so recently proved unreliable and I was almost unconscious. Go figure.

Creeper’s poor judgment not only means oxygen for my air-starved lungs, but now that I can breathe, perhaps I can even launch a counterattack, wrestle free of Creeper’s awesome weight
and strength. I throw my shoulders and hips to the left, away from the shotgun. I catch Creeper reaching
for
the weapon. My jerky twist breaks me loose all at once, like a stuck lid on a jam jar.

My newly reacquired air supply
tastes even sweeter, and a measure of confidence joins the adrenalin zooming through my blood. It’s a little bit like last night at Clooney’s, when Gina told Franny that I—Austin Carr—would be spending the night in Brooklyn.

I scramble onto my haunche
s and face Creeper. His ass sits flat on the cellar floor, knees up, feet in front of him, the shotgun between his ox-like thighs and pointing my way. We can’t be more than five feet apart. My gaze looks straight down the shotgun’s barrel.

“That gun i
s jammed,” I say.

Though even a
broken
weapon is disconcerting at this proximity and angle—that black hole almost
smells
like eternity—my tone carries a certain hint of superiority. I mean, I pulled that shotgun’s trigger. It didn’t work. It’s not like I’m bluffing.

Why is he smiling?

“Gun not jammed,” Creeper says. “No shells in chamber. You have to do this each time.”

He works the shotgun’s pump.
Clickity-clack.

I knew that.
The cellar’s tomblike silence wraps around me like a shroud.

Employing Gina’s
working shotgun like a conductor’s baton, Ludwig Von Creeper orchestrates me up the steps, across her stainless steel kitchen, through a screened kitchen door, down wooden back stairs and into Gina’s back yard that faces her next door neighbor.

A
one-car garage, square like a mausoleum, rests at the end of Gina’s flower and rock lined cement driveway. Inside is a black Buick LeSabre. The excited chatter of morning birdcalls emanates from the evergreens separating Gina Farascio’s place from her neighbors. The taste of baking bread rides a soft breeze.

Seems ironic
I knew the shotgun needed to be pumped, but forgot the facts when they mattered most. By way of excuses, I can only say I’ve never fired
any
kind of shotgun. Plus, I know I wouldn’t be the first stockbroker to panic in that scary situation. Remember, a lot of us jumped out windows just because the stock market went down. I am a bit disappointed, however. I thought I would do better, perhaps show bravery and calm under fire. I wanted to make Luis proud.

Oh, well.

Creeper urges me toward the LeSabre’s trunk. A single raven squawks at us from the top of a red maple with just emerging leaves. The bird’s oily black coat shines iridescent in the morning’s new sunlight, a dark jewel against the pale bronze leaves.

Creeper makes me wrap my ankles in duct tape, seal my mouth with the same stuff, then stick my hands behind me so he can wrap my wrists. My bo
dy automatically leans forward, my first plan in these situations always being cheerful cooperation.

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 surrounding
s, 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 ri
ght 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.