Big Numbers (13 page)

THIRTY-SEVEN

I wake up in bed, my body aching. Each ring of a telephone stings my champagne ravaged head like a swarm of angry hornets. But I’m not answering. Ain’t my job.

The redhead picks up. “This is Kelly Burns.”

I open my eyes. An orange sky blossoms outside Kelly’s bedroom window. She’s sitting on the bed, tying a black silk dressing gown at her waist. The place smells like a Nevada whorehouse. Sex, sweat, and perfume.

“Who?” she says.

Her fingers tickle the air between us, a goofy little wave to welcome me to the land of the living, or maybe get my attention. I guess the person on the phone is telling her something I’d find interesting.

“They didn’t let him inside, did they?” She listens and nods. “That’s good. Can you hold on one second? What? No, wait, I’ll be right back.”

She cups the receiver with her free palm. “Your sales manager Tom Ragsdale tried to visit Gerry at the hospice this evening.”

Rags? On the loose? I thought
Vic sent him to the Hamptons. “Ragsdale is crazy suspicious of the bond transfer,” I say. “He probably wants to ask Gerry if he actually signed a form to give you two million in bonds. They didn’t let Ragsdale in to see him, did they?”

Kelly’s not listening to me anymore.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “could you repeat that? You were talking about that man, Ragsdale, how he—”

She’s hearing more disturbing news. Her chin slides from grim to slack. Her shoulders droop with a hundred pounds of new luggage.

“Oh,” she says. Her bottom lip quivers like strawberry Jell-O. “You’re sure? I don’t understand why you would tell me about a visitor before—”

She sniffs. “Al
l right. Okay. Shall I come by there now? Tomorrow? Fine.”

She slips the telephone receiver back in its ergonomic cradle. Staring at her hand, she sighs.

“It’s over,” she says. “Gerry died twenty minutes ago.”

It takes
hours, more sex and another nap, but eventually I convince Kelly we need food and drink. A Clooney’s martini lunch may be just the thing for our champagne hangovers.

We’re on Broad Street, maybe two, three miles from the condo, when I realize the same
car followed us through successive left turns. It’s not an impossible coincidence, but I don’t like taking chances. The memory of Psycho Sam’s manual spinal tap is forever imprinted on my brain stem.

I make a quick right, another right, then another and another right back onto Broad. I pull over, wait to see if the same
car—an old Chevy—shows up following us.

I count one, two, three…the same
car swings around the corner. I was right. Kelly and I are being followed by an antique Chevy Impala. A ’61 or ’62, I think. God, I always wanted one of those.

When the old Impala passes, I gun Kelly’s Mercedes away from the curb, hang a U
-turn. Four blocks down the next side street is the Branchtown police department.

I pull in, ignore the empty parking spaces, and screech to a sliding stop near the big cement planter protecting th
e station’s glass facade. Branchtown P.D. thinks their headquarters ranks high on the target list for terrorists.

My quick move into the cop station makes the old Chevy disappear, but not before I get a good look at the driver. It’s Branchtown Blackie’s friend, the guy in gold chains and a goatee who held Luis’s arm that night in the restaurant’s parking lot. This time he’s all by himself. Wonder if he knows w
hat happened to his pal Blackie. More important, why the hell is he following me?

The cops in the station house think I’m drunk. They consider charging me with illegal parking and reckless driving, impounding Kelly’s Mercedes. I offer to take a sobriety test, and while we’re waiting for
a decision on that, I use Kelly’s cellphone to call Luis’s Mexican Grill.

“
Hola
,”
an unfamiliar voice says.

“Is Luis there? This is Austin Carr.”

“No Luis today. The restaurant is not open.”

“Could I leave a message? He needs to call Austin Carr as soon as possible.”

“No
habla
English.”

“Sure you do. Go get a pencil. Write down my name and phone number.”

“Okay.”

There’s some rummaging in the background. A drawer opens and shuts. I hear a piece of paper being torn.

“Shoot,” he says.

“A-U-S-T-I-N. 732-555-4345. Got it?”

“Si. Nombre es
Austeen
. Numero, seite, tres—”

I gave him my work number. The only number I’ve got. “Have Luis call me, right?”

“
Si
. Luis call when he comes back from Mexico.”

“Mexico? When’s he going to Mexico?”

“He leave yesterday.”

I hear laughing and the line goes dead. Was that a joke? Luis with some fake accent? A friend of his? I call back but no one picks up this time. I let it ring twenty-two times,
but the dick won’t answer.

Walking back to the police station
bench, I wonder again why Blackie’s bearded friend is following me. How did he find me to follow me?

I hope Luis isn’t
really in Mexico. I need his help.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Early the next morning, splintering wood tugs my mind from a heavy sleep. I open my eyes in Kelly’s bed, heart thumping, the calm gray light a sharp contrast to the demolition noises coming from the condo’s entrance.

I throw off Kelly’s flowered comforter. What the hell is chasing me now? The bearded guy who followed us last night in the classic Impala?
Rags’ one-man hit squad? The Werewolf of London?

The redhead stirs and groans, stretches her arms. Where the hell are my shorts? If this is Psycho Sam, I’m burnt toast. I bunny hop toward the bedroom doorway still pulling on my plaid cotton boxers, then freeze at the big noise rushing me in the dark. A buffalo stampede?

Whack. I’m flattened by an army of dark-clad soldiers in helmets, bullet-proof vests, and plastic windbreakers. The first men through the doorway have their guns drawn. Maybe I’m double-parked.

Lights snap on. As the horde stomps over, around, and directly through me, I see the backs of their windbreakers have the words TREASURY AGENT or FBI or U.S. MARSHALL stenciled in yellow.

What the hell is happening?

One of the buffaloes sits on my chest, pokes a gun in my eye. “Don’t move, asshole.”

The hotel bedroom smells of cigarettes and freshly starched sheets. The furniture’s new but flimsy, all materials coarse to the touch. The landscapes on the off-white walls were painted with sponges on an assembly line.

Unfamiliar voices drift in from the next room. I sit up on the edge of the bed when a man walks in, shows me his badge and federal identification.

“Special Agent Tomlin, U.S. Treasury,” he says.

I keep my gaze focused on Tomlin’s slow gray eyes. He’s a short, squat kind of fifty-something cop. Looks more like a part-time chef. Both eyelids droop toward the lobes of his softball-sized ears. I have to hear a few sentences come out of his mouth before concluding he isn’t a half-wit.

“So your name’s Carr, huh?” he says.

“Austin Carr. I’m Gerry and Kelly’s stockbroker.”

After an hour of sitting side-by-side with Kelly on her sofa while they tore up her condo, bagged all kinds of stuff including the fake Renoir, the redhead and I were separated. I haven’t seen her since. All I know for sure, they threw me in a car, brought me to this hotel room.

Tomlin seems to be in charge of several different squads of law enforcement personnel. Some kind of federal task force?

Tomlin saying, “Gerry’s stockbroker, huh? That’s the extent of your relationship? That’s all you are?”

I shrug. “I’m a father with two kids. A three handicap golfer.”

Tomlin grunts. “Bully for you. How long have you been Burns’ broker?”

“Four or five years.”

“How long have you known he’s a crook?”

“I don’t.”

“Aiding and abetting criminals makes you an accessory, a felon like him.”

“I’m not a felon, and as far as I know, Gerry’s not either. As a matter of fact, Gerry’s not much of anything anymore.”

Tomlin’s forehead sprouts horizontal lines. “What do you mean?”

“Gerry died last night.”

Special Agent Tomlin stands up and moves purposefully to the bedroom doorway. He motions for someone down the hall to come to him. While he’s waiting, he turns again to me. “Who told you Burns is dead?”

“Kelly. I was with her when the hospice called.”

“His wife?”

“The redhead. But they’re not married. She’s just his girlfriend.”

Tomlin stares at me until he’s joined in the doorway by a very tanned young man with a blond mane, square shoulders, two bright red pimples on his protruding chin. Looks like the college surfing champion of southern California.

“Remember the name of that hospice?” Tomlin
says.

“No. But I’ve been there,” I say. “It’s one of those old English Tudor apartment houses on West Ridge Road in Branchtown, the ones they fix up as office buildings, dentists offices. I remember the hospice’s address was in the two-hundred block.”

Kelly’s sitting, waiting for me in the motel lobby. I can tell from her streaked makeup she’s been crying. Can’t say I blame her. Held and questioned for six hours. If she got the same treatment as me, nothing to eat or drink except Branchtown’s sulfuric tap water.

“I called a cab,” she says. “I have to go back to the condo.” She sniffs. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

I drop beside her, slip my arm around her shoulders. Feeling more for Kelly than I expected. I hope it’s just compassion and sympathy. Have to stay focused on getting my kids back. “I’m sticking with you, Toots.”

Kelly leans against my shoulder. “They’re giving me one hour at the condo to pack a suitcase. Just clothes and toiletries. None of my jewelry or pretty clothes. The artwork.”

“Jesus. Did they tell you what’s going on? I mean what the hell did Gerry do?”

“They said he’s a wild dog or something. A smuggler of illegal immigrants.”

“A coyote?”

“That’s it. They also said none of his businesses have paid any withholding taxes for two years, that he embezzled money from every one of them.”

Uh, oh. That means IRS liens on everything.

In case there are mikes around I don’t see, I whisper in Kelly’s ear. “Where are your new bonds? Did they confiscate them?”

She forces a smile. “I don’t think so. Not unless they impounded your camper.”

THIRTY-NINE

The shade under this two-hundred-year-old oak tree offers cool relief from late September’s emergent sun. Eight or nine stories high, the monstrous pin oak’s blazing yellowing canopy dominates Holy Trinity’s graveyard, stretching seventy-five feet from the stone chapel to the white picket fence that runs north and south along the church’s pre-Civil War property line.

I’ve heard of the tree’s legend, including the story of a wrongly accused horse thief, hanged from one of the oak’s sturdy branches, whose ghostly rides are still reported in the local press.

And personally, now that I’ve actually wandered in close, let the tree’s long, craggy arms embrace me, I have to say this sucker gives me the creeps. All these graves feeding the tree’s roots for two hundred years? No wonder the monster’s fat and happy.

Kelly’s been chatting up the Episcopal priest, Father Paul, but she joins me and two dozen other guests now unde
r Branchtown’s infamous oak, Kelly’s two-inch black heels clicking on the cemetery’s brick walkway.

The redhead looks nifty as the widow. She’s wearing a silk-trimmed black skirt with matching coat, and a string of natural pearls inside a scooped-neck, charcoal silk blouse. Took Kelly three hours to bathe and dress in our hotel this morning. Took one hour alone to pin the saucer-shaped black felt hat on her head.

“Father Paul said the ceremony will start in five minutes,” she says.

I kiss her cheek. Oh, boy. Five more minutes, we can get started, get finished, get the hell out of here. I hate graveyards anyway, but this one’s something special because of the oak. I can damn near feel the bastard waiting for Gerry’s body, the blood-sucker’s roots tingling
with anticipation for the supply of fresh meat.

Hell, I can feel this flesh eater waiting for all of us.

Father Paul coughs to silence the crowd, then begins his readings. “The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid.”

I’d be afraid of this oak tree, if I were you, Father, priests having to walk around this graveyard every day, your feet and legs exposed to those gnarly underground siphons. Blood suckers waiting for their chance.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff thy comfort me.”

The valley of the shadow of death? Isn’t that where I was standing before, under the sinister branches of that monster oak?

Kelly squeezes my hand. She touches a forefinger to her lips, telling me to hush. Wow. Was I mumbling out loud? Sweet Jesus. All this craziness is rubbing off on my normally rational thought processes.

Well, almost rational. Forging Gerry’s name on that transfer form, going for Kelly’s fifty-eight
thousand dollar bribe probably wasn’t my brightest moment. Depends if I get away with it, I guess.

Father Paul is hurrying through his service. “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord
forever.”

Since Gerry’s about to become the latest entree on this oak’s churchyard buffet, I’m not sure about the house of the Lord getting any, Father. A much bigger piece of the pie, so to speak, will be dwelling in the bark, leaves, and branches of this non-vegetarian vegetable.

Come on, Father Paul, hurry up. Kelly’s looking at me like I’m mumbling out loud again. These people may be gathered for Gerry Burns’ last rites, but this graveyard party’s starting to feel like
my
funeral.

“Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.”

We all recite the Lord’s Prayer. When that’s over, Father Paul gives a nod. Kelly and Gerry’s two grown children pick roses from the supply provided, toss one each on the coffin, then join the kids’ spouses and children. The family seems very friendly with Kelly.

My feet find an out-of-the-way patch of plastic grass, and I check faces as people pass. Some drop a rose on Gerry’s coffin, others don’t. There’s a small contingent of mourners not coming down from the shade of that oak tree. A dozen or so men
…

Those guys in the sunglasses look familiar. That one beefy dude’s wearing a plastic cord underneath his collar and an ear piece. The Feds? Hell yes, there’s Special Agent Tomlin.

My palms grow clammy.

What is this? A cop convention? Just to the left of Tomlin, I see Detective Mallory of the Branchtown force and
the Eagle Scout that always—

Oh. My. God.

It’s Rags. Back up under the blood-sucking oak tree, a camera around his neck. He’s supposed to be sailing for the Hamptons on Mr. Vic’s Triple-A, but instead he tried to visit Burns at the hospice, and now he’s sneaking into Gerry’s funeral, still trying to prove my bond transfer was wrong. Maybe catch me and Kelly in a lip-lock with the camera.

I especially hate it that Rags is one-hundred-percent correct about
the bond transfer. First time Rags has been right about anything since he weaseled the sales manager’s job.

Look at that. This whole scene is surreal. Behind Rags, checking out Kelly and Gerry’s kids, there’s Blackie’s pal, the guy who used to have a goatee. He’s clean shaven now but I recognize the gold chains. What the hell reason could he have for being here? Following us before? Revenge for Blackie’s death? Or just a desire to finish that fight with me and Luis?

It’s a bad dream, this funeral. There’s no logic. I can’t make sense of it. Like there’s some big joke everybody knows but me.

Maybe I could pitch this tale to Hollywood as a new reality TV show. Which villain will successfully destroy Austin Carr under the spreading arms of this vampire oak tree? Rags? Blackie’s pal? The cops? Hell, Psycho Sam must be around here, too. Somewhere.

In my proposal, I’ll call the show
Roots of Evil
.