Feelers (11 page)

“Whadda you want, spic?”

When he speaks, I do not feel sorry for him at all.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I’ll drink your money. All of it if I could.”

“Oscar? What ever Pete is having, and my usual, please.” I turned back to Pete, smiling lightly but not gloating. My intent was not to egg him on. My intent was to try to put his ambitions toward my eight hundred grand to bed. “You look well.”

“Who was the slut you banged last night?”

You thought they called him Pete the Prick for nothing? This is a difficult man. I find it best not to answer any of his inflammatory questions, as they only lead to more inflammatory questions.

“How is business? I hear you are doing well.”

“What is this, gloating?”

I shook my head wearily. “No, Pete. I’m just trying to get along. We both work in this business, we are both feelers. There is plenty of work. We compete, but we both make a living. So why be enemies?”

He attempted a laugh. “What do you take me for, spic? Some kinda asshole?”

Of course, I was tempted to answer that question, but did not. The drinks arrived—his was a scotch and grapefruit juice. Horrible drink, horrible man. I sipped my ginger and cognac.

“These rumors of my finding a large sum of money has made people feel cheated, resentful. I would simply like to dispel the rumors if I can.”

“Well, you can’t, spic, get it? We know you found a mother lode.
We know
.” He scooted his chair out and stomped out the door, his drink untouched.

With a show of resignation I stood and met the eyes of Slim Jim, Buddy, Buddy Dyke, Mim, and Oscar. “Well, I tried.”

Oscar’s boulderlike head cracked open at the mouth. “Wasting your time, Morty.”

“Has anybody seen Frog and Hugo?” I asked.

“Don’t think Frog’ll be in,” Mim looked up from her tabloids. “Heard his mother is sick or somethin’.”

I cocked an eyebrow. I knew his parents had been dead for some time, but I shrugged this information off. His reasons were his own. I took a stool between Buddy Dyke and Slim Jim. “So how was everybody’s day?”

“Has Pete come lookin’ for the money?” Buddy Dyke asked, flexing.

“Watch out for them Balkan Boys,” Buddy added.

“You carry?” Slim Jim made a pistol shape with his hand.

“This rumor has got to stop,” I groaned. “Is there nothing else to talk about?”

It was at that moment a stranger walked into the bar. All eyes scanned him and then returned to me. We all understood. This was a cop of some kind. Something in the way he kept his right thumb on his belt, near where the holster would have been.

“Drink, bud?” Oscar tossed a coaster on the bar, and the stranger approached it.

“Beer.” The stranger was in shorts, windbreaker, and deck shoes. He was covered in ginger hair in what might have been described as a pelt were it not for the fact that he shaved his face. In one hand was a cardboard valise.

Ah, this must be the man who visited Mary
.

Sure enough, no sooner did he have his beer than he slid a
piece of paper from his valise and held it up for us to see. “Hate to trouble youse all, but seen this guy?”

This was the very same flyer Mary had on her desk.

Buddy and his daughter took the flyer from him and inspected it closely.

“Nah,” they finally said in unison. “Why? You looking for him?”

The furry stranger placed a fifty on the bar. “Let me buy a round for the house, you know, for taking your time. I appreciate any help.”

The flyer made its way down the bar. I only glanced at it and shrugged.

Slim Jim held it at arm’s length, turning it one way and the other. “Looks familiar, but . . .”

“Gimme,” Mim demanded. One glance. “Sure, this is that kid Danny Kessler. I mean, Kessel.”

Oscar took a look. “She’s right. It’s Danny. He out?”

“Who is this Danny Kessel?” I inquired.

“One of the gang that held up an armored car ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years ago,” Mim said. “Caught him. Went to jail. Others all killed in a shootout.”

“Why you lookin’ for him here?” Oscar asked the stranger.

“His old neighborhood. Figgered he might come back to the stomping ground.”

“Never did find all that money,” Mim said, grinning. “Did they?”

“Jeese.” Slim Jim scratched his belly thoughtfully. “You think they hid it around here? Maybe buried it in the park?”

The stranger did not answer. “If any of you see him, I’ll pay you a hundred dollars to call me. One phone call for one hundred dollars. That’s light work.” He held up a one-hundred-dollar bill.

“We’ll keep an eye out.” Oscar polished a glass enthusiastically.

The stranger put a small stack of business cards on the bar. “Thanks. Number is on the card. ’Preciate your time.”

With that, the stranger vanished back out the door. I saw him climb into a black SUV across the street.

The stack of cards went around, and I examined mine, front and back. “There is only a phone number, no name.”

“Bounty hunter,” Oscar said with authority. “This guy is trying to recover that money, all right.”

“Hundred—that’s not so much.” Buddy frowned.

“Like he said, it’s a C-note for less than a minute’s work.” Slim Jim looked at the ceiling, making mental calculations. “That’s . . .”

“Six thousand dollars an hour,” I added. “What some lawyers make, they say.”

“Jeese.” Slim Jim scratched his belly again, now with both hands. “Lawyers make a lot of money.”

Mim began wheezing, and we were immediately concerned. It was anybody’s guess when she might just keel off her stool, her heart and organs finally dissolved in Canadian Club. She was grinning, though, and we relaxed when we realized she was laughing.

“What’s so funny, Mim?” Buddy Dyke cracked her knuckles nervously. “Never seen youse laugh before.”

“Danny lived on the other side of the basin. But his Uncle Cuddy lived right around here.” Mim was looking at me. I was as yet confused by her crusty merriment.

“Around here? Jeese.” Slim Jim tottered to his feet, as if he were going to go look for the money any minute. “Where?”

Mim’s laughter broke into a bark, her rheumy wet eyes twinkling at me. “See if you can guess, Morty.”

It was suddenly feeling very warm in the bar, and I finished my drink in a gulp. “Why do you ask me, Mim?”

“He lived . . .” Mim surveyed the others, then came back to me: “On Vanderhoosen.”

It took a second or two—or was it hours?—for me to realize what she was suggesting.

“So?” I said, my voice cracking.

“Ooo!” Slim Jim thumped the bar. “Didn’t you clean out a house on Vanderhoosen Street, Morty? Wasn’t that . . .”

My compatriots were all fingering the little white cards with the phone number on them.

“Look, this money, it is a rumor . . .” My protest was feeble.

Oscar leaned both forearms on the bar and brought his granite head close to mine. “Morty, you found the money from the Atlas armored car heist.”

“And that cop was lookin’ for it.” Buddy jerked his thumb at the empty doorway.

Mim was laughing so hard she loosed the queen of all farts, a sound roughly equivalent to a foghorn sounding from within a vat of pudding.

“And so is Danny Kessel,” she roared.

WHAT GOES THROUGH A MAN’S
mind when he realizes all at once that there are three hard cases out to get him?

Panic.

First, as we know, I had Pete the Prick breathing down my neck.

Then there was the furry cop. I use the word “cop” loosely indeed. If he were real police, he would have badged us. Nothing a detective or undercover cop likes more than flashing his badge and watching people’s eyes bug out. He was some independent operator. A dick, perhaps, or bounty hunter.

Then there was the ex-con, Danny. I knew nothing of this man, except that he had been a part of an armored car holdup. Well, I certainly did not imagine he accomplished that with a feather duster, which meant he was likely armed and dangerous.

Then there were my peeps at Oscar’s. I did not care for the way they were looking at those white cards with the furry cop’s phone number. As soon as I had left, I had little doubt that they were all clawing their cell phones to see who could call first. And for a measly Ben, a C-note. Bastards.

What goes through a man’s mind when, out of nowhere, everyone seems to be against him? For me, the flight instinct was the first thing to enter my mind.

I left Oscar’s as casually as possible, laughing off Mim’s theories and the speculative mood of the rest of them, and walked calmly to my car. Once behind the wheel, it was a challenge to contain my panic. It is difficult for a man to admit that he is almost overcome with fear. I did not sob, but tears fell from my eyes.

I am not an idiot. It was unlikely that Mr. Trux managed to save eight hundred thousand dollars. Do the math, Father Gomez—you would have to save almost thirty dollars a day for eighty years to sock that much away, and without dividends or interest. So I suspected this quantity of cash must come from someplace not entirely legal. Even so, I still had it, and it was secure. The problem was the word was out about what I’d found. It wouldn’t be long before the cop and this Danny person found out about it.

Specifically, what did I have to fear from them?

The cop would lean on me, tell me I’d better cough it up or he’d make trouble for me. Who knows? He might get physical.

This Danny person was probably capable of anything. Anybody who spends a considerable time in prison has lost all subtlety. After menacing me, he would probably move to Plan B pretty quickly, which would involve physical coercion. Torture. Then he might kill me once I told him.

When a man panics, he is reduced to one of his most primal states, and perhaps the most primal of all instincts is that of flight. Yes, even more so than the act of mating. After all, what man, caught in bed with another man’s woman, does not immediately put wings to his feet? He does not stay and keep mating.

My mind raced with the images.

Of me at the storage locker, stuffing the backseat of the Camaro with the Scottish suitcase.

Of me on the highway, headed for the Throgs Neck. No, wait, south on the Belt Parkway, toward the Verrazano Bridge, Staten Island. From there I could either head toward Florida on I-95 or toward California, and La Paz, on I-78.

Of me by the dashboard light, big green highway signs passing over me, the barrage of white stripes slipping past, the red taillights ahead, pulling me onward.

Of the sun rising, of gas stations, of fast food, of sleeping in rest stops. I would go and go and go and go until I was so far away I could not be found. I could access the rest of my money in the bank from wherever I ended up.

Ah
.

But where were those Balkan Boys? I scanned the surrounding cars—they could be in any of them. To drive to the storage lockers would probably be to hand the money to Pete the Prick. You have to understand, he’s an extremely competitive person and will do anything to win. Going home would be dangerous. Who knew who would be waiting for me there? I couldn’t go to Fanny’s—I did not know exactly where she lived, and I did not even know her last name. Well, maybe she told me and I forgot between the champagne and the cold duck. Besides, any woman can tell you that men edit what women say, tuning out what sounds to us to be unimportant. Last night her name wasn’t very important.

I decided to indulge my first instinct, at least partially. I needed distance, and room to think without looking over my shoulder. If I took to the highway, I should be able to spot the Balkan Boys tailing me, maybe give the idiots the slip in a rest area on the turnpike, and then find a motel for the night.

So I began, down the commercial avenue of two-story brick buildings, shuttered shops and stoplights, toward the parkway and the highway.

As I did, I saw police cars ahead, their flashing rollers lighting up the house fronts like the disco dance floor at Octavio.

Cop cars were in front of Upscale Realty, just around the corner from the avenue.

I slowed as I passed, trying to see what the trouble was. I hoped Mary was all right.

“Officer?”

A uniform cop pacing next to his car waved me away. “Keep moving.”

I saw where another cop was stringing yellow plastic tape across the sidewalk, telling a small crowd to move back. Pulling ahead, I parked at a hydrant on the avenue and jogged toward the store.

“Officer, what has happened? Is Mary all right?”

This was the officer who had been stringing crime scene tape, and he was equally as testy as the first cop and kept scratching his mustache and adjusting his hat.

“Who are you?”

“I am Mary’s friend.”

“What’s your name?”

I hesitated. See? Give a cop two seconds and he will start the interrogation. “It is me, Bob, I am her friend.”

There were more sirens coming down the avenue. That wasn’t good. The more cops, the more serious something like this was. The itchy cop was chewing hard on his gum, his hands moving from mustache to hat, clearly agitated.

“Sir, I’ll need you to wait to talk to the detectives.”

My veins were iced with dread, mostly about Mary’s fate but also the prospect of being scrutinized by the police.

“They want to talk to me? But why?”

“You were her friend, you said, right?”

Were
.

“Mary is dead?”

He squinted at me. “How did you know that?”

“You said ‘were,’ indicating she is now in the past, yes?”

“Did I?”

“My God . . . how did she die?” You know someone is really a friend when their troubles can suddenly replace your own. What had she said to me, the last thing, about bad things happening to good people? Eerie.

A flock of other cop cars—some unmarked—and an ambulance stuffed themselves into the side street off the avenue. Any hope I had that the itchy officer was mistaken about Mary was fading. You don’t get this many cops showing up to a heart failure or slip in the bathtub. Besides, I knew there was no bathtub at Upscale Realty. Then again, maybe there was a tub under all that mess.