Mickey Slips (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) (3 page)

University Sheraton, Syracuse, 1/21/2013, 7:12 p.m.

I called Mickey when I woke up, dialing number for the burner-phone I'd given him when we'd said goodbye. He was fine, and had settled into one of the hotels by the airport after a short flight home. He said that he was sore all over, embarrassed, and wanted to call the whole thing off and just pay Lily.

“If you do that, she and Shane will own you, and they'll come back for more within a month. Give me two days to straighten this out, and if I can't fix it by then, we can talk.” I tried to put some wheedling into my tone, but am pretty sure that all I managed was impatience.

We talked for another minute before I told him to order a room service dinner and a bottle of wine, and chase it with a handful of Advil and Tylenol before going to bed. He didn't fight me on the Tylenol/booze combination (
which had long been a hobgoblin of his
), and just before we hung up he admitted with a hang-dog tone that he hadn't yet called Anne and the girls. I couldn’t decide how I felt about that (
it made sense to me, but not coming from Mickey
), and so left it alone. I headed back into the university area, and towards the hotel where Mickey had had one of the worst nights of his life.

I'd checked Mickey out of his hotel only a few hours earlier, but it felt like a different world
now. Then, I had been sneaking him in and out as quickly and quietly as possible, both of us slinking and hiding to avoid both ‘Team Lily’ and all of Mickey's colleagues. This time, I was by myself, just the way that I like it. With nobody else on my side, I didn't have to worry about them screwing up in word or deed. I could move forward, adjusting on the fly, based on instinct and input, without having to pause (
or even slow down
) to explain any changes in the game plan. The facts and suppositions that I had about this situation had formed themselves unbidden into a possible solution (
or more accurately, a nested set of solutions
) since my initial contact with Mickey a bit over 16 hours ago, changing and reforming as new information was added to the mix; but I approached the front desk with a confidence born from the knowledge that I was smarter and more motivated to get Mickey out of trouble than Lily and Shane were to keep him on the hook.

“Can I help you Sir?” asked the solicitous, but slightly dubious, front man on the other side of
the yard of cool marble at chest height. I was slightly rumpled-looking, and probably had some lingering chunks of BBQ on my earlobes and shirtfront, despite a quick visit to the bathroom at Dinosaur on my way out a few hours earlier.

“I sure hope so. I helped my Dad, Mickey Schwarz, check out a couple of hours ago. He got in an accident last night, and didn’t get a chance to return some papers to a colleague of his before leaving, and I was hoping to take care of it now.” I served up my opening volley.

“I heard something about some
unpleasantness
when I came on this afternoon, but wasn’t on last night, so I’m sure that I couldn’t help you or your
father
. So sorry, Sir.”

His eyes seemed to shut down a bit as he replied, and it occurred to me that he knew most of the story, and assumed that I was looking to pay off, or get revenge on, some hooker for a friend. I need
ed to redirect, and get away from this one without setting off any of his people-radar alarms; this is difficult for me in general, as I lack most of the empathic hardware/software that the rest of humanity is born with.

“I don’t want to hassle you, or anyone
… I just want to talk to someone who might be able to point me in the right direction to find this woman. Dad mentioned getting some drinks after the conference sessions yesterday … I assume that there’s a bar in the hotel?”

The upside of a fundamental lack of emotions and emotional sensitivity is that I am pretty good at delivering a lie without the usual tells that people tend to exhibit. The guy behind the counter looked at me for a few seconds, and then just pointed back into the semi-darkened gloom of the hotel’s extensive lobby.

The bartender was polishing and slicing and arranging and generally looking like a guy trying to keep busy during a slow shift. I’ve never had a good Coke from a fountain, so I try to avoid them whenever possible (
which is always
). I ordered a double measure of Lagavulin 12-year old Scotch with a splash of water.

I’ve never met a bartender that wasn’t a snob about alcohol, and this one looked like a single-malt snob. My ordering a Coke or a Perrier or Clamato, as I might like to in this situation, would not enhance his calm, and could make my work here tonight more difficult. I had no intention of drinking the vile rope/iodine-tasting stuff he put down in front of me a minute later (
I’d seen the label and distinctive bottle as I sat down, so knew that I wouldn’t have to reach for another name
), but it allowed him to put me in a series of categorical boxes that suited me for the moment.

“You know your single-malt.” He said, as he set the chunky glass down with some ceremony. “Lotta guys, they’ll order Glenfiddich or Macallan, and choke it down with their buddies, but they don’t like it, you can tell. I haven’t uncorked the Lagavulin in months.”

“I like the taste of Islay … the salt and peat and smoke … go far enough back, and my family worked the sea off of Islay … maybe warmed themselves at the end of the day with Lagavulin.” I’d done some research a few years back, and could talk for hours about single malts, although I hoped that I wouldn’t have to. “Pour one for yourself, if you’ve got the time.”

He looked up and down the bar, then smiled at me, and went back down the bar to grab the bottle. He poured himself a copy of my drink, and leaned in to clink my glass. “Happy Days.” He said, and I groaned inwardly, knowing that I was going to have to drink some.

We raised our glasses, and each took a minute amount into our mouths to vaporize. It burned my tongue and tasted like poison, but I made appreciative sounds, and rolled my eyes to heaven. His eyes shifted, saw someone over my shoulder, and he moved his glass quickly under his side of the bar. He shuffled down to the far end for a few minutes to talk with a tall, thin, gray man in a tall, thin, gray suit before coming back to my end of the bar with a wistful smile.

“Well, you’re not in Syracuse for the peat and smoke
, what brings you here?” he asked.

“Ewan’s my name Phil, and I’m here to sort out some family trouble.” Phil looked surprised and a bit nervous when I used his name (
which suited my needs at the moment
), but then remembered his nametag, and which side of the bar he was on. He looked hopefully up and down the bar for thirsty patrons to give him an excuse to flee, but was out of luck.

He looked into the bottom of his glass, swirled it once, took a sip, and brought his eyes back to mine with a neutrality that hadn’t been there before; so I primed the pump a bit, “A friend was in here last night, got picked up and rolled by a pro pretending to be part of the conference, and ended up in the hospital minus some of his belongings. I’m trying to find out who and why and how to get back what they haven’t already sold before they dump it.”

Phil chewed over what I had said while he brought a basket of various bar-snacks up from under his side of the bar. He tilted his head this way and that, a bit like my dog Hope does when she’s trying to figure something out. He pulled a single peanut out of the basket, and threw it in his mouth before he answered.

“I probably can’t help you, but even if I could, I’d
naturally want to make sure that it didn’t get back to me.”

Thankfully, I don’t naturally smile or frown when other people do, or I would have had to repress a grin (
which is an expression I’ve been working on … smile #23
) when he tried to lawyer up his version of an admission of knowledge of the events that took place last night. I needed to be careful and/or bold, so as to avoid scaring him quiet.

“Here’s a picture I took of him at the hospital this morning
… imagine him without the broken nose and split lip and bruising. I don’t want trouble for you or her or for the people that she works for … I don’t care about the stuff they stole, except for some papers they took along with the rest. We just want the research findings, before they chuck them into a dumpster.” As far as I knew, Lily hadn’t taken anything from Mickey, and there were no research documents, but I assumed that it would make a better story for Phil, who had likely watched enough movies and TV to make up a scenario fitting his secret desires for adventure and intrigue.

“Yah, makes sense. So
… you’re not looking to put a hurt on anyone, or get anyone arrested, just recover your friend’s papers or whatever?” Phil asked.

“That’s exactly it Phil, can you get me another of these
… and one for you as well? We just want the papers back, I pay out the reward money, and then I go back to the lab in Boston.”

As expected, his eyes lit up at the word ‘reward’, and I needn’t have lied about going home to Boston
, for all he was listening to the end of the sentence. He hustled down the bar to grab the bottle, and after refilling both of our glasses, left it on the bar … perhaps hopefully. He hadn’t noticed me spilling most of my drink from between my knees onto the carpeting on my side of the bar.

“There’s a reward for anyone helping you get this stuff back?” Phil took a swallow of the sipping whisky as he obviously battled with a decision.

“That’s right, so it’s too bad you don’t know anything. I may try the bar mentioned in the incident report next, although I’m sure they won’t be pouring Lagavulin … pity.” The mention of moving on decided Phil, and he blurted out what came next all in one long breath, the tenor of his voice rising and tightening as he ran out of air.

“The guy you want to talk to is Morty
… I don’t know his last name … he runs the ‘Starlight’ … this club, see, up near the Carousel Mall, and a string of girls that work the ‘Starlight’ and a few hotels … his girls are the only ones work the Sheraton … Christ, you can’t tell him, or anyone, that I told you, or he’d fuckin’ kill me, honest.”

The final syllable came out with the last of his breath (
which smelled like mostly digested hot dogs and mustard)
and some spit … I was ready to get going, so I moved on to close the deal … what I lack in street-smarts and grace, I make up for in directness and money.

“Phil, I don’t have the time or the talent to fuck around or negotiate or threaten
… so here’s where the shit meets the shorts (
I could see that he liked that phrase, which I’d learned from Dan, and it seemed appropriate
) ... if you can give me an address for Morty’s Starlight Club and a glass of cranberry juice (
to wash the raunchy taste from my mouth
) in the next minute or so, I’ll give you a thousand dollars and be on my way. If the information is good, nobody will ever know that it came from you, and you’ll never even see me again. If the information is bad, you will see me again, and I’ll be both unhappy and unpleasant. Does that sound fair and reasonable?”

He nodded, filled a tall glass with cranberry juice and a bit of ice, wrote down an address on a slip of paper (
after checking something in a phonebook under the bar
), and then started to slide my bill across the bar.

“Here you go Phil.” I said, as I slapped down a thin stack of $100 bills. “I think you can cover my drinks out of your end
… right?”

“Uh, sure
…” Phil’s face was fun to watch … his fingers reached out to caress the money, and it made him happy, but he felt sad about spending some on pricey whisky. I was OK overpaying for information, but I was opposed to paying for the privilege of drinking that nasty slop in the fancy bottle. It was almost worth it to see the thoughts and moods slide back and forth across his face, until they settled on mostly grateful, with a side of slightly hoodwinked.

Mike’s warehouse/garage, Syracuse, 1/22/2013, 2:28 a.m.

Mickey’s phone rang as I pulled up at Dinosaur Bar-B-Que for another snack (
hoping to avoid being seen and food-hazed by Kevin, if possible
). I dug the phone out of my bag and the screen identified the caller as ‘Lily’. I had been expecting her call, and was glad to hear from her.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Mickey? Is that you?” Her tone was only a little guarded, probably in surprise at not having Mickey pick up … she may have thought that she had misdialed.

“Hi Lily, my name is Tony, I’m a friend of Mickey’s who’s helping him with some stuff, since he’s not feeling so well at the moment.” My
normal voice is somewhat lacking in expression, this is especially noticeable over the phone, but I didn’t think that it would hurt in this instance, so I didn’t try to push any feeling into the exchange.

“I need to talk with Mickey about a private matter, what number can I reach him at? Or should I call his home in Manhattan?” She was speaking loudly and I could hear her breathing, rapid and shallow
… I didn’t want to lose her at the beginning, but it was a possibility.

“No need to go straight to the nuclear option, Lily. Mickey and I are old friends, and he told me everything about last night and this morning. I can help you
get what you and Shane want, but we need to sit down, talk rationally, and not get excited.”

She took a calming breath before her reply, “Why shouldn’t I just hang up right now, post the video of Mickey and I fucking on
YouTube, and send a copy to his wife?”

“Mickey and me, Lily
… but that’s not important right now … what is vitally important is that you understand that if you hang up and post or send or distribute that video, you have two big problems …. First, you lose your chance at seeing any money from Mickey … ever. Second, you will hurt Mickey, a good man that I care deeply about … if you do that, I will devote considerable effort to making your life less pleasant. I am a man not generally given to threats, mostly because I feel silly when I make them. Nonetheless, it would be much better for everyone involved if you agreed to meet with me, exchange your video camera for a large amount of cash, and then we each go our separate ways.” I had worked out what to say and how to say it hours earlier, and was generally pleased with how it had come out.

“So you’re Mickey’s friend
… that’s nice. He was a nice guy.” She offered … partway to a peace offering.

“But not so nice that you and Shane left him alone?” I replied, forcing a bit of edge into my voice.

“Shane and me, we’ve got plans ... the first step is getting out of Syracuse … and part of getting out of Syracuse is getting some money. Doctors have money.”

She built this logical sand-castle for me in such a straightforward and simple way that I could nearly see/hear her repeating it like catechism to/with her boyfriend and pimp, Shane.

“It’s a shame your plans involve trying to hurt somebody that I care about.”

“We
… I just want money, not to hurt Mickey … not really.”

“He did a good imitation of someone who had been hurt when I saw him this morning in the hospital.” Again, I let some anger into my voice, just to keep her from getting too comfortable with me.

“That’s nice you visited him, we must have just missed each other, cause when I checked in again a while later, you guys had already left. It must be nice having friends like you … like him. Someone who would come all the way from New York to see you laid up in the hospital.”

“Shane isn’t that kind of friend?” I asked, not really caring, but assuming that must be where Lily had been heading, and
further assuming that if I got there first, I could hasten our way to the end of this conversation (
which could conceivably make me regret what I was going to do to Lily and Shane
).

“Shane’s OK, but it wouldn’t occur to him to visit me when I’m sick
… I’m no use to him sick or hurt… just once I’d like a friend that cared about me, not what I could do for them.” We had veered off track, and I needed to get back on message.

“Well, the good news is I am that kind of friend
… the bad news is I’m Mickey’s friend, not yours; and I’m here because of you and the injuries and threats you visited upon my friend. My only interest is in getting clear of this with no more hassle or injury to anyone. If money is going to make this problem go away, then I’m going to throw money at you … once. Are you ready to deal, or do I have to listen to you whine about life being unfair more?”

“
No … Ok … I’m still here, how are we going to do this? The money.” She said, sounding just a bit defeated, (
which was OK with me
).

“We will meet tomorrow, at noon I think, at the Mykonos Coffee Shop in the western quadrant of the intersection of North Salina Street and Kirkpatrick Street. You will bring the video camera and video, and I will bring ten thousand dollars in used and non-sequential
twenty and fifty dollar bills. We will share a snack and table in the coffee shop … my treat, and you can count or inspect the money while I ascertain that the video has not, in fact, been copied and/or shared with the world.”

“I didn’t know you could do that? How can you tell?” She asked with a enough nervousness to make me think that she had thought about it, but hadn’t
, as yet, copied the movie of her and Mickey.

“The video has all sorts of information stamped on it by the camera
… I’m sure that you’ve seen pictures and movies that have the date visibly stamped on them, this is similar, but the data I’ll be looking for keeps track of the number of times the file has been shared … like a counter on YouTube.” None of this was true, but I was hoping to keep her from making a backup copy before tomorrow, and she only had to believe me until our meeting.

I continued, “If I find that the data has been copied, the deal will be off, with unfortunate results for you and Shane
… and presumably Mickey. That would be a shame, and I sincerely hope that you are not greedy enough to spoil one payment in the hopes of coming back at Mickey again and again for the same material.”

“No,” she said, sounding a bit scared and relieved, “We wouldn’t do anything like that
… I liked Mickey … he’s a nice guy.”

“Remember that
in the hours between now and our meeting tomorrow, when you or someone else gets tempted to try something unsavory or simply stupid. This is the best possible deal for everyone involved … if this falls apart for some reason, all of the other options are considerably worse … for our mutual friend Mickey, to be sure, but also, and most especially for you.” I went for a flat delivery, as I had concerns that I would be unable to pull off menacing with sufficient oomph.

“Yeah, ok
… I got it. Twelve at the coffee place at North Salina and Kirkpatrick. No copies of the movie and no funny business. I count the money while you check the movie. When we’re both happy, we leave, and never see each other again.” She had nut-shelled it quite nicely.

“Perfect Lily, I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. I’ll be sitting alone with a red backpack in the chair across from me. Remember, stay smart and we all get what we want
… try and get tricky, and nobody does.” I hung up, locked the Element, and went in for some food (
Kevin was thankfully off, so he didn’t get the chance to stuff me again
).

I finished my meal in short order, paid
, left, and went in search of Mike’s warehouse. I found the warehouse with no problem, and it was perfect … huge and well-lit, with lots of tables and power sockets, and even some tools (
both power and hand
). I spent five minutes covering all of the windows at ground level with scraps of house wrap that I found over in a corner; then I started tearing the microwave ovens apart, and modifying the guts for use at a later stage in my plan.

I had stopped on my way to the warehouse in
to one of the gazillion strip-malls that rings the downtown area of Syracuse to find some things that I needed at Radio Shack (
huge capacitors, lots of wiring, walkie-talkies, a soldering gun, and some parabolic dishes normally used for satellite TV
) and at Home Depot (
another microwave of the same brand that I’d found at Walmart, a trio of small fire extinguishers, nitrile gloves, some copper tubing, beefy power cables and plugs, a hundred foot heavy-duty extension cord, and some more giant capacitors for appliance repair, picture hanging wire, C-clamps, and a hacksaw and blades
); paying, as always, cash for everything.

I used the fifth (
which I pegged as an extra
) microwave to experiment. I had to backtrack a couple of times in rigging the capacitors (
in parallel, not series
), rigging the dish and copper tubing for ‘aiming’, and wiring it all together before I was satisfied with the design. I needed to test the device. So I drove out to a deserted u-shaped strip-mall with some lights/electronics still active in one of the windows and an outdoor electrical outlet along one wall (
maybe for Christmas lights
). I pulled the device out of the Element and onto the tarmac, covered it with one of the dark sheets that I’d picked up at Walmart, plugged it into the outlet, and drove some distance away (
hoping that nobody, especially not a cop
would pick that minute to come by
). I could see the device and the store window filled with flickering electronics. When I had waited long enough for it to reach a full charge, I activated it with the walkie in my hand.

I could see a brilliant flash and some smoke come out from beneath the sheet, and everything in the store window went dark. I was heartened to see that the lights in the store behind the device were still functioning, which lead me to believe that I could run the other devices from the back of my Element, assuming that I could repeat the construction process exactly. I waited five minutes to see if anyone would come to see what had happened, but nobody did
; I went to pick up the device, found a dumpster behind a Circuit City to throw it in, and went back to Mike’s warehouse to prepare the other devices.

The other four devices essentially assembled themselves. I let my mind wander through the map of Syracuse that I had in my head, and explore
d the plans that I had for Lily and Shane and Morty’s Starlight Club, while my hands moved across the landscape of gutted microwaves and capacitors and walkies like crabs; both mind and hands feeling for the easy or artful or elegant way to accomplish my goals. I was coming up on a nexus of high-risk elements in my nested plans, and the physical activity of disassembling and reassembling the microwaves and other components was perfect for occupying my forebrain, which allowed my backbrain (
what I generally refer to as the lizard bits
) to forage around my plans for bits and pieces that could be altered or rearranged in such a way that would reduce risks for Mickey and me and other people (
even Shane and Lily and Morty
).

In this manner
, I worked until long after midnight, first altering the microwaves, and then later, purpose-modifying some of the other equipment that I had loaded into the Element in the last 24 hours. Once I was done, and everything was prepped, I loaded it into the Element, covered it with dark linens, threw a few odd bits of lumber (
from one corner of the warehouse
) on top of the lumpiness in the back of the Element, locked the car and warehouse, hung a hammock from a pair of support beams, and got a few hours of sleep.

I dropped off thinking about some details of the next stage of the plan, and awoke with the answers I had sought.