Sleep with the Fishes (11 page)

The ride
back to Hellbender Eddy was as festive as a fish fry in the rain. The tape wasn’t in the video store. In fact, it looked like it had been rented out.

Big Bob broke the silence as they were coming down Ballard Road.

“Mechanic said your truck should be ready this week, Russ. Said he’d never seen anything like what happened to that steering box, locking up and busting like that.”

As Sid turned the LTD down the driveway and the headlights swept across the Smonig abode, Russ flashed to the events of the previous night. The crunch, the thud, the steam. An icy spider of doom marched up his neck.

“Yeah, it’s a pretty neat trick, but the cops buy into it. Makes for a perfect ‘accident.’ Especially when the cause of death is watchamacallits.” Sid snapped his fingers. “Head drama.”

Little Bob raised his hand.

“I think that’s head
trauma,
Mr. Bifulco.”

“What I said, head trauma.”

The LTD ground to a stop at the Smonig trailer, headlights spotlighting the old powder blue Dodge sprouting weeds in the side yard.

Russ opened the door, put one foot out, then turned back to Sid.

“So, not only are you a murderer and a burglar, but also a master at insurance fraud? Let me guess, steering boxes are a specialty? I happen to know quite a lot about steering boxes, and anybody who knows anything about cars wouldn’t buy it. And the police? They only know what the mobsters who pay them off let them think. Gangsters like you, probably. And you think it’s some kinda game, but the innocent people who get in the way of your moves get chewed up.”

“Whoa, Russ, whoa.” The menace of Russ’s stormy, cold stare and trembling voice surprised Sid.

“There’s no ‘whoa’ about it. You love this stuff, dumping dead bodies, videotapes, ruin, prison: I’m on to you, Sid.”

The door to the LTD slammed, and Russ stalked off toward his gloomy trailer. The gang in the car shared a silent moment.

“Hey, sure, so maybe Russ isn’t all wrong. Gotta admit, this does seem a little like old times. But I swear to you guys—FBI as my judge—I’m not, and will not, drag this thing out. I’ll, y’know, hit the video store tomorrow, get the tape during working hours when that guy in the store files—Price—returns it. Maybe nobody’ll have looked at the whole thing. You said the beginning was long an’ boring, am I right? I mean, there’s this long bit while the camera is on the car seat?”

“Yeah, but I didn’t rewind, I don’t think.” Little Bob sighed, dejected.

“I think I should go in and talk to Russ. I think he needs someone to talk to.” Big Bob pushed the front seat forward, opened the door, and squeezed out.

“Big Bobby, if you ask me, kinda seems like Russ wants to be alone. Maybe you should try him tomorrow, know what I’m talkin’ about? Y’guys go on home. Everything’ll be awright.”

Little Bob stepped out of the car too, and Big Bob held the door.

“I dunno.” Big Bob scratched thoughtfully at his stubble, the car’s dome light illuminating him up to the belt buckle. “Ya think maybe Russ is a little suicidal? There was a whole
Newstime
on that back in December. You gotta keep an eye on people under stress.”

“Hey, whatever you wanna do, Big Guy. But I don’t recommend it, know what I mean? See you guys around.”

Sid threw the car in reverse and shot backward up the drive.

The Bobs decided to head home.

There was only one occasion when Sid had thought he was going to get whacked, and he’d left a mental bookmark at that page.

He’d been in with the Palfuttis maybe three years. Having sacked with a little number in fuchsia pumps, Sid was unable to tear himself away from his liaison for a weekly business meeting. It was the wrong thing to do, but he was young and a little cocky, so to speak. He showed up two hours late.

The Palfutti boardroom was a canyon of corrugated boxes surrounding a card table and four metal chairs in the A2Z Supermarket basement, and when Sid arrived late, it was deserted, lit only by a fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead. There was the usual smell of rotting lettuce and rat poison. Cigarette smoke still loitered in the air. When he turned to leave, placing a hand on the light switch, he somehow—either through some small sound made by a grin, the faintest whiff of macho musk, or the radiant body heat of a carnivore—realized he was not alone. Someone was there, hiding, waiting for him, ready to gut him.

Sid turned out the lights and left. The person never showed himself, even though there had been every opportunity to slit him. The intended message had come through loud and clear: Don’t fuck up.

What was it with the red shoes? A curse? That incident had been preceded by fuchsia pumps. This time, Sid had just come from a tête-à-tête with Jenny and her crimson hikers. Warning lights flashed in Sid’s cerebral cortex as he stepped away from the LTD toward his front porch. He could feel eyes watching him from a dark recess. Someone was waiting in the shadows.

If it were a mob hit, the killer would show himself and do the work with a knife or wire because it was more brutal. They liked their rats to know they were getting whacked, and they liked to leave an ugly mess to discourage future rats. So if it were someone hiding around the side of the cabin, the assassin would have to rush up from behind while Sid was standing at the door. The hit would have been designed to make sure Sid suffered.

The steady churning rhythm of the river filled Sid’s ears. His senses reached out, expanded, sharpened. Warm pine needles and cedar shingles choked his sinuses, the bug-light porch lamp stung his eyes, gravel crunched under his feet like shattering lightbulbs. A shovel leaning against the cabin, in the garden near the porch, drew his watering eyes. His palm stretched, ready to grasp.

Dead ahead, a man with a blond flattop and baby blue windbreaker stepped from behind the side of the cabin. Sid’s vision swam—for an instant.

“I’m here about the fish.” Trooper Price had been a little nervous about matching wits with a mobster of Sid’s reputation, and had decided it would be best to try to sound tough and use mob jargon. When he’d stopped at the Duck Pond in his quest to find out where Sid lived, he’d had a drink or two and debated for a while whether to use the word “stiff” or “fish.” Price stood in the amber light, hands flexing at his sides and his diamond stud a spark at his ear.

Sid waggled his shoulders, relaxing.

“Shit, you’re here about the fish.” Sid tapped his forehead. He’d forgotten: the taxidermist. A drop of sweat slid down his shirt collar.

“So you’re not…surprised?” Price took a tentative step forward.

“Well, I guess a little. Didn’t even see your car.”

“Parked up the drive a little. I wanted it to be a surprise. Then you know why I’m here?”

“Yeah, you want the fish.” Sid was looking through some keys for the one that opened the front door.

“I know all about how you and Russ whacked him.” Price hunched his shoulders, trying to sneer.

“Yeah? Pretty exciting, huh? And he is a big mother, know what I’m talkin’ about?” Sid propped the screen door open with one foot.

“I don’t suppose you know about the reward?” Price rocked on his heels.

“Reward?” Sid pushed the door open. “C’mon in.”

These mobsters sure were slick. Real cool. He followed cautiously.

“Yes, reward.” Price took a look behind the door before entering.

“I didn’t know they gave rewards. Shit, I’m sure glad I didn’t chuck him in the river.”

“Then you didn’t dump him?”

“No way. The bastard’s right here.” Sid nudged an oversized Styrofoam cooler with his foot. It was a florist’s cooler, over four feet long and almost three feet wide, that had come loaded with flowers from Endelpo as a housewarming gift. Along with the carp, Sid had packed it full of ice and then generously duct-taped it closed.

Price looked at the giant cooler, confusion flickering on his face.

“In there?” Price went a little pale.

“Yeah, he was a monster, but I made him fit, know what I mean? Once you let the blood out they kinda deflate. But don’t worry. I numbered all the pieces so you can, like, put him back together,” Sid jested. He stuck his thumbs in his belt loops and gave Price a good-humored wink.

Denial was past, and Russ was faced with the fact that he’d killed a man. Who was he? Was there someone, a wife perhaps, waiting for a spouse that wasn’t coming home? There seemed to be a terrible twist of fate at work.

But Russ hadn’t gotten very far with this line of thought or his Yuengling before there was a knock at the door.

“Go away, Sid.” Russ curled into a tighter knot on the couch.

There was a cough from beyond the door.

“It’s not Sid.”

“Go away.”

“Mr. Smonig, I think I can help you.”

Hairs stood up on Russ’s neck.

When he opened the door, he didn’t expect to see a little dark bow-tied gentleman with a wool crusher. And as Omer had been out in the chill from the river, his slightly pointed ears and cherubic cheeks had a radish hue.

“Well?” Russ slid the fedora back on his head and leaned a forearm on the door frame. “Who are you?”

Omer shook his head with concern, his brittle blue eyes inspecting Russ. He sighed.

“You know, Mr. Smonig, you’re in a terrible mess, and I think you need all the help you can get! Now come along….”

Omer pushed past Russ and grabbed him by the hand.

“Hey, hey…” Russ protested.

Omer spun Russ into a chair at the kitchen table, grabbed his face in two delicate brown hands, and turned it to the light for inspection. The fedora was dispatched and Omer ran his fingers through Russ’s hair.

“What you need is not beer, but tea.”

In a flash, Omer had doffed his crusher and rolled up his sleeves.

Like an alligator whose tummy had been stroked, Russ snapped from his momentary trance.

“Who are you? What makes you think you can help me? Who told you I’m in trouble? Was it Jenny? Goddammit…”

Omer turned a pair of disapproving brown irises on Russ.

“We’ll have no foul expletives, if you please, Mr. Smonig.” Omer found a clean coffee cup in the cupboard, filled it with water, and produced an envelope of tea from his pocket. “Not only is it unbecoming, but distracting and full of negative energies. We must work toward a positive solution!”

“O.K., who the hell are you and what makes you think you can help me?”

Omer put the cup in the microwave and pressed a button. The oven hummed.

“The name is Phillips, and let’s just say I overheard your exchange with Mr. Bifulco about the steering box. Good Lord, man—don’t you think I know what you’re up to?” Omer gave Russ a disappointed, fatherly wag of his head. “And for a man who has seen as much adversity and hardship as Russell Smonig, this predicament is what I unwaveringly refer to as trouble!”

“I want half the reward,” Price blurted.

“What?”

“That’s right, half.” Price gave Sid a steely eye.

“The reward is how much?”

“Ten thousand smackers.”

“Shit, you want five thousand to stuff that fish? What’re you, outta your friggin’ mind?”

Price assumed “stuff” was mob verbiage for “turn a blind eye” or “make go away.”

“That’s right. I don’t see as how you have any choice.”

“Why not?”

“Otherwise parties’ll find out about you and the fish. People around here don’t take kindly to that kind of thing, friend. Know what I mean?” Price snarled.

Sid squinted, patting the air with his hands, sure he was misunderstanding somehow. “What is this?”

“You think you can just walk in here and kill a fish? It doesn’t work like that.”

Sudden realization betrayed itself on Sid’s face. Of course. How could he have been so stupid? That’s why Russ was acting so funny about the carp in the boat. Sure, Sid had heard about bass tournaments, what with their $100,000 prizes. He’d also heard about the competitiveness, the cheating, and how some guy who ratted about some bass-planting actually had his head vaporized by a shotgun blast. Had Sid Bifulco, career hoodlum, been so naive as to think that things in the country would be different from Newark? Had he been so naive as to think that every corner of the planet wasn’t loaded with rackets where the locals didn’t exactly invite competition? It all made sense. That’s why Jenny was so knocked out about getting a shad spot. She was just a broad in crimson hikers looking for the inside track and tangling him further in the rackets. Sid had foolishly believed these people fished for the fun of it. But fishing too was a racket, probably dressed up like a “contest” and with “rewards” for the payoff on long odds of big fish. It was like a numbers racket. Or something like that. His mind was swamped with all the possibilities.