Symphony of Blood, A Hank Mondale Supernatural Case (3 page)

“Hank. This is Marissa.”

I waved. She politely waved back, and they went back to talking. I took a slug of my drink and looked up at the television. The game was just about to start.

The Knicks came out in their home white uniforms, the Bucks in ugly, dark green ones. The tip was controlled by Milwaukee, and they hit the first bucket, and the second, and the third. Before I knew it, the Knicks had fallen into a deep hole.

It just didn’t make sense. The Knicks won eight straight games prior, and Milwaukee hadn’t come into The Garden and won in three seasons. But with each basket the visiting Bucks hit, my two grand slipped away, and I was going from having my foot stuck in a New York pothole to being buried in a Jersey landfill in a hurry. All I could do was order more drinks, and more drinks, and still more.

At halftime, I turned to Victor, who had barely come up for air, he was working her so hard. He looked back at me, then leaned his head over towards me.

“You’re gambling again, aren’t you?”

“Nah. No way.”

Vic just shook his head, both of us knowing I was lying, then he returned his attention to Marissa.

The second half was no better than the first. The Knicks lost by twenty-five points. I downed another whiskey, easily my tenth or twentieth of the night, at that point what was the difference?

“I’m
gonna
catch a cab home,” I told Victor.

He nodded back as his date said, “Nice meeting you.”

In the cab, the driver had the sports talk radio station on. The hosts were talking about the Knick debacle and a few angry Knick fans called in. Then, they went to a break, and the announcer mentioned the Lakers game was set to tip off on the west coast at ten-thirty local time. I looked at my watch: ten twenty-two.

I handed the cabbie his fare as I called the office.

“Office.” Different voice than before, same amount of cigar mileage to his tone.

“It’s Hank. The Lakers?”

“Flip’s Hank?”

“Yeah, yeah. What are the Lakers tonight?”

“Lakers are minus ten, Hank.”

They were playing the worst team in the league. At least, I thought so. I’d had a few and really didn’t care. I was just chasing a dream of catching a break to settle up with Flip. As I fumbled up the steps to my second floor walkup apartment, that stood just over Jo Jo’s Deli, I tried to figure where I was at. I owed Flip Rory’s two grand, but I had at least a grand of that left. Didn’t I? I gave seven hundred to Sandy, dropped less than a hundred at the bar. I owed two plus the
vig
on my Knicks bet.

“Hank? You want action? Game goes off in four minutes and I can’t tie up this line. Other people want to get their plays in.”

“Give me three dimes on the Lakers.”

“Lakers six hundred times. Done, Hank.”

I stumbled inside, dropped my coat, kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the couch.

* *

Something hurt. What was it? A shoe in my back.

I shut my eyes tight, blinked a few times, then opened them. My head was pounding something awful, and my mouth was parched. I sat up and grabbed the shoe off my couch and tossed it aside.

A cold glass of water was all I could think about, and I walked as fast as my rubbery legs would take me to the kitchen. I ran the kitchen faucet for a second or two, no time to let it really get cold, then cupped my hand and gulped a few handfuls of water. I took a glass from the cabinet and filled it two or three times, and I started to feel human again.

I walked towards the bathroom, tossing my clothes off as I did. I started the water and then turned on the radio. I needed a score. The Lakers must have pulled it off.

They better have pulled it off.

I showered as the sports talk radio station babbled on. “Just give me the scores dammit.”

Every twenty minutes they ran the updates, and it seemed like I waited the full twenty until the deep-voiced dude started running down last night’s scores. Of course, the west coast games were always announced last.

“I know the Knicks lost. Just get to the scoreboard already!”

“…and finally, in the late game, it was the Lakers one-o-three, Charlotte ninety-four.”

“Fuck!” They won by nine. I was laying ten. I was in trouble.

A whole lot of trouble.

I dressed and walked out the door. Another cold day hit me once I was on the street. My office was just two blocks straight up Avenue A. Somewhere between Second and Third Street I felt a thump on my back and turned around quick. Just as recognition kicked in, Marco backhanded my face; Flip’s muscle-headed cousin was nothing if not two things: loyal, and stupid. He couldn’t tell a steroid from an asteroid except he shot one in his ass and shot the other through my head.

Once the stars subsided, I sat up. Marco was just standing over me, not saying a word.

“Hey, Marco.”

“Flip wants to see you.”

“I was just going to see him.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“What?”

“Give me your phone.”

“I left it at home.”

A silver Mercedes with chrome rims and dark purple tint on the windows pulled up. The door opened.

“Get in Hank.” It was Flip, sitting alone in the backseat wearing a black velour
sweatsuit
and a large silver link chain.

I took one look at Marco, then stepped into the car. Marco pushed in right behind me, and the three of us crowded the backseat.

“The phone, Marco,” Flip said.

Marco began manhandling me, checking my pockets. I’d honestly left it at home.

“He don’t got it.”

“It doesn’t matter. I know you got my calls last night, Hank. Why didn’t you call me back? You know I don’t like it when you duck me. It insults me.”

“I was at Haley’s last night. The place is loud. I didn’t hear my phone.”

“You managed to call the office…twice.”

“I didn’t see you called, Flip. I was hammered.”

“You didn’t have a good night, from what I hear.”

“
Freakin
’ Lakers…”

“I also heard you went to see Rory.”

I nodded.

“He gave you two grand.”

I nodded again.

“Where is it?”

I thumbed through my pockets and found a thousand. I handed it to Flip.

He shook his head back and forth. “I should beat the living shit out of you, Hank. You know that?”

I nodded. There was no point talking. It would only make it worse. Flip liked to hear himself talk. He had to decide for himself if he was going to drop me off at my office, or drop me in a ditch. Any lobbying on my part would just spark his predatory instincts.

“I don’t understand why you disrespect me. You needed a job, so I let you collect for me. What do you do? Insult me.”

“I should have called. I’m sorry.”

Flip looked at me, then walloped me in the gut. I knew I should have kept my mouth shut.

“You’re goddamned right you should have called me!”

The Mercedes stopped in front of my office. Flip grabbed the back of my hair and slammed my head into Marco’s rock of a knee. My eyes began to water.

“Seven grand, two points a week.”

“But I just gave you a grand.”

Flip slapped me like a fifth grader. “That’s a dick tax. Don’t ever act like a dick again or the tax will be in broken bones, not cash. Understand?”

“Yep.”

“Get the fuck out of my car. Now!”

Marco opened the door, but didn’t move. I looked at him, and he grunted and exhaled like an angry bull, then stepped out. I stepped out behind him and walked towards my office.

Mrs. Kim ran over as she saw me stumble down our shared overhang towards my door.

“Mr. Mondale, are you okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine, Mrs. Kim. Don’t worry about me.”

“You sit down right here.” She guided me into the dry cleaners and over to her chair in front of the sewing machine.

In spite of my pride, I sat down. “Really, Mrs. Kim, I’m fine.”

“Nonsense. I’ll get you ice. Your eye looks red. That’s going to get nice and swollen. You need ice.”

She ran to the back and Mr. Kim slowly ambled over.

He said something—I had no idea what—and smiled. Then, he pointed to his own eye, and I think he said, “Nice shot.”

We nodded and smiled in unison.

Mrs. Kim hurried back with some ice wrapped in a paper-towel. “Here. This ought to make you feel better.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kim. Thank you so much.” I stood up while holding the ice to my eye and forehead.

“Be careful, Mr. Mondale. Stop hanging around with those bums. One day they’re going to get you in big trouble.”

Mrs. Kim sounded a lot like my mother, only the accent was different. I guess all mothers sound a lot alike when they know you’re up to no good.

“Thanks again.”

Sandy had her feet up on the desk while reading a gossip magazine as I walked in. She didn’t bother to sit up.

“Busy day, I see.”

“Yup.” She replied without looking up.

“Any calls?”

“Nope.” Finally, she looked over and saw my face. “Oh, Jesus, Hank. What happened to you?”

“Nah, it’s nothing.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine. Just peachy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m fine.”

“Your mother called. And
Avi
called twice.”

“Great. Anyone else?”

“Nope.”

“No clients? No work? Nothing?”

“Not while I’ve been here.”

I walked into my office and shut the door behind me. A bottle of Jim Beam sat on my desk. I picked it up, took off the cap, shook my head in disgust, then took a big swig.

I immediately felt better, and worse simultaneously. Funny how booze can do that. I plunged down into my chair to sleep off my hangover, my shiner and my anxiety.

* *

 
“Hank! Phone call.”

My size ten jet-black loafers slipped off the desk, and I shook myself awake. Had I slept an hour? Or a week? I wasn’t sure, and I forgot my watch along with my cell phone when I left the apartment.

“Take a message!”

“It sounds important.”

“Take a message!”

The door swung open and Sandy stood with her arms crossed. There was a sheen in her eyes telling me she was annoyed at the inconvenience of having to get up off her pretty little ass.

“Hank, it sounds important.”

“Is it my mother or
Avi
?” I reached for the half-melted ice pack and put it to my sore forehead.

“I think it’s a client.”

“Sandy, can’t you see I’m having a rough day? I’m in no mood to be messed with. Would you get me a cup of coffee, please.”

She walked over to me, grabbed the phone, handed me the receiver and whispered, “I’m not a waitress, and I’m serious. Take the call.”

I straightened up in my seat and let her know with my eyes that if this was a joke, I wasn’t laughing. She nodded to say she wasn’t kidding.

“Mondale Investigative Services. This is Hank.” I licked my parched lips as I watched Sandy strut out. She didn’t close the door behind her.

“Hello, Mr. Mondale.” The voice was soft: a man’s voice in a hushed tone as if he didn’t want someone near him to hear what he was saying.

“Yes? This is Hank.”

“I am considering hiring you. I have a very delicate matter that requires a special type of assistance.”

“I’m your man. I’ll be happy to provide references.”

“Are you available today, around two pm?”

“Hang on, let me check with my secretary.” I cradled the phone to my chest with one hand and grabbed for the bottle of whiskey with the other. Just as I got a hold of the bottle, Sandy came in with a fresh cup of coffee in her hand. She waggled her finger at me admonishingly with her free hand. I looked back at her, then put down the whiskey without drinking any and instead took the coffee from her and mouthed a silent, “Thank you.”

She half smiled, then quickly turned and exited, this time closing the door softly.

The call seemed too good to be true. The crisp, concise way the guy spoke…he had to be rich. I could smell the sweet odor of money coming through the phone. I took a small sip of the coffee. It was fresh. I took a bigger slug, cleared my throat and said, “Thanks for holding. Yes, sir. I’m available this afternoon. Would you like to come down here? Or shall I meet you somewhere?”

“I am sending someone to meet you. His name is
Greenwal
. Be at the Flagship Diner on Second Avenue.”