Big Numbers (14 page)

FORTY

The monster oak can’t follow, so the nightmarish quality of Gerry’s burial stays behind when we leave the graveyard. Thank God. Unfortunately, the ugly realities—Tomlin, Mallory, Rags, and Blackie’s pal who used to wear a goatee—can and do tail us out of the parking lot.

Our limousine leads a longer procession away from Holy Trinity’s churchyard than we did arriving. The one piece of good news: I haven’t seen Psycho Sam’s dirty Mariner SUV.

“Where’s the driver taking us?” I say. “Back to the hotel?”

“Unless you wanted to go for a drink,” Kelly says.

I shake my head, no. “It’s just that we have company.” I nod my head toward the back window.

I watch Kelly turn to look. A feeling comes out of nowhere, some crazy response to stress and fear, I guess. I want to kiss the nape of Kelly’s perfumed neck. Right where the wispy red hairs grow wild and long.

“Who’s following us?” she says.

“The Feds from last night, that Branchtown Detective, Jim Mallory. And I think I saw my sales manager’s Jaguar back there as well.”

“All three of them? Why?”

“Who knows
? And there’s actually a fourth car behind that, I think. I was in a fist fight with some guys last week at Luis’s Mexican Grill. One of them—”

Kelly saying, “I don’t care about your fights, your sales manager, or that hump local sheriff. But I sure as hell don’t want that bastard Tomlin getting his hands on my bonds.”

I like the bonds used to be Gerry’s, but now they’re Kelly’s. She stole them fair and square. Finders keepers, losers weepers. Possession is nine-tenths of the law. What’s mine is mine, what’s yours is ours. People have a million excuses for crime.

“Did you put those puppies in the hotel safe?” I ask.

“They’re in the trunk. The green airline carry-on.”

“And my money?”

“It’s in the carry-on with the bonds,” Kelly says. “Fifty-eight thousand, cash.”

I take a long breath. It’s going to be lots of fun seeing my ex-wife’s happy face when I pay her what I owe. It’s going to be positively wonderful to play again with my children. “We should get our stuff from the hotel, then lose these cops.”

“Or just buy new clothes in Mexico,” she says. She grins at me. “I’m think I’m going to miss having a hot tub right in our room.”

I pat her arm. Strange priorities, this redhead. Me, I’m worried about the Feds pulling us over, finding the bonds and the money, locking us up. “You’re not leaving town until tomorrow, right?” I
ask.

“Eight-thirty in the morning.”

“Do you want to check in to another hotel? I guess you could stay with me in the camper. It’s smelly, but cozy.”

“My stewardess friend Betty lives near the airport. I’ve made arrangements to stay with her. She said there’s plenty of room for you, too.”

Do I need another night of hot sex? “Or I could drop you off. Maybe we should say our goodbyes tonight.”

The redhead shows me a world-class pout. Her lower lip must be sticking out two inches. “It’s our last night. I wanted another chance at talking you into coming to Vera Cruz with me.”

Now she loses the pout, gives me the full-boat Kelly smile, wrinkles around the nose. “It’s not too late, you know.”

I knew this was coming. Funny thing is, right now some little voice inside is saying yes, go with her. I guess a small piece of me feels like running away.

Bet I know which piece.

I sigh out loud. Would my kids be better off in the long run if I wasn’t around, confusing them about “normal” and “broken
” families? Struggling with this divorced father crap the way I do can’t be a good example for Ryan. Beth either.

What crap
? “I can’t leave my kids, Toots. We’ve been over this.”

“Just a week. Come with me, stay five or six days even, then I’ll put you back on a plane myself, send you home to Ryan and
Beth.”

Maybe the time to disappoint her would be after I put that fifty-eight thou in my pocket. “Let’s ditch these cops, then we’ll talk about it.”

The redhead’s still grinning at me. Waiting, confident. Knowing I’m going to fix this police tail like I’ve fixed everything else—the cash, the safe, the transfer, the follow-up details in Mexico.

The only thing I can’t fix is me.

“Let me have your cellphone,” I say.

FORTY-ONE

We brake to a stop. Kelly hands the limo driver five one hundred dollar bills for the day’s work. The money’s crisp and new, and I watch the driver’s ruddy thick fingers encircle the cash with a certain tenderness. I understand. I haven’t had my hands on that much money since Susan won the attachment on my paychecks.

Special Agent Tomlin’s black Chevy Suburban slides to the curb a hundred yards behind us. I see
Rags’ Jag and the Chevy Impala belonging to Mr. Former Goatee behind Tomlin. Mallory’s Crown Victoria must be stuck at a light.

I tell the chauffeur how we want to play it and he pops the trunk for me. Kelly and I climb leisurely into the sunshine. I take my time lifting the green carry-on, too. Oh, boy, does it feels heavy.

On a carefully coded, prearranged queue, both Kelly and I will drop the relaxed attitude and execute Plan A. Run like hell. I’ve got the suitcase in one hand, the redhead in the other.

“Now,” I say.

We scurry up concrete steps into a theater lobby. It’s Saturday afternoon. The place is hopping with kids at matinees, boys and girls wrestling, giggling, and running circles around two dozen stressed-looking adults.

The smell of buttery popcorn tempts my nose. We hurry by movie posters on the wall, six-by-four-foot teasers for upcoming big-screen attractions. Space ships. Super
heroes. Sexy women. Lots of guns and pointy things. A child wails down the dark hall of viewing rooms.

At the back of the lobby, Kelly and I push through red-trimmed glass doors and dump the theater crowd for the food court. The smell of pizza, burgers, and soy sauce blend
s into a heady, hunger-producing cloud.

I chose the theater lobby as our starting point because it serves as an entrance to Seaside County’s largest mall.

I use the cellphone once more deep inside the shopping center. Five minutes, the man tells me.

Damn. Kelly and I have to kill more time without getting spotted. I saw Special Agent Tomlin once, when he and three associates first pushed through the red trimmed glass doors and looked for us in the food court. The redhead and I were in the middle of a crowd, just leaving the food area, and I don’t think Tomlin or his men could have seen us, Federal agents or not.

However, since there are only four ways out of that food court, I figure Tomlin and his men split up, took one route each, and whichever one was assigned to the lucky trail—past the Verizon store, then left toward the restaurants—well, that guy is no more than ninety seconds, two minutes behind us. We’ve got to keep moving, and we have to stay out of open areas where he might see us.

God knows where Rags, Mallory, and Mr. Former Goatee are. Probably following Tomlin.

I pull Kelly and the green carry-on through as many crowded spaces as possible, including two wide-open restaurants and a noisy bar with the Mets game blasting. The Yankees must have been rained out.

Tomlin or his man will have to check every face in these crowds before moving on. I figure each busy establishment gives us an extra sixty seconds.

I get an idea. We’re right where I wanted to be, at the mall’s north entrance, near a Mexican joint I tried once but never went back because the food sucked. But instead of walking outside, looking for the taxi I called, I pull Kelly inside the Go Gonzales restaurant.

A young woman of high school age offers to seat us. I say great, could we have something close to the kitchen.

“Excuse me?”

“The kitchen. We love the smells.”

The hostess throws me an “Okee-dokee, dummy” look, grabs two menus, and heads off through a rather surprisingly loaded restaurant. Geez, look at all the people eating this crap. What the hell do New Jersey people know about chili Colorado and carnitas?

At our table, I pretend to fuss with the suitcase, Kelly with her purse. Eventually the hostess leaves.
We are not here to eat. I nod to the redhead and we push through stainless steel saloon doors into a hot kitchen. Must be eight, ten guys running around like crazy in here, all with towels on their heads, rags tied around their wrists. They’re too busy to show us anything but curious glances.

I spot the back screen door and push Kelly toward it, then all the way outside. Through the open door, I can see the same giant circular mall parking lot in which we left the limo. Due to our lengthy walk through the shopping center, however, we’re now on the opposite side, maybe half, three-quarters of a mile away from the theater.

I walk through the door behind Kelly, but the suitcase catches on a thick rubber threshold, and I have to stop, turn, and free it. Sure hope that taxi I called is where I told him to be. Five minutes should be up.

The redhead screams.

I look up and gasp. It’s Psycho Sam. He’s got Kelly by the neck.

FORTY-TWO

When the nut job sees me, Psycho Sam flings Kelly to the pavement like a ketchup-stained napkin. The redhead crumples on the asphalt, limp and motionless. My heart catches, then warps to fast forward. Did he break her neck?

The redhead groans, pushes up on one hand. Thank God. She sits, coughs, lifts a hand to her throat. I know she’ll be okay when she begins to sniffle.

Psycho Sam’s coming at me like a guy who used to play football for Notre Dame. Arms wide, weight evenly distributed so he’s balanced and ready to spring whichever way I run.

Sorry, Sam. I’m not running this time.

I snap Rags’ Smith & Wesson out of my inside coat pocket and point it at the big man’s nose. I’m so pissed what he’s done to Kelly, I almost pull the trigger. Almost. I don’t think I’d have much trouble convincing a jury I thought my life was in danger.

“Think that pea-shooter’s gonna stop me?”

“One in the head, one in the heart might slow you down.”

“You ain’t good enough to hit my heart, and my brain’s even smaller than that. Ha
, ha, ha.”

Actually, Sam might have a point. Not concerning the size of his organs, but my ability to prevent his advance. Thirty-eights aren’t
really known for their major stopping power, and this three-hundred-pound maniac might need more caliber than average. Like a Cruise missile.

How did Mr.
Vic talk him down that day? All Mr. Vic had was a .38.

Don’t remember. But I do remember what Psycho Sam’s gorilla-like hands feel like around my throat. I make an impulsive and startling decision. Even I’m surprised when words of surrender flow from my mouth.

“No need for violence, Sam. I’ve got your money.”

He frowns. Sam’s chest is maybe five feet from mine. Big as a barn door. Hell, I probably could shoot him in the heart from here. But am I really going to kill this man
—any man—for fifty-eight thousand dollars? Money that’s not even mine?

My finger eases off the trigger.

“Did you say you got my money?” Sam asks. “All fifty thousand?”

“In the green suitcase. Every dollar.”

“Let’s see,” he says.

“I can’t believe you gave that man your money,” Kelly says.

“Me either.”

The taxi showed up as we were unzipping the suitcase. We tossed Sam’s money on the ground, had the taxi driver bring us to my camper, and now Kelly’s nestled in beside me in the front seat. She looks wildly out of place in her funeral dress and jacket, that hat and hair-do. We’re on our way to her friend’s house near the airport.

“Why did you give him the extra eight thousand?” Kelly says. “You said he only lost fifty.”

“Interest. Mental anguish. I wasn’t going to argue at that point. He wanted to count.”

“Just so you know, I don’t have that much cash left,” Kelly says. “I can’t give you any more, at least now.”

“It’s better this way. I didn’t have to kill anybody, and we’re both still alive. He was absolutely right, you know. There’s no guarantee a couple of bullets would have stopped Psycho Sam.”

“I guess I could send you some money from Mexico,” she says.

I
take Kelly’s directions and turn off the Jersey Turnpike one exit south of Liberty Newark airport and head east into an industrial area of rusted buildings and abandoned dock property. We’re approximately forty-five miles north of Branchtown, across the Hudson River from New York City.

“Better yet,” she says, “I’ll pay you another fifty-eight thousand if you come to Mexico with me.”

Now there’s an offer. My mind starts working on that, and a question just pops out before I consider all the ramifications. “How long would I have to stay?”

Oops
. That didn’t come out right. The words play harsh even on my stockbroker’s ears.

“Forget it,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“No problem.”

We spend the rest of the drive together in silence. I don’t mind. I’ve got a lot to think about. Sure, I’m pissed about losing the money. My plans of getting back my visiting rights have been returned to the dream category. I’ve just lied, cheated, and committed forgery for absolutely nothing—except for the thirty-six thousand dollar commission I earned on Kelly’s bonds. It’s a good start, but not enough.

The redhead’s leaving town and I’ll be alone again, living in a camper, trying to sell stocks and bonds, Wacko Rags for a sales manager. Sneaking around oak trees and ionic columns to see my kids.

That fifty-eight thousand would have changed my life.

Maybe I should have pulled the trigger.