Big Numbers (15 page)

FORTY-THREE

I make a
nother turn Kelly points out and we go from dilapidated tin sheds and rusty warehouses into a slick new development near Newark Bay. Within sight of the Statue of Liberty, surrounded by abandoned New Jersey ship docks and broken, sinking cranes, some sharpie built luxury condominiums around a first-class boat marina.

The one-acre parking lot is full of Mercedes, BMWs, Jaguars
, and Audis. Riding in such automobiles, these condos are ten minutes from the Holland Tunnel and Manhattan, Newark-Liberty International Airport, and I-95, the New Jersey Turnpike. Water access to New York’s Upper Bay gives boat owners the Atlantic Ocean and, if your boat is big enough, the rest of the world.

Can’t imagine what these units cost. With
a boat slip, probably five to ten million for a bachelor.

I yank down Kelly’s green suitcase and lock up the camper. I don’t want someone stealing my NY Giant helmet. Kelly’s looking for something in her purse, so I start off on my own, walking toward the condominium’s common area, a two-story glass lobby that connects two, ten-story towers. Half a dozen brass sculptures and a raised platform with two security guards dominate the open lobby.

Kelly saying, “Not that way. Over there.” Pointing toward the marina.

“Your friend lives on a boat?” I say.

The redhead waits for me. “A friend of hers owns the condo and the slip. Wait until you see the guy’s boat. A fifty-foot Hatteras, I think she said.”

She seems to be getting over our tiff.

To my right, the sinking sun dips behind a bank of broken clouds, the sunset turning everything red and gold. A motor yacht hums back into the marina after a day of fishing. Poles line up like antennae in a rack near the yacht’s stern.

Kelly leads me down a spiffy planked dock with brass fittings and rope hand rails, past expensive yacht after super-expensive yacht. Hatteras, Grand Banks, Chris-Craft. Some of these babies cost millions.

The dock squeaks under my weight. The air tastes of salt and damp wood. Maybe a hint of rust.

The boat Kelly’s friend occupies looks like a working fishing charter. It sports a flying bridge, a tuna tower above that, and a fighting chair bolted to a plate on the main deck. I don’t see any rods, but there’s plenty of racks to hold them upright.

A black-headed seagull turns a circle above me. The same breeze the bird rides suddenly gusts hard off the water, cooling my face.

Kelly shouts. “Betty? It’s us. Permission to come aboard?”

The redhead and I are bumping hips on the dock, waiting for Betty. My arm’s sore from pulling Kelly’s damn suitcase around all afternoon, but I’m looking forward to sitting down, maybe having a drink.

I’m also considering the offer Kelly made about staying with her one last night. Not to mention the fifty-eight grand proposal if I go with her tomorrow morning. I can’t ask
again, of course, but I really do wonder how long I’d have to stay in Mexico. Would she really give up all that cash for a week’s stud service? She’s certainly got the loot now to give away, but I’m guessing a week wouldn’t qualify for the full fifty-eight thousand.

Kelly tugs on my arm. “Come on. I thin
k we can subvert the convention. Betty must be taking a shower or something.”

Kelly slips off her shoes and we climb a box step-up over the railing onto the main deck. The boat looked sharp from the dock, but on deck…wow. What a clean machine. Teakwood everywhere. Brass and chrome polished to a mirror shine. Inside the open flying bridge, I can see enoug
h electronic equipment to monitor a strike on Iran.

“Betty? We’re here,” the redhead says. She’s holding her shoes like you would a kitten, cradled against her bosom.

Still no word from Betty.

Kelly heads down a stairway under the main bridge. I follow
her down, carrying the suitcase now so I don’t scuff this puppy’s perfect polished staircase.

At the foot of the stairs, in the main cabin, I’m struck again by the immaculate, hand-crafted nature of expensive yachts. Such detail. Like sticking your head inside one of those restored luxury automobiles at a car show. Only the highest quality materials. Perfectly clean and new.

I follow Kelly between two lemon-colored sofas. They run length-wise down the cabin and obviously convert to bunks. At the front of the low-ceiling room, the bow of the ship, a narrow windshield, and a skylight let in the sun. A refrigerator, stove, and counter sit directly under the skylight. Between the mini-kitchen and the sofas is a round steel table covered with maps.

Kelly walks all the way to the stove.

I follow to the table, past a slim doorway at the foot of the bunks. A head, I assume.

The hair on the back of my neck stands up as the slim door opens behind me. Must be Betty, but my heart’s beating like a flat tire as I spin to see.

“
Buenos tardes
,” Luis says.

The breath catches in my throat. My favorite bartender is standing between me and the exit. He’s not smiling, and
neither is the large-bore, semiautomatic weapon in his right hand. Looks like an old government-issue Colt .45. The muzzle points directly at my chest.

FORTY-FOUR

Kelly either can’t stand or can’t afford to witness whatever’s going to happen now. The lying little slut takes Rags’ .38 from my coat, hands it to Luis, then scoots past us, jogs up the stairs. Her stocking feet are the last I see of my redheaded Jezebel.

My mind wants to run through various explanations
—Luis is playing a joke, Luis is stealing the bonds, Luis and Kelly are lovers—but the black semiautomatic aimed at my chest restricts my creative thinking. Not to mention normal breathing rhythms. Nothing really makes sense. Just like at the funeral, there has to be some big goddamn joke everybody’s heard but me.

“Luis. What’s going on?”

He stares sadly at me, and I figure he’s probably going to shoot. Why else would he aim a weapon at me? I’ve seen Luis’s strength, his quickness. If my favorite bartender wanted me to sit, stand, bark, or roll over, all he has to do is ask.

“
Senor
Burns’ bonds and the money are in the suitcase?” he says.

Senor
Burns’ bonds? Not the
senora’s
? Uh, oh. Slowly, the curtains begin to part. It’s not a big joke that everybody’s in on but me. It’s a big show.

“The bonds are in th
e suitcase,” I say. “The cash I gave away.”

Something clicks inside my slow-working rusty brain. Barely audible, like the last tumbler on a combination lock. That sign I noticed when I snuck inside Luis’s restaurant that night, the one I thought looked “vaguely familiar” while Luis was in the basement with Blackie?
The sign by the staircase that said, “Maria’s?”

“Luis’s Mexican Grill used to be called ‘Maria’s?’” I ask.

He nods. Oh, what the hell is wrong with me? What a numb nuts. Too much drinking, I guess. Too many bumps on the head inside my camper. How could I not remember that name before now? Sweet Jesus. “Maria’s” was listed as one of Gerry’s restaurants in that New Jersey state corporations file I checked out on the internet.

“
You work for Gerry Burns?” I say.

He nods again.

At least Luis is being cooperative. And I’m very curious. Not that Luis’s semiautomatic doesn’t put a little edge on my mood, but maybe I’m getting used to guns and bad guys threatening me. And like I said, I’m curious.

“I take it Gerry’s not really dead?”

My answer comes from above.

“Not by a long shot,” Gerry says.

My Jersey-born Mexican cowboy hops down the stairs in a baby blue cowboy shirt, black jeans, and his Mexican silver and turquoise belt buckle, a picture of fat-boy health. Tanned, trimmer than I remember, and bright-eyed. “Surprised to see me?”

I’m pretty much speechless.

“Nothing to say?” Gerry says. “Ha. That’s a fucking first.”

He lays a steady hand on Luis’s shoulder. A warm and friendly touch, an obvious by-product of many years working together. Friendship. Teamwork. Man, oh, man. I think the designation “my favorite bartender” must change.

“We need to get this tub moving,” Gerry says to Luis. “Restrain our guest, then come up top and help me shove off. I’ll get the diesels running.”

My monster scrambles up the stairway like a ten-year-old. Saying Gerry’s in good shape underestimates his nimbleness. The old man is spry as a big horn sheep. Oh, man, have I been had.

“Lay down on this bunk,” Luis says. “On your stomach, please, with your hands placed behind.”

As I obey his commands, Luis reaches for a new roll of silver duct tape from the map table and tears at the plastic wrapping. Deep below, mighty diesel engines fire to life. The vibrations rattle each disk in my spine. Cold sweat pops out on my neck and shoulders. Some scaredy-cat’s heartbeat drums inside my ears.

Austin Carr, you stupid, mother-humping, egotistical, brain-numb jerk.

Here I am on this damn bunk, wrists and ankles wrapped tight in that silver tape. We’ve pulled away from the dock and the boat’s bow is beginning to rise and fall against the Upper
New York Bay’s current.

Left to its own entertainment, my mind addresses an imaginary audience: Good evening, folks. Allow me to introduce Austin Carr, this year’s winner of the Golden Dickhead Award. Presented, as always, to that individual making the biggest fool of himself
by Thinking With His Penis.

I really do deserve some kind of prize. How could I fall for that redheaded bitch’s bullshit? I can see her green eyes now, fondly gazing into mine, tearing up over Gerry’s faked death. Those trembling lips when she kissed me. Can you believe I honestly thought she’d fallen for the famous, full-boat Carr grin?

A touch of irony there, right? A “full-boat” grin? I have a strong hunch this boat isn’t going to be full long. Soon as they get past the Statue of Liberty, I’ll probably get dumped over the side along with the rest of this ship’s in-marina waste.

I can’t get over how I fell for that redhead’s crap. Not to mention Gerry’s. The FBI and the IRS after him. The son-of-a-bitch is probably one of America’s most wanted tax cheats. All those businesses. All those employees. Leaving the country like this, on a boat. No doubt the IRS’s accusations are entirely accurate. Gerry must have been skipping payroll taxes for years, putting all that money in his pocket.

And what a job I did for him. Laundering that hundred thousand in cash. At least partially hiding two million from the IRS by switching the bonds into Kelly’s maiden name. Shit, they probably
are
married.

Considering it was a Federal task force that burst into his house the other night, I bet Gerry’s list of crimes ranks badder than awesome. Maybe smuggling illegal aliens would attract the FBI’s involvement, but who knows. Kidnapping? Bank fraud? Hope murder isn’t on the list, although I have a feeling it soon will be.

No way he can let me survive.

FORTY-FIVE

Via con dios,
dickhead.

I’m trying to remember what I read once about the various stages humans go through when faced with impending death. I mean like if a doctor tells you the biopsies revealed cancer in all six organs. I think the stages were denial, rage, hopelessness, and finally acceptance and peace. Well, I’m pissed as hell, but it sure doesn’t feel halfway to serene. In fact, I’d like to take a paring knife and slice parallel racing stripes down Gerry’s back, rip his flesh off in long, thin strips. Hang them out to dry in the sun and the wind, sell them to the general public as Gerry’s Special Beef Jerky.

Or maybe pork.

Whew. I need to calm down. I need to remember I’m lucky to be alive. We all are, of course. Every day we should thank God or the Great Spirit or some Higher Power for being above ground instead of under it. But
goddamnit to hell, I am so angry at Gerry Motherfucking Burns, I am capable of unspeakable acts, including wasting whatever’s left of my time and energy with thoughts of gruesome revenge.

Totally absurd, of course. I need to lose emotion if I’m to have any chance of survival. Logic and reason must prevail. Felt good to vent there, but I need to carefully consider my situation. When will they kill me? And how will they do it?

I suppose the second part’s easy enough. I doubt Gerry’s going to get fancy, risk leaving blood stains on the boat when there’s cleaner options. He’ll probably just toss me overboard. No Austin, no evidence.

No, when is the key. I need to figure the timing so I can draft and shape potential escape plans within that framework. For instance, there’s absolutely no use working on Kelly’s head
—he’s going to kill you, too, honey—if Gerry plans to dump me as soon as we leave the harbor. I won’t have enough time to discover and penetrate the gray matter under that gorgeous red hair.

And by the same thought process, I don’t see any advantage in attempting some desperate, improbable physical action right now if I have a day or two to observe and plan.

Think logically, Austin, but think fast.

Okay, if I was Gerry, I’d dump me soon as we pass the tip of Sandy Hook, enter open water. No one knew where I was going. No one knows I’m here. One of those security guards might have seen me walk across the marina’s parking lot, but it’s not likely. So why wouldn’t Gerry get rid of me ASAP? What possible freaking reason could he have for keeping me alive longer than he has to?

None that I can think of. He might wait until dark, but that’s it then. I’ve got less than one or two hours before I feed the fish. Hmm. Seems to me that presents only one possibility. I must attempt physical assault as soon as they hoist me on deck. Wait for Luis to look away, then hit him, kick him, drive him overboard with a head butt. Sweet Jesus, talk about long shots. How do I know they’ll even let me stand up again?

And even if they untie me, Luis is Luis. Plus he’s got that
semiautomatic. I’m me, and all I’ll ever have is the famous, disarming full-boat Carr grin, a few bad jokes, perhaps a small element of surprise.

The ever-present baritone rattle of the boat’s diesel engines rises in pitch to a junk-car whine, and the bow lifts as we accelerate. We’re moving out into the open water of New York harbor now, headed south for the Verrizano Bridge and eventually the tip of Sandy Hook. After that, there’s nothing but wide open Atlantic.

The odds whirl around in my head like the pictures of brightly colored fruit on a spinning slot machine. Ching, ching, ching. When all the little windows stop, and my internal bookies and odds-makers calculate my survival at one million to one, my stomach and throat issues a noise I don’t know how to describe. Half groan. Half wail. Maybe a humble and guttural plea to that Great Spirit.

“Crying for help down there?” Gerry says.

I can’t see the rotten bastard, but Gerry’s familiar voice places my monster at the top of the stairway, up and to my right.

“Or just crying? Ha. Ha.
”

Can’t think of anything clever to say, and even if I did, I don’t trust my throat and mouth to bring forth the proper tones. There’s some mysterious muscle spasm going on down there. Or my esophagus is playing host to a polka party for June bugs and beetles.

“Who do you think’s going to hear your whimpering pleas?” Gerry says. “Flipper?”

Nice guy, this Gerry Burns. A warm-hearted individual spreading cheer and goodwill wherever he goes. Probably works weekends with handicapped children.
Reading them Harry Potter. The son-of-a-bitch. Stoke that anger, Austin. It may come in useful later on when you need to get physical.

“Do your kids know you’re alive, Gerry? Those kids and grandkids I saw at your funeral? Or are you ditching them along with the IRS?”

His footsteps clamber down the stairs and approach my bunk. Suddenly I can see him as he squats beside me, shows me his face. I smell gin on his breath. Malice flickers behind his glacier-blue eyes. I see my monster’s right fist holds something shiny as the hand rises beside me, punches my left cheekbone.

Pain explodes behind my eyes. My blurred vision fills with dots and neon-bright red and green spirals.

Something builds a wall around my consciousness with coffin-size black bricks.

Sharper pain wakes me up, a searing burning heat on my right arm. Jesus. I’m on fire.

My body convulses in reaction, flailing against the bulkhead. I’m gasping for breath as my eyes open.

Gerry’s kneeling beside me, smoking a cigar, the circumference of which perfectly matches the round, still-smoking ashy wound on my right forearm. The pain cuts across every nerve in my body.

“Oops,” he says.

My nose gets a whiff of my own crisped flesh, flipping my stomach like an Asian virus. I wretch a tablespoon of clear bile onto the yellow bedcover.

Gerry saying, “You were so busy thinking about Kelly’s pussy, the money, the fact that you might not have to sell stocks and bonds anymore, you never even considered your new girlfriend could have another motive.”

I hate it when guys I hate are right.