Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) (18 page)

FIFTY

Luis’s Mexican Grill hums with happy people. I am forced to repeat myself. “Luis. What the hell is going on?”

“You are here at a time of awkwardness,” Luis says.
Gina nods.

“No kidding
,” I say. “Your sentence structure is indicative.”

“There may be
some
things, some events, even good friends should not witness or even be aware of,” Luis says.

“
Especially
good friends,” Gina says.

Feels like I’m playing charades. “Say what?”

“The possibility exists one could later be asked questions under oath,” Luis says. “And therefore threatened with imprisonment.”

“Questions like, did he tell you this, did she say that,” Gina says.

Okay. Now I get it. What they’re saying is, I don’t
want
to know what the hell is going on.

“It would be better for you to leave,” Luis says. “In fact, I have an urgent errand
you must run for me.”

I shake my head
, no. “I just got here. Plus, I’m very hungry.” I glance at the menu. “Or at least give me a little hint. Does this mystery have something to do with Bluefish’s recent and dramatic arrival?”

Luis clasps my shoulder in his right hand. The grip is stern
and tight, meant to get my attention. “There is no time. You must take a letter to the post office for me before six o’clock,
por favor.”

Moving to the cash register, Luis digs beneath the coin tray. What the hell are these two up to? My shoulder thanks me for arranging its release
from Luis’ grip, but warns against further aggravation. Luis’s fingers pinched like pliers.

Luis hands me a brown
, number-ten envelope addressed in neatly printed block letters to Rosalinda Sanchez, c/o Teresa Guerrero, 23 Libertad, Zempoala, State of Veracruz, Mexico.

“It is most important,” he says. “I trust only you.”

“Can I have a burrito when I come back?”

Luis smiles. “Umberto will make you something special. Now hurry.”

I sigh. Anybody but Luis, I’d tell them to stick the letter. I am anxious for my dinner. Gina here beside me. Hells bells, man. Why would I want to leave?

I
slurp a swallow of water from a fresh glass on the bar and push off my stool.

Luis says, “And please,
mi amigo.
Do not read the letter.”

I stare at him. Gee, pal. That’s some level of trust. Imagine Luis thinking I might open his personal, private mail. About to do him a favor, he slaps my face.

I lock the doors of my Camry and rip open the brown envelope. I know, I know. But eight years of stock brokering withers even an honest man’s conscience. With
me
, Luis’s privacy has no shot.

Looks like a letter to his sister. Didn’t know he had a sister. And a check for thirty-eight thousand five
hundred sixty-four dollars. Nice. Like the envelope, both the check and the letter are for Rosalinda Sanchez.

My Dearest Sister,

It has been ten years since I said goodbye to our small village by the sea. Ten years since I last saw you, Juana and Esmeralda, my fatherless nieces. Though I long to return home, I cannot. You know as well as I that our family and the village need the American money I send.

Because there is new danger for me here in New Jersey, I would like you to have the money which I have enclosed. Instead of the regular monthly amount, this check represents everything I have saved in the last ten years.

I hope you will use at least part of the money to enroll my nieces in a private school where they will learn English well. The money was always for you and their education. The only thing different is that you are to have the money now, in case this danger proves too great a hurdle. Do not be frightened by my words. You know how I tend to dramatize the simplest of events.

I must also tell you about a woman I have met. Nothing has been arranged. I have not spoken of my feelings yet. But I believe I have fallen in love.

Ha. I can imagine your smile as you translate this last sentence. Or perhaps Aunt Teresa is reading this letter to you, and the old woman has made you all laugh making her silly voices.

I imagine the whole Guerrero-Sanchez family will be much surprised that I mention my love for a woman. But no one could be more surprised than myself. I did not think myself open to such feelings, especially in America. Yet here I am, your lonely brother, imagining the love a wife and children would offer.

Her name is Solana, and though my back was to the door when she first entered my restaurant and my life, I still felt her power, her presence. A tingling at the top of my spine.

Without turning, I knew a great warrior had walked into the room. Imagine my surprise when I saw it was a woman, a mature woman, but with flashing dark hair and shiny bright eyes like the girls from Veracruz. A woman that made my heart beat faster with desire.

Enough. Perhaps one day you will meet her. Who knows what life brings?

Though they must have forgotten by now what I look like, tell Juana and Esmeralda that I love them. And remind them their uncle urgently wishes his nieces to learn English. Until I see you all again, I remain,

Your loving brother, Luis.

FIFTY-ONE

Maximillian Zakowsky

The
menu’s Spanish descriptions are more helpful to Max than the English versions, but all he really knows is the Mexican food he ate before tasted squishy. Max likes steaks, pork chops, and Jerry’s favorite, barbecued ribs. Meat that needs chewing, not mushy things like squished beans, avocados and gooey cheese.

“What is
hamburguesa?
” Max says. He lifts his gaze, finds Jerry giving him a sideways nod that means Max should stand up and walk around the restaurant, make sure everything is safe for the boss. He and Jerry
already
checked out this Mexican place and the people inside. Max doesn’t see a reason to do it again.

“Max,” Jerry says.

Bluefish peeks at Max over the menu. The boss is still mad about Max not wanting to be here.

Max pushes himself out of the booth
and examines the people around them. Bartender is making drinks. Big, blond guy playing with his smart phone. Austin Carr left two minutes ago, not that Max would ever worry about him. In fact, except the quick, tall Mexican behind his own bar, nobody in this whole place could slow down Max for more than a second.

Max nods at Jerry that everything is okay, then points at the restroom sign. “Be right back.”

His business finished, Max glances at himself in the mirror while washing his hands, and that empty feeling grips him again. It’s behind his eyes. The same desolation that unnerved him this afternoon, the strange quiet, the windless pale sky.

A world without life.

Max reaches inside his new sport coat—Jerry says the old one smelled bad—and removes the stolen Smith & Wesson Jerry gave him to carry this evening. The blue-black steel grip cools his sweaty palm.

Max
worries tonight. There is danger. He touches the lump in his jeans pocket. He hasn’t carried his father’s spearhead for luck in two years, but Max is happy he brought it along tonight. Death is here. He knows it.

The gun against his hip, Max pushes open the bathroom door with his shoulder and sticks his head out. Nothing. He hurries to the end of the short hallway where he can see the biggest part of restaurant’s bar area. Nothing wrong there
, either. Everything looks the same.

Holding the Smith & Wesson mostly i
nside his coat pocket, Max strolls into the main dining room where he can see both Bluefish and Jerry sitting at their table. The room is crowded. People’s voices are noisy.

From behind other patrons, a uniformed policeman walks up
beside Bluefish, a pen and leather-bound ticket pad in his hands. The cop starts talking to Jerry, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Back and forth. Back and forth. Glancing now over his shoulder at Max.

Why is this cop so nervous?

Max hurries forward, his grip tight on the Smith, his thumb sliding back the revolver’s hammer. A woman to his right glimpses the gun, gasps, then points at it for her friend, another middle-aged woman. The second one screams.

T
hree gunshots discharge closely together. Max hears them as one long stuttering peel of thunder, a tornado rolling over him from behind. But each bullet feels different hitting him, each separate from the others. The first bullet burns his back like fire. The second knocks all air from his lungs. And the third taps his shoulder like the hand of a small child.

His legs
lose the ability to support him. Sinking. On his way to the restaurant’s wooden floor, like a melting snowman, Max watches the nervous policeman draw his weapon and fire two shots, one each into the heads of Bluefish and Jerry.

Max’s weapon
leaves his fingers and tumbles away from him as he hits the floor. So quick. Everything happened so fast.

He tries to stand, but
his legs don’t work anymore. His hands push okay, and he can slightly raise his head. The big, blond guy in shorts and a blue T-shirt stands over him now, a wisp of gray smoke rising from the barrel of a small-caliber weapon in his hand. Stinky little twenty-two, a hit-man’s special, Jerry would say. Small bullets bounce around inside a mark’s skull.

Only this time, Max is the mark.
The blond guy raises his weapon to shoot Max in the head. Max remembers the morning’s tasteless air. That cloudless sky.

A world without life.

Still in my Camry, I’m reading Luis’s letter for the third time when a truck or bus backfires. Kind of like a TV cop-show shootout.
Bam-bam-bam...bam-bam...bam
.

Wait a minute. I forgot the Camry’s windows are rolled up, the engine already purring. It’s possible I may have failed to appreciate the true, more violent nature of those recurring
pops. Were they in reality loud explosions?

Rolling down the car window, I recognize another sound now
—human adults screaming and yelling their bloody heads off—and even Austin Carr can put that together. Gunshots.

I hop
out of the Camry. Luis’s letter tumbles from my lap. Don’t want to be running back inside with that little flag unfurled. Show Luis my true, villainous nature.

I
refold Rosalinda’s check inside the letter, tuck everything under the Camry’s driver’s seat. My car’s semi-shag rug is a litter box of rice sized pebbles and coarse beach sand.

An orange sun fades below the parking lot’s pine tree border as I jog between a crowd of cars and SUVs. Branchtown lies in growing shadow. Small birds cheep-cheep their goodbyes to the safety of daylight. Tires and engines hum along Highway 35, a thick steel river of Friday night traffic.
Fuel exhaust poisons my taste buds and lungs.

I am ten steps from the entrance when t
wo uniformed Branchtown cops burst out from Luis’s Mexican Grill. I view mostly blue-black uniforms and blurry faces, then backsides as they run away from my path. The two cops dodge screeching rubber and two-ton fenders crossing the busy highway.
What the hell?
They must be chasing somebody.

I look left, then right, but w
homever they’re chasing—maybe the shooter?—he’s doing a great job of camouflage. I can’t see anyone they might be running after.

Another strange thing, t
he cops haven’t drawn their guns.

“I hope to hell you got a dec
ent look at them.” Franny says.

Her green eyes are dead-set against me.
Dahler-Chapman and her sidekick, Chef Stuart, arrived at Luis’s thirty-eight minutes after the gunplay, twelve minutes behind the paramedics and first Branchtown Police patrol car.

How the
hell was I supposed to know those cops were the shooters? “I can tell you something about them.”

“Well?”

“Two white males, dressed as Branchtown patrolmen,” I say. “One was one-sixty to one-seventy-five pounds, forty to forty-five years old. The other was two hundred pounds or more, in his twenties. Both of them five-ten to six feet tall. Didn’t get hair color because of the police hats. No facial hair, visible scars or tattoos.”

Franny says to Stuart, “You getting this?”

Of course he is. Everybody in the place is working pen on paper. First thing when they got there, after securing half the restaurant with crime scene tape, the
real
Branchtown cops told Luis’ patrons to sit down, write their names, addresses and phone numbers on slips of paper. I know it helped calm the place. The tears and shrieking lost most of their momentum when people tried to spell.

Franny saying, “Think you’d recognize these two if you saw them again?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Maybe not.”

“Come on, then.” Franny turns me over to a uniformed trooper the size of Paul Bunyan. Or maybe Bunyan’s bl
ue ox. His hands poke me like horns, and he uses his state trooper chest belt to bump me around like livestock.

Franny says
, “Let’s have you look at some mug shots.”

Transported toward the
exit with Trooper Bunyan, I seem to have lost weight. At least I’m on my feet. Creeper went out on a stretcher, barely breathing. Multiple gunshot wounds, including one to the head.

Bluefish and Jerry
are still here. Inside rubber body bags.