Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) (2 page)

THREE

It’s a mournful, no-more-Walter Monday. The late winter storm that blew in Friday became a nasty northeaster Saturday, and the storm still howls wet pellets of ice and occasional snowflakes sixty hours later. Only our nickname for Shore’s newest rookie salesman—Dominic Defino (rhymes with albino) offers our bullpen any relief from a mirthless world.

Wonder what these simultaneous
telephone callers want?

Damn Defino.

Carmela informs me Mama Bones Bonacelli is on line one, some kind of confrontation with the Branchtown police. Oh, boy. Line two is that tight-assed cutie from the American Association of Securities Dealers, Ann Marie Talbot. Kind of a pretty-but-repressed schoolmarm type, Ann Marie wants to update me on her regulatory audit.

I’d like to update her audit.

I flip a coin to see who gets first crack at me. The nickel’s in my hand but I don’t look. My eyes drift to the empty desk where Walter sat for seven years. I smile remembering the time we sent phone sex into our new manager’s first sales meeting.

“Hi, Mama Bones. What’s up?”

“’Allo, Austin. I need-a your help.”

Mr.
Vic’s mom, Angelina Bonacelli, has lived in Branchtown, New Jersey, sixty-three of her sixty-eight years, but she still speaks English as if she’d heard our language for the first time last week. She does this on purpose, I’ve decided, to make herself sound helpless when in truth the woman is tougher than week-old tomato pie.

I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder, plop down in Mr.
Vic’s padded swivel chair overlooking Shore Securities’ sales floor. “What’s the matter, Mama Bones. One of your zombies bite a cop?”

“Up yours,
” she says. “My boy Vittorio says I should call you if I need help. And I need your help. I’m under the arrest.”

Sounds like she needs a lawyer, not a stockbroker. “Under arrest? You’re at the police station?”

“I’m home now, but the policeman is here to take me there. He says I cheated on the bingo game.”

“Bingo game?”

“At the church. You know. I go every Sunday night. The policeman says the game is fixed, that I gotta go to jail. Can you believe such a thing about Mama Bones?”

“Austin?” It’s Carmela, tugging on my sleeve. “Ms. Talbot said to tell you she’s finished the audit and that she’s leaving town. She needs to talk
to you immediately. And Bobby Gee says you have to speak with one of Vic’s clients.”

Screw Talbot, the AASD,
Vic’s client and Bobby Gee. Bingo, huh? I’m really curious about this. The world of chance is Mama Bones’ oyster, and if there’s a way to cheat at bingo, she’s the one to have figured it out. His mother put Vic through four years at Rutgers playing the ponies.

“Can I talk to the policeman, Mama Bones? Maybe I can straighten this out.”

“Sure, smarty pants. That’s why I called. Here. It’s your friend, Jimmy Mallory.”

I should have known. Branchtown Detective James Mallory and I coached our sons at T-ball together, and last year renewed our acquaintance when I got mixed up with a bad crowd
, got my stockbroker’s license suspended.

“
Vic’s mom is not under arrest,” Mallory says on the phone. “I can’t make her understand. She has to come to the station with me, answer the charges, is all. Sign a paper, then she can go.”

“What charges?”

“Like she said, fixing the bingo game. Misdemeanor fraud for now. She answers the charges, we investigate.”

“Jim, how the hell do you cheat at bingo?”

“Arrange with the priest to draw certain numbers, split the pot with him.”

Wow.
I’ve heard Mama Bones can work you over better than the Notre Dame offensive line, but this manipulation truly ranks as awesome. She probably convinced the priest he was doing God’s work, keeping half for the church.

“Ann Marie Talbot
here.”

“Austin Carr returning your call, Ms. Talbot. Carmela tells me you’ve finished your audit.”

“Yes, and I have bad news.”

“You’re coming again next month?”

“No reason to be rude, Mr. Carr. Frankly, it’s the kind of thing you don’t need right now.”

Ms. Sc
hoolmarm’s cute looking. But the tone of her voice riles the back of my neck. The pitch grates my ass. “Why’s that?”

“Our audit turned up three different instances where your clients’ cash balances were used to reduce your overnight broker loan. The money was only co-mingled for a day, possibly because your bank failed to follow instructions, but it’s still co-mingling.”

The lights of Shore’s big sales room grow dim. I begin to breathe through my mouth. Co-mingling is an ugly word in the securities business. If the charge sticks, and the AASD holds one of their nasty, hero-AASD-saves-the-world-from-crooks press conferences, Shore Securities will be called thieves by every media outlet in New Jersey. Branchtown’s a long way from New York City, but even
The Wall Street Journal
might run a story.

“Could we discuss this in person, Ms. Talbot? I mean before you t
urn in that report? Co-mingling is a very serious charge.”

“I’m headed back to Philadelphia tonight,” she says. “I don’t see
that there’s time.”

My guts twist into a tight ball. Every night
, Shore deposits whatever bonds, stocks and cash we’ve collected during the day into our New York clearing bank, along with very specific instructions about what goes where, i.e., our account or individual customer’s accounts.

“I’m returning to Branchtown next
week,” she says. “You can have input at that time.”

The bank people make occ
asional mistakes, putting our customer’s money in with Shore’s, co-mingling client funds with ours. We don’t know it happens until the next day, until we see a printout of what the graveyard bank shift did the night before, but then everything gets sorted and corrected the next morning by phone.

“If the mistakes are corrected immediately, how can you call it co-mingling?” I say. “I mean, you have to find out about a mistake before you can fix it, right?”

“I’ll try to call you next week,” she says.

FOUR

I am surreptitiously posed in Mr. Vic’s mahogany-paneled private office, one hand on the boss’s previously locked and out-of-bounds liquor cabinet, the other paw on Vic’s unopened bottle of forty-year-old bourbon, when I hear Carmela scream.

I
have to say, honestly, my first thought is that Carmela has seen a mouse. The scream is high-pitched, squeaky and there could be a smile on my face as I reach Vic’s office doorway to check the sales floor.

But tha
t’s not a mouse chasing Carmela down the center aisle of Shore’s big telephone room. It’s a rat—Carmela’s old beaux and Shore’s ex-sales manager, Tom Ragsdale. The giant rodent Rags holds a steak knife, and he’s fast, too. Probably the only way to catch him is step on his tail.

Spotting
no other available appendages, I dive for his legs. I’m not really the hero type, but Rags’ small and demented brain seems focused completely on catching Carmela, and I personally owe this rat bastard plenty. Before he turned his life over to booze, drugs and gambling, Rags actually ran me down last year with his Jaguar.

My lunge hits target, m
y shoulder making perfect contact with the back and side of his knee. It’s a classic tackle, and we tumble together into a ball of fists and elbows, a crashing jumble against Bobby Gee’s desk. Vince Lombardi would be proud.

My ears await the rush of cheers and accolades from the dwindling, late Monday afternoon sales staff as I pu
sh up onto my hands and knees. But the only sound I hear are gasps.

Wait.
Did my pants fall down?

Turning, I see
—no—Rags has jumped up faster than me. While I was scrambling to my feet, Rags grabbed Carmela, ripped a bond calculator from the top of Bobby Gee’s desk and now wraps the machine’s electric cord around the poor woman’s neck.

“Back off, sucker,” Rags says, “or I’m going to recalculate this bitch’s yield to maturity.”

“Tony?”

“Yeah
?”

I decided to call Brooklyn. It’s what Mr.
Vic told me to do, and except for lining up left-to-right-breaking putts, and maybe right-to-left ones as well, Mr. Vic’s past advice has proven...well, not bad.

“My name’s Austin Carr, Tony. My partner
Vic Bonacelli said I should call you if his daughter’s jilted ex-husband came back and caused trouble.”

“Jelly what?”

“Jilted. Carmela’s ex-husband. He’s here.”

“
Vic’s in trouble?”

This guy Tony sounds like a
mental midget. Hope it’s just a bad first impression. “No, his daughter Carmela’s in trouble. Vic’s in Italy.”

“Right. Uh...what exactly i
s going on?”

I shake
my head at the phone, then glance at Rags and Carmela inside the big glass conference room. He has the door locked, the cord still tight around Carmela’s neck. Maybe I should have called the police first, but Rags looks really scary. Beady, drug-zapped eyes. Oily sweaty skin. I’m afraid he could be too much for local law enforcement-types like Mallory. Besides, Mr. Vic told me to call Tony, not the cops.

“Hey, Carr. I’m waiting here.”

“Sorry, Tony. I was just taking a look. Right this second, Rags is holding Carmela hostage inside our conference room. He has an electric cord wrapped around her throat. I don’t know what to do.”

“Did he say what he wants?” Tony says.

“A hundred grand to pay off some gambling debt. Says it’s a loan against the stock in Shore he’s signing over to Carmela as part of their divorce settlement. The split’s not a done-deal yet, so he thinks he’s got leverage.”

“Okay, that’s good. That’s very good. Tell him someone’s on the way with the hundred thousand.”

“You seriously want me to tell him you’re going to give him the money?”

“I’m always serious, Carr. Now get in there, tell him what I said, make sure he knows he doesn’t get the money if he hurts Carmela.”

Tony’s confidence is not catching, but it does somewhat relieve my first impression. He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about.

“How can I stall him for hours while you get the money, then drive down from Brooklyn?” I say.

“Your call was transferred to my cell phone, sunshine. I’m at Clooney’s on the beach, having a drink. I’ll be with you in ten minutes. Don’t worry about the cash.”

Handsome man, Tony Farascio. Six-foot
plus. That Mediterranean-dusky look, onyx-black hair with a grizzly beard that probably sprouts a five o’clock shadow soon after breakfast. But Tony also sports delicate features, a chin, nose and cheekbones like a movie star’s. A pretty boy like George Clooney.

Standing outside the conference
room, Tony shows my ex-sales manager Rags what’s inside his New York Giants sports bag, holding it up to the conference room glass. Must look like there’s a hundred grand inside because Rags pushes Carmela farther away, but steps closer himself to the door and reaches down to open up.

Tony checks over his shoulder to make sure I’ve emptied the office of potential
witnesses, then makes his move. Big Tony from Brooklyn is quicker than any rodent. As the door unlocks, Tony kicks the door in, knocking Rags back into Carmela. Tony’s inside slick as a snake, rips the calculator, then the cord from Rags’ hands.

By the time I follow Tony inside the conference room
, the skirmish is over. Tony has Rags pinned to the floor. Carmela cries, but she stands free, off in a neutral corner. Her previously neat hair sprouts black tufts the size of coffee mugs.

Tony digs
in his pocket. “Bring my car around back.” He flips me his keys. “It’s the dark blue Caddy at the curb in front.”

Flat on his back, Rags
twists an arm loose and swings at Tony’s face. Brooklyn Tony catches the flying fist and pops Rags hard with his other hand. Rags’ eyes roll up inside his head.

“Don’t hurt him,” Carmela says.

“Move,” Tony says to me. “Get my car.”

“
Right,” I say. “What are you going to do with him?”

“Please don’t hurt him,” Carmela says.

Tony stands up. His big smile shows us a movie star set of pearly caps. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just relocate his ass. Like one of those dangerous New Jersey black bears.”

FIVE

One week later, I’m grabbing a stool at the bar of Luis’s Mexican Grill, anxious to eat a couple of Chef Umberto’s green chili burritos, when the world’s greatest bartender comes over and leans across the counter.

“Do you know this man?” Luis whispers. His head tilts, indicating I should look in the direction of the corner booth nearest the kitchen.

I follow Luis’s gaze. Looks like...it is, Joseph “Bluefish” Pepperman. Dining with two business-types, although now that I look a tad closer, both of his friends maybe a little too athletic and solid under the suits, ties and starched white collars. That could be a telling bulge against the one’s ribcage, too.

Bluefish sees me eyeballing his table. He smiles and I turn away.

“Anybody who bets in Branchtown knows Bluefish,” I say. “I’ve never seen him in here before, though. Have you?”

Luis shakes his head, no.
“He has never been here before this afternoon.”

Luis wears his usual black slacks and white dress shirt with the sle
eves rolled up to accentuate the muscles in his arms. My friend’s high forehead and aquiline nose tell of European descent, but his black penetrating eyes and high cheek bones give him a distinct Native American quality as well.

“Did Bluefish
speak to you?” I ask.

“No. H
e frightened several of my customers into leaving, but I pointed him out because I believe he has an interest in you, does he not?”

“What do you mean? Is
he staring at me?”

“
Yes he is, and so are his men.”

I turn to stare back at him. Funny name
Bluefish. It’s a common fish on the Jersey Shore, in the tuna family, but oily like mackerel—too oily for me and many others. I used to think it must be Bluefish’s greasy appearance that earned the local bookie his nickname. The black silk shirts. The slicked back hair. The man definitely sports a slippery quality that seems to match the oily taste of the fish.

The bookie nods in recognition.
His head is long and narrow. But Bluefish’s nickname has nothing to do with oil or grease, I learned last year from my friend at the
Newark Herald-Examiner
.

“Have y
ou ever see Jersey Shore swimmers called out of the surf by the lifeguards over of a boiling mass of fish?” my friend said.

“Yes, t
wo summers ago. I heard somebody say it was a school of bluefish.”

“I don’t know if the bluefish are in a frenzy because they’re eating something smaller or because they’re being eaten by something bigger,” my friend said. “Never asked because I figured it didn’t matter. It’s the way the school
of fish acts that earned Bluefish his nickname.”

“Violent, you mean?”

“Out of control. Frenzied.”

Glad I remembered that
. And truly glad that except for the ponies once in a while, I don’t gamble. No debts to bookies, Bluefish or otherwise. This is good because Branchtown’s minor-league, too starched version of a Brooklyn goon squad, Mr. Joseph Bluefish Pepperman included, leaves their table and strolls around the bar in my direction. One good thing: I met Bluefish once at a restaurant in Spring Lake. Mr. Vic, who was taking me and some guys to dinner after a round of golf, told us that night that he knew Bluefish from high school.

“Hey, Carr,” Bluefish says. He offers his hand.

I’m surprised he remembers my name. There were four or five of us at the dinner table that night. The guy must have taken a Dale Carnegie class. I slide off my stool and shake. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Pepperman.”

He slaps my shoulder like an old drinking buddy. “Call me Bluefish.”

Luis saying, “It is not good for my business that you are here.” He leans across the dark horseshoe bar, staring at Bluefish, showing all of us that windy Halloween look in his eyes I’ve only seen once or twice before. He says, “I would like you and your friends to leave.”

Uh, oh.

Bluefish’s two sidekicks slide up quietly beside their bookie boss, creating a wall to screen us from most of the restaurant. Bluefish’s men unbutton their coats and show us pistols stuffed in their belts. Luis may have to reconsider his poor hospitality.

Across the room, a young woman leads her table in sharp laughter. The TV behind the bar is blaring spring
training baseball highlights. The restaurant’s familiar onion, cilantro and simmering chili smells seem suddenly sharp and pungent. My pulse is up. What the hell is it with me and guns? Suddenly, they’re a major part of my life.

“Are you leaving?” Luis says. “Or will I call the police?”

I grew up in the eastern, Mexican-American section of Los Angeles. Ever since grammar school I’ve admired the code of honor and fierce pride with which so many Hispanics are raised. Simply put, my favorite bartender is an
hombre
. You feel safe drinking at his bar, but I hope Luis doesn’t think the switchblade he carries in his back pocket matches him up with these two semi-automatics.

“We’re happy to leave,” Bluefish says. “Your food looks like runny dog shit. But you’re coming with us. I think your big mouth has earned you a spot next to Carr. Get your ass out from behind the bar.”

Luis’s face hardens into wood. “I have customers. I will not leave.”

Bluefish glances at his two friends. The bookie’s pals draw their guns.