House Justice (17 page)

He wondered if Norm had killed Dale Acosta.

Now what
? Benny figured if the goombah was straight, he’d call the cops right away. And he’d seen Benny clear as a bell; he’d looked right into his eyes when they passed on the cart path. It was time to boogie. But wait a minute. The guy had just come back out of Acosta’s town house and was now running down the cart path. It looked like he hadn’t called the cops; he
hadn’t
been inside Acosta’s place long enough to do that. But why was he running?

Whatever the reason—too bad for you, goombah.

The florist had no idea why DeMarco had traveled to Myrtle Beach, nor did he know if his trip was connected in any way to Sandra Whitmore, so when DeMarco turned his car into the main entrance
of the golf course and went into the pro shop, the florist became really confused. Could the man have flown to South Carolina just to play golf? DeMarco was wearing a suit, so he didn’t think so, but why had he come here? A few minutes later, DeMarco came out of the pro shop and the florist followed as DeMarco wound his way through the streets near the golf course and finally parked in a lot adjacent to a short block of town houses.

The florist waited until DeMarco parked and exited his car, and then he drove into the parking lot. He watched from his car as DeMarco walked down the cart path; it appeared that he was visiting someone who lived in one of the town houses. He had no idea what was going on but when DeMarco came back to his car he was going to find out. He would use his new shotgun to persuade Mr. DeMarco to go for a ride with him.

He looked down the cart path again. A short, heavyset man was walking toward DeMarco. DeMarco and the fat man passed each other, and the fat man continued up the cart path toward the parking lot. The florist watched as DeMarco knocked on the door of one of the town houses, then knocked again. It appeared that whoever DeMarco was visiting wasn’t home and DeMarco started to leave, but then he stopped and entered the town house. Then something odd happened.

The fat man who had passed DeMarco on the cart path had reached the end of the block. The florist had expected that he would go to one of the cars in the parking lot but instead of doing that he stopped and poked his head back around the corner of the last town house. For some reason he was watching DeMarco and didn’t want to be seen.

Now DeMarco was visible again. He had entered the town house but had rushed back out and was now running down the cart path. Why was he running? The florist switched his gaze back to the fat man. Oh, no! The fat man had a gun in his right hand. It appeared that he was going to wait for DeMarco to run past him—and then shoot him.

The florist couldn’t let that happen. He needed to know what DeMarco was doing and now he needed to know what the fat man’s role in this game was. He was afraid, however, that he wasn’t going to be able to get to the shotgun in the trunk fast enough to save DeMarco. He exited his car, staying low so he was hidden by the body of the car, and removed the Mossberg from the trunk.

DeMarco burst into the parking lot and ran for his rental car, which was only a couple of spaces away from the last town house on the block. As he ran, he punched the button on the remote to unlock his car and when he did this he heard a little crack. He was momentarily confused, wondering what the connection was between him punching the remote and the cracking sound, but then there was another crack and the passenger-side window of his car shattered. What the hell?

He looked over his shoulder and saw a guy pointing a gun at him. It was Norm—and he was shooting at him! DeMarco immediately dove behind a car, the car parked next to his in the lot. An instant later, a bullet zinged off the asphalt almost hitting his head. What the fuck was going on?

“Doggone it,” Benny muttered.

The goombah had run past the end of the building faster than he’d expected and he missed with his first shot, firing right behind the guy. He fired a second time but missed again and hit the window of a car. It was hard to hit a moving target with any pistol, but with the little .32 it was even harder. The gun—or maybe it was him—wasn’t the least bit accurate if the target was more than a few yards away. But still, how the hell had he missed twice?

Now the damn guy had dropped to the ground and a car was shielding him, so Benny fired low, hoping to get lucky and hit him, but his real objective at this point was just to keep him pinned down behind the car. If the goombah was armed—and based on the way he looked,
he might be—then Benny was in trouble. But Benny didn’t think he was armed; if he’d been packing heat, he would have returned fire by now. Benny was going to run right up to him and plug him in the face from two feet away. Even
he
couldn’t miss from that distance.

DeMarco knew he couldn’t stay where he was. Pretty soon, Norm would figure out that he wasn’t armed and would run up and kill him. But where the hell could he go? In one direction was the golf course, and if he went that way he’d be right out in the open, on the fairway. In the other direction, he’d have to cross twenty feet of open ground to the next row of cars, and once again he’d be exposed. Whatever the case, he couldn’t stay where he was. He was going to have to get up and run like hell, zigzagging the whole way, and hope the guy didn’t shoot him in the back. He started to get to his feet, but before he could he heard a horrific
boom
and what sounded like a car window just exploding. It sounded like someone
behind
him was firing a big gun. Jesus, there were two of them! He was dead.

It was almost comical watching the fat man run for his car.

The fat man had been running toward DeMarco when the florist fired his first shot. He intentionally missed and blew out the window of a nearby car to startle him, and when he did, the fat man skidded to a stop, almost falling on his backside. The fat man snapped off one shot at the florist with the small-caliber gun he was using, and the florist immediately returned fire, blowing out the window of another car—and that’s when the fat man ran to his car, jumped in, and drove out of the parking lot.

The florist looked over to where DeMarco was hiding; he couldn’t see him. He was still on the ground behind his car. To keep DeMarco’s head down, he fired at DeMarco’s car, blowing out the driver’s-side window, then got into his car and followed the fat man out of the parking lot.

He knew he had to leave the area—someone would call the police if they hadn’t already—but he had a choice to make: should he go somewhere nearby and wait for DeMarco or should he follow the fat man? He decided to follow the fat man; it would be too dangerous to remain near the golf course with the police on their way.

DeMarco had no idea what was going on but he was going to die if he didn’t do something. Norm had fired three or four shots at him, and then someone with a much louder weapon had fired twice, and he heard car windows all over the parking lot being shattered. He couldn’t tell if both guys were shooting at him or if the other guy was shooting at Norm. He was about to get up and take off running when he saw Norm’s chunky legs from beneath the car. Norm wasn’t running
at
him; he was running away. A moment later he heard a car squeal out of the parking lot.

DeMarco figured this was the best chance he was going to get. With Norm gone, he was going to run down the cart path, away from the shooter behind him, but just as he started to get to his feet the driver’s-side window of his rental car exploded, and he threw himself back down on the ground. He started belly crawling, having no idea where he was going, just wanting to be on the move, but then he heard another car leave the lot. Now it was completely quiet and he could sense that he was alone in the parking lot. He lay there, breathing heavily, and then cautiously got to his feet and looked over the hood of his car. The shooters were gone.

He saw a couple of elderly men standing on the cart path looking at him. He figured the old guys lived on the block and must have heard all the shooting and windows breaking. DeMarco yelled at them, “I’m calling the cops.” He reached inside his rental car, grabbed his cell phone from the cup holder, and called 911—and got a busy signal. How the fuck can you get a busy signal on a 911 call! DeMarco called again and this time a woman answered.

“911 operator. What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Someone tried to kill me!” DeMarco yelled.

“Sir, please calm down and tell me where you are.”

“I’m in the parking lot on the sixth fairway at the Glendon Hills Golf Course and two guys were shooting at me. And there’s a dead guy in one of the houses here.”

“Sir, could you please speak slower.”

Benny was sweating like he was sitting in a sauna. It had been a long time since he’d run that fast and been that scared. And he’d never been in a gunfight in his life. But who the hell was the guy with the shotgun? All he’d seen was a big, dark-haired guy with a mustache. Maybe he was the goombah’s buddy. Goombahs liked to travel in pairs. Whatever the case, it was time to get the hell out of Dodge.

He realized he was driving too fast, took a breath, and tapped on the brake. The last thing he needed was a cop stopping him right now.

The florist could see the fat man’s car two blocks ahead of him. He had driven like a maniac out of the golf course housing development and the florist thought for sure that he was going to lose him. Then, fortunately, the fat man slowed down and a block later he was stopped by a red light.

As the florist followed the fat man, he tried to sort out what had happened. DeMarco, for reasons he didn’t understand, had made a trip to Myrtle Beach apparently to see someone who lived in one of the town houses at the golf course. He had seen the fat man pass DeMarco on the cart path but DeMarco didn’t speak to him, so it appeared that DeMarco didn’t know the fat man. Then the fat man, for some reason, tried to kill DeMarco. None of this was making sense. He needed to take DeMarco and the fat man. He needed to take them someplace where he could question them without being interrupted.

The fat man eventually turned into a motel parking lot, got out of his car, looked around cautiously, then took the stairs to a unit on
the second floor. The florist was betting that he would want to get out of town as soon as possible and was probably packing his bags right now.

He could go to the fat man’s room and take him there, but that was problematic. He would be on edge, and if the florist knocked on his door, it was unlikely he would open it, or if he did he’d be ready to kill. He would wait until the fat man left his room.

The florist exited his car and, holding the Mossberg down by the side of his leg, took up a position near the staircase the fat man had used to reach the second story of the motel. He would wait there, out of sight, and when the fat man came down the stairs he would take him.

Whoever said it got it right: No good deed goes unpunished.

DeMarco had behaved like a law-abiding citizen—so now he was sitting in a jail cell.

After he called 911, four cop cars had arrived at the parking lot simultaneously, light bars flashing, sirens screaming, and six cops got out of the four cars, all of them with weapons in their hands. DeMarco could tell they were really keyed up, so he needed to be careful or he might get shot. He had been standing in the parking lot when they arrived, and as soon as the cops exited their vehicles, he showed them that his hands were empty. He didn’t raise his hands over his head— he didn’t want to come off as some sort of suspect—but he held them up, chest high, palms turned outward, to show he was unarmed.

“I’m the guy who called 911,” he yelled. “The shooters are gone.”

One of the cops said, “Sir, stand right where you are and put your hands behind your head.”

Great.

Five of the cops fanned out to search the area but the one who had spoken to him came over to him, frisked him, then asked what had happened. And Citizen DeMarco told him: He’d come to visit Dale Acosta, found the man dead, returned to his car to call the police, and then all hell broke loose. He told the cop about Norm, the short, heavyset guy he saw leave Acosta’s town house. He said Norm had taken a couple of
shots at him, and then someone else had started shooting at him—or maybe at Norm—but he never saw the second shooter.

The cop then asked him why he was visiting Acosta and that’s when DeMarco, being very polite and respectful, said he couldn’t tell him. He said he was a lawyer and mumbled something about lawyer-client privilege, which, he was pretty sure, didn’t apply to the situation at all. Still being courteous, he said that maybe after he made a phone call to his boss he could say more. The cop told him not to move, walked a few feet away, and made his own phone call. As soon as he finished his call, he spun DeMarco around, put handcuffs on his wrists, and read him his Miranda rights.

No good deed goes unpunished.

At the police station DeMarco was handed off to a tall, lanky detective who had a toothpick stuck in the corner of his mouth. The guy had redneck lawman written all over him. DeMarco told the detective the same story he’d told the uniformed cop in the parking lot, including that he couldn’t say why he was visiting Dale Acosta until after he talked to his boss.

“You sure you wanna hold out on me?” the detective asked. The toothpick bobbed up and down as he spoke. “I mean after you just admitted you were in the same room as the dead man?”

But DeMarco, good soldier that he was, stuck to his guns.

He was taken to a cell where he met his cell mate, a man who smelled as if he had bathed in Jack Daniel’s. “My name’s Rudy,” the man said. DeMarco responded by nodding his head and saying, “I’m Joe.” Then Rudy, a good-sized guy who had biceps the size of grapefruits, stood there swaying as if he might collapse any minute and said, “I don’t like the way you’re lookin’ at me.”
Oh, shit
, DeMarco thought, but then Rudy flopped down on his bunk, passed out, and began to snore.