
Flood Abatement
a novel of noir
by
James D. Norton
Copyright© 2011 James D. Norton
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights are reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical without permission in writing from James D. Norton.
Other novels by James D. Norton
Dan Hagerty Novels
The Supernumerary
Summer Jobs - Coming Soon
Negative Proofs
For Patrick
July, 1974
"Hey, Norm," Rhonda called. "How come I didn't get these messages when I came in?"
A muscular, bald man kept reading his magazine. "How the hell should I know? You got 'em now."
The stage manager handed her four pink message slips as she walked back into the dressing room to take off her feathers from the first show. One was from her friend Marcy, "Knickerbocker is out!" That asshole. One was from a pit boss in the casino. Only in your dreams, toad. And, the third was from her sister, Alice. It was marked "Urgent, Nana." The time on the slip was 3:42 PM. The phone number was in LA.
She used the backstage phone at The Frontier to place a collect call to her sister. A man picked up the phone on the third ring, then handed it to Alice. "Hello," she giggled.
"So, who's the guy?"
"None of your business?"
"What's up?" Rhonda ruffled her blond hair where her headpiece matted it down.
"Nana's in trouble. You've got to help."
Rhonda took a piece of plumage from her tongue. "Why?"
"She said it was critical that you talk to her."
Rhonda would have rolled her eyes, but that wasn't a good idea with all the blue glitter on her lids. "What's going on?"
"She's having some kind of mental collapse."
Keep cool, keep cool. Rhonda exhaled. "What do you mean?"
"Her house near the parkway was flooded out two of the past three springs. The city offered to buy hers and all the other houses."
"Yes ..."
"Nana refuses to sell. She won't listen to any argument."
"So ..."
"This morning the County Sheriff, what's his name, Barry, came to evict her, and she shot at him."
"Holy shit."
"She didn't hurt anybody, yet. But, she's being very stubborn."
Rhonda rubbed built-up lipstick from the corner of her mouth with the little finger of her right hand. "What are the cops doing?"
"They've got the place surrounded and they're trying to talk her out."
"Okay ... good."
"But she says she's not coming. She wants to talk to you."
"I'll call her right away."
"She wants to see you."
"Oh." She would have to get past Elizabeth, the dragon lady sister of the casino owner.
"She asked for you."
Rhonda knew her boss wouldn't understand. She looked at the clock over the pay phone. She could make the one-thirty flight. "I'll be there in the morning."
"Make it early. The cop I talked with sounded like he'd run out of patience."
"Shit. Okay, okay!"
"You can stay at my place. Call me when you know more."
As Rhonda danced off the stage for the last show of that evening the thought crossed her mind that Barry was the cop her grandmother had tangled with years ago. The pervert was trying to hit on Rhonda and began to harass her when Nana shut him down. The old girl went around with the cops a number of times over the years, but that last time was a major donnybrook. Nana got the guy fired. If the current Sheriff was the same Barry, that could be a problem.
Rhonda's loss of concentration as the chorus line kicked off stage caused her to trip and stumble. The heavy head piece pulled her forward past two other girls and into Norm's waiting arms.
"Thanks honey," the burley man said as he clamped her nearly naked body against his chest.
Rhonda got her balance. Well, a quick feel verses a broken ankle wasn't a bad trade. "Okay Norm, you can take your hand off my ass."
He held tight.
She said the magic word. "Elizabeth." He let her go like a hot iron. Rhonda straightened herself and headed for the dressing room. There might be some people still in the Sheriff's department who wouldn't mind bouncing Nana around for old time's sake. Gotta hurry!
With just enough time for Rhonda to wash the blue glitter off her body and pack a small bag, she caught a redeye from Vegas to Milwaukee. Just past six, a cab dropped her off at Alice's place a few miles from Nana's house. It took her another quarter hour to get the spare house key from Mr. Kolchak, the elderly neighbor. Then she was off to see her grandmother in Alice's white Javelin.
On the worst day of the year, it was a ten minute drive from the '50's clapboard bungalow to Nana's little house along the Menomonee River, a few blocks from the village of Wauwatosa. When Rhonda was nine, her mother bolted to Nashville to pursue a singing career. With her older brother and younger sister, Rhonda spent many hours at their grandmother's house while her dad was off building up his trucking business. When they weren't roaming the banks of the river, they were at the Hart Park field house playing tennis, or basketball, or ice skating depending on the time of year. She wouldn't let them push Nana out.
The sun was almost up as she drove north on 70th Street, down the hill to the river. A warm breeze rustled the leaves in the large elm trees that lined the streets. The familiar scents of the river and the heavy undergrowth along its bank filled the late summer morning. It smelled like home to her.
Red lights flashed to her left on Chestnut as she crossed the river. The Sheriff's men were waiting. This didn't look good!
There were eight shotgun-toting deputies and as many squads in the streets and yards around her grandmother's house. An ambulance was backed up to the front porch steps. The house next door lay in rubble beside a bulldozer.
Rhonda, in jeans, a pink tank-top and white Keds, was out of the car and running through the dusty street an instant after she parked. Too late, the front door was off its hinges. The cops had forced their way in rather than wait for her to talk her grandmother out.
An immense deputy yanked her into the air as she sprinted toward the men bringing a gurney out of the house. "Whoa, honey, where do you think you're going?" He held her tight to his chest.
She flailed and hollered, "Put me down, asshole. That's my grandmother."
He jerked his arm tight around her waist. "Settle down." He jerked his arm again. "If I put you down will you wait for the lieutenant?"
Rhonda nodded. When the deputy let go, she took off like a shot and made it to her grandmother's side before the cop could get to her again. Nana was strapped to the gurney, conscious. A bruise crept out of the bandage on the left side of her throat.
Rhonda leaned close to the old lady. "Nana?" The woman's unfocused eyes looked up at her. "It's Rhonda." The old lady smiled. The cop and his lieutenant rushed up behind them.
Rhonda knew better than to swing at the cop so she stepped into his face and yelled, "Why'd you choke her, you scum-bag son-of-a-bitch?"
A hot, short shouting match ensued among the three people in which the words shove, stick, kiss and yours were all used with a variety of terms for a specific part of the human anatomy. A compromise was struck. Rhonda rode to the hospital with her grandmother.
Rhonda sat with Nana in the ER while the old woman slipped in and out of consciousness. When they were alone for an instant, Nana turned to Rhonda. "Don't let'em take the house."
Rhonda called her cousin Sam, the one who went to law school. He arrived later as the hospital staff settled Nana in a secured room. A nurse motioned them over to the bedside and pulled back the sheet from the old woman's neck and pointed at the large blue bruise. It was the unmistakable imprint of a hand.
Rhonda whirled to run into the hall, but Sam grabbed her arm. "I'm gonna kick that lieutenant's balls," she hissed.
"Hold on, honey," he said. "Let's get the law to really hurt them."
The guard at the California State Prison in Lancaster called, "Knickerbocker Smith" and the heads of seven prisoners and two guards turned toward the little man. Nick Smith barley listened as he concentrated on Rhonda Lapinski. She slapped a restraining order on him then had him tossed in the clink.
When Rhonda walked into Todd's party and found him there, she went right to the phone to call the cops. Shit, he introduced her to Todd. And, he'd been at that party an hour before that bimbo shined around. He'd bet good money she set him up.
The sergeant called, "Knickerbocker Smith" again. Nick stepped forward to the desk to pick up his possessions.
"What's the deal, Smith? You like it here so much you wanna stay a little longer?" a redheaded guard asked. "Got a sweetheart inside you can't bear to be without?"
What did those schmucks know? Today, he was being released. On the other hand, that guard might just have an interesting idea for a new movie. The gay market was opening up. He'd have to think about that later.
Without looking at him a bald guard said, "Sign here, Knickerbocker."
Smith smiled at the corrections officer. Why would I care what you think? You dumb screw. One more station, change into my clothes and I'm outta here.
Smith walked out the prison's side door and across the street to Nuygen Thom, a Vietnamese woman in her twenties. She waited behind the wheel of his '61 Benz convertible. The smoggy air outside wasn't exactly clean, but the absence of the institutional disinfectant odor was refreshing. His wide lapeled suit had been folded in a box for the past hundred and eighty days, but it would have looked the same on him if it was newly pressed. He kissed the girl firmly on the lips as soon as he reached the car then turned back toward the prison and gave the institution the double finger. "Ha!" When he was seated next to Thom she pulled the car from the curb and headed toward his house in Hollywood.
"Where is she?" he asked.
"You don't want to go there now."
"No, I do. I really do want to go there." First, she threw him in jail. Second ..., there was probably another reason, but he didn't really need one.
Thom looked through the steering wheel as they sat at a stoplight. "I don't know where she is."
"Well, somebody does."
"You have other fish to cook."
"Fry, baby."
"What?"
"Fish to fry."
"Fry, cook, who cares. Lucerio called. Wants to know when you will finish their movie."
Nick stared out the windshield as they slogged through the midday traffic. "It's in the can. Just needs cutting."
"Well, Paulie stop work two weeks ago. Says you already into him for five grand. He wants the rest in hand before he will finish up - another twenty-thousand."
Chump change, "Everybody's got a problem. Call'em and tell'em I'll get him the money in a week."
"He does not want to talk to me. He wants talk to you." The Vietnamese woman made a quick turn into the right lane in preparation for the exit two miles ahead. "And, that title sucks. What the hell is The Prespiopia Identity?"
"Damn! Damn, damn, damn, damn, damn." He looked at a shapely redhead in the car next to them. "Who cares what the title of a porno film is anyway?" The business was changing radically. Since it came out in '72, Deep Throat grossed something over $40,000,000 against production costs less of than two hundred grand. His movie was going to cash in on that breakthrough. The wave of the future was a ninety minute feature motion picture, not just some grainy short with a guy in ankle-high black socks.
Thom nodded as she drove. "You think you can come up with that much money, quick?"
"Oh yeah, I have my sources." He smiled because he knew that one of the benefits of working in porno was that every so often you came up with some excellent blackmail material.
When Thom turned onto his block, Nick saw Lucerio standing next to a yellow Lamborghini admiring his manicure. This was not the guy Nick wanted to deal with just at this moment.
As they pulled the silver Benz into the driveway, the tall Columbian lit a cigar with a wooden match, let the smoke curl out around his full mustache, then lowered his sunglasses to the tip of his nose. "Hey man, good to see you out and about again."
Nick attached a wide smile to his face as he strolled down the drive and offered his right hand to his business partner. "Good to see you Lu. Come in for a drink."
"No, I can't stay. Besides, you've spent enough time with men. You should spend some time with your lady." He put his left arm around the little man. "My friends, your backers, need some reassurance that the investment they made in your last film is still good."
Nick took a step back. "Lu, my man, I've been inside and things have slowed down."
"Everyone understands that complication. They just want to know that things will be proceeding quickly now. No more hitches."
"Tell them not to worry. It's in the can. Editing has begun. Just a few details to work out and we'll have the finest skin flick ever made. It'll be like printin' money."
The Colombian smiled and pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose. "That is what they want to hear." He got into his car and drove away while he replayed the arrangement in his head.
Lucerio knew Nick had committed the cardinal sin of all film makers. He spent his own money to make a movie and compounded it by running out before he could finish. That's when Lucerio came on the scene. His group of Colombian businessmen had cash lying around and a porno movie seemed like a good place to invest a little. Reinvesting the wages of sin. To secure his investment Lucerio now needed to get his hands on the un-cut prints that were with the editor.
A great idea with one drawback, Lucerio and his Columbian friends were silent partners. There was no paper trail giving them any rights to Nick's film. The editor was not about to turn over the prints to him. He approached Rhonda. She was still so steamed at Nick that she looked at it as a fantastic way to screw the little bastard. Then something went wrong. He didn't know what, but she disappeared in one swoop, the bitch. To top it off, Nick claimed to still have the prints. Someone was lying. That was all the more reason for Lucerio to get the movie into his hands.
The yellow scrap of paper read, "Up yours, Kickerbocker," The purple letters were drawn in Rhonda's flowing parochial school script.
"That's two, bitch, that's two I owe you." Nick bent down to take a long look into the desk drawer. Shit! There was supposed to be an envelope, his list of customers for his extra special flix.
The phone rang in the dimly lit office as Nick sat mulling his options. It was Paulie, his film editor.
After the niceties about the little man being back on the street, Paulie came to the point. "You understand I still want to work with you. Everything we've seen so far is very innovative - a true advancement in the genre, but no more credit. You need to pay in advance. I think twenty grand will get you a finished movie."
Nick didn't want to talk with this guy. He just wanted to get off the phone and hunt down Rhonda. "I should have the money in a week or two."
"I thought you got money from some South American?"
"There were cost overruns in production."
"Hmm, well when you have the cash just bring the film back and I'll put you at the head of the list."
"Bring it back?" This was unexpected and confusing. "What film?"
"The one the girl took."
"What?"
"When I told the girl I'd stopped she came over, paid the five grand. She took the working copies of the movie."
"Which girl?"
"The one in the film, the main character. What's her name, Rhonda?"
What the hell? Nick's heart rate doubled. Deep breaths stay cool. "Not a problem. The cans are sitting right here by my desk." Don't let Paulie know what a screw up this is. Get off the phone and get going. "Okay, gotta go. Talk to you later." He studiously laid the handset in its cradle then threw the phone across the room. "Son-of-a-bitch!"
Rhonda took his movie, his Deep Throat. All the more reason to hunt her down. Payback's a bitch, bitch.
Now, right now, he needed to drive up to the mountains to get his backup copy of the film. The money he'd spent for the second print was gonna pay off. She slowed him by a day, but the drive would be invigorating. He promised himself he would stay in control. Finishing The Prespiopia Identity was the main thing, for the moment. He needed to keep his focus. Half an hour later he was on his way up to the cabin in the Sierra Mountains.
Bernie Keagan, Attorney at Law, stood before the office coffee maker and stared down into his mug. "Crap." When they disbarred him, he would have to find a new line of work, maybe something in food service.
Rhonda spoke from the doorway behind him. "Do you have a minute?"
"Oh, God." This morning he had started out his 2,894th day clean and sober. Well, at least he knew he hadn't fallen off the wagon, he'd been thrown under the wheels. Still, he would try. "Let me think. Ah, no." But, Rhonda Lapinski was heroin.
"I'm sorry that ...."
"Rhonda, why don't you just stay the hell away from me?" Bernie looked at the coffeemaker and did that little trick where he pulled the pot out and let the liquid flow right into his cup. Good, didn't spill much.
"I ... I didn't know you worked for Sam. But, I'm not sure that would've made a difference."
"Leave me alone. You've been good at doing that. Why don't you just keep it up?" He plucked the mug from the machine and replaced the pot. The first sip burned his mouth, but he needed the coffee - black and strong and the smell and the wonderful biting taste. Gotta update that resume.
He knew that if he so much as glanced at her in that white silk blouse and taupe bellbottoms he'd turn to stone, or maybe jello. With a death grip on his coffee mug, he walked right past her. She was blonder than she used to be. How long would it be before the bank repossessed his car?
"I need your help."
He turned toward her. Death, death, run away! She looked good, no wonderful. Better than the last time he'd seen her. More polished, better clothes, less makeup. A lotta money goes a long way. "No, you may need help, but you don't need my help." Her face was lovely - mostly symmetrical, on the long side, the jaw tapered to a square chin and the mouth was too wide.
"Bernie, I wouldn't have looked for you." She folded her arms across her chest. "Now that I know you're here, I think you are exactly the man to help."
He smiled and looked down. Fight! Fight! "No thanks, Miss Lapinski. You are an extraordinarily dangerous person to help." Yeah! Victory!
She seemed startled by a memory and the corners of her mouth sagged out of a smile. That didn't stop her. "It's my grandmother."
Sweet baby Jesus. She had him. He'd known Rhonda and her grandmother since they were ten. Run! Run now! You can make it to the door! He liked the old woman. Damn it. Run! Stop thinking. On top of it, if his mother found out that he didn't helped Nana, she'd kick his ass. Nooo! He touched the knot of his brown tie. It felt greasy.
In a pointless effort by the condemned to delay the unavoidable, he stopped at the receptionist's desk to pick up his messages before entering the conference room.
Without looking up from her typewriter Helen handed him six pink slips. "Your mother called."
Bernie stiffened ever so slightly in a way that he hoped Helen didn't notice. "Okay, thanks." A single bead of sweat trickled down form his left armpit.
"She said you should call her if you came in before nine, otherwise after four."
The pain was like a needle being stuck between his shoulder blades. Man, oh man, he was thirty-two. He should not have to lie to his mother about the hours he kept. Get a grip.
No reason to hurry. The Milwaukee Sentinel on her desk blazed the headline "New York Blacked Out." He pointed at it. "What do you think of that?"
Helen turned and glanced over her reading glasses. "Can't be any fun, but I've got plenty of my own problems to worry about."
Bernie nodded. Okay, good. Maybe that attitude of forgiveness would help the Bar Association look leniently on his activities. He would think positively. After all, the only people who knew about the contribution to the judge's campaign weren't likely to talk.
Procrastinate. There was a grease spot on his sleeve. He rubbed the tan fabric.
"Hey, Bernie. Some time this year," Rhonda said from the conference room door as she went inside.
As her cousin Sam entered, he adjusted the thin, gold bar under the knot of his French tie. "Rhonda, we don't have to use Bernie."
She smiled over her tented fingers. "No, we've had a little talk and I definitely want him."
Sam looked at Bernie slumped in a chair. "You sure?"
"Oh, yes." She turned her chair to face Bernie. "Because I know he'll give a damn."
"What do you think?" Sam twisted his gold pinky ring.
Bernie stared back at her. "Sure, why not?"
Sam nodded and touched a turquoise cuff-link. He guessed that if this arrangement didn't work out he'd get to defend one of them for murder. "Okay, could you go over the situation again, Rhonda, but this time with all the details?"
She kept her gaze fixed on Bernie as she began her tale. He looked out the window.
When she finished Rhonda stood with her arms crossed, breathing smoke. "So that's it. Whose ass do I get to kick?"
Sam smiled his most lawyerly smile. "I'm glad to see you've calmed down some."
Bernie wiped his glasses with a tissue. It was a good story and she told it well. The outside might be more polished, but inside she was the same old Rhonda. He held the specs up to the light. A really good lie has lots of truth in it, but the most dangerous parts are those left unsaid.
The Stoutman brothers, Todd and Jake, worked on a case of lukewarm Olympia and planned their bow-hunting trip while they drove up the two-lane canyon road in their low pressure gas delivery truck. Three-quarters of a mile up the canyon, they turned off into a large cul de sac where four identical cottages had been built in the late thirties. Jake gunned the truck around the gravel road and honked the horn at old lady Masters, the only year round resident. He stood on the accelerator as the old truck fishtailed over the lawn toward the gas storage tank behind Knickerbocker Smith's place. Jake swerved to avoid a pine tree and bounced the truck off a corner of the clapboard cabin before they stopped.
He walked back to see if there was any damage to the building. The truck and cottage traded paint where a pipe came out of the ground and entered the cottage.
Todd opened the passenger door and put his foot on the top of the tank. Flipping up the fill cap cover he said, "Cheap little asshole didn't even pop for one of those new safety valves," and began to laugh. "Hey pop, valve, get it."
"Yeah, I get it," mumbled Jake. "Get out the adapter so we can fill this thing and get to huntin'."
Todd reached behind the seat for a pipe wrench and proceeded to put the safety adapter on the old style filler valve. "Wouldn't even pay the one-hundred and eighty-four bucks to have this tank fixed."
"Yeah, I got it the first time."
Sweating heavily, Todd got the adapter onto the rusty tank. "Hand me the hose and I'll fill'er up."
Todd continued the conversation about hunting while Jake opened the valve on the truck. As the tank filled, Todd brought out two beers, mentioned that it was taking longer than usual to fill the tank, then shifted the conversation to last night's events at the Dew Drop Inn and Ellen Morgan. Todd reached in his shirt pocket for a cigarette.
"Christ," said his brother. "Don't light that here."
"Course not. What do you think I am, a dummy?" Todd walked over to the cottage, sat down against the wall, lit his cigarette and disappeared in a ball of orange flame. The shock wave blew out every window of the remaining three cottages. The high wind blowing up the canyon fanned the flames and eliminated the rest.
When Nick pulled up, a sheriff's car blocked the turnoff to his canyon road in the Sierra Nevada Mountains. From inside his car he could smell and taste the smoke. Outside he shielded his eyes from the dust as he questioned the deputy standing next to a squad. "What's goin' on? I have to get up to my place."
"In a little while, sir. The fire fighters are just packing up. Shouldn't be more than a couple of hours."
"Whose place is burning? How'd it start?"
"I don't know, but old Mrs. Masters saw it all. She's over in the other car." The deputy pointed to an antique Jeep with Kaiser stamped on the tailgate. Nick's panic grew as he walked the few yards to the seated woman.
Before he got close she called out, "I'm so sorry about your house."
Nick stopped two feet from woman. "What?"
"Those idiot Stoutman brothers were drunk when they came to deliver your LP gas. They drove in makin' all kinds of racket. Hit your house with the truck. One of them must have made a mistake fillin' your tank. The explosion knocked me on my keister and broke all the windows in my house."
"Explosion!"
"Yeah the second, no, the first one did that and flipped the truck over. Might'a killed those two idiots too. Sorry about the cabin."
Nick turned to run back to his car. Two Forest Service trucks rolled past the barricade. "When can I get up there," he called to the deputy.
"Fifteen, maybe thirty minutes."
Mrs. Masters walked up behind him. "When they pulled me out, your house and the next one up the road were burned to the foundations. With this wind the fire burns hot and fast. There's not much left. Sorry."
It was close to five in the afternoon when Mrs. Masters and Smith were able to go back to the cul de sac. He parked in the gravel drive next to his ruin. After surveying the damage he walked to where the truck lay on its side. Hunks of his field stone chimney lay scattered around the foundation. He mumbled to himself. "First find the box." Who the hell would ever think a solid field stone chimney could be smashed like that? "Where's the box?"
The old lady came close to him as he stood in the ashes. "Can I help you?"
Nick continued to scan the rubble. "I'm looking for a box - one of those fireproof jobs. Maybe two feet by two feet."
"Oh, that's over there." She pointed back toward his car. "You went right past it."
From where he stood, Nick could see the blackened container. He smiled and broke into a lope through the debris. Reaching the object, he turned it right side up and lost hope. The top was sprung and open.
He sat down hard on the sooty ground and gawked into the burnt interior. Nick pounded the ground with his fists and yelled "Fuck" over and over again. Mrs. Masters decided to go and investigate what was left of her own cabin.
His rage burned. What to do? Where to look? Something might have survived. Get up and look. He spent hours digging in the debris house and searching the immediate area. The double handful of charred paper and celluloid that he collected represented his ten year career as a pornographer and blackmailer.
At dusk he began his drive back to LA. He was covered in soot and smelled like the inside of a wood stove. Rhonda had his primo list of porno clients and the remaining copy of his masterpiece. $40 million!
Rhonda waited for Bernie as he stepped out of the elevator on the ground floor of Sam's building. She walked right up and grabbed his arm. "What are we going to do first?"
He shuddered as if a snake had bitten him and pulled his limb from her grasp. "We aren't going to do anything. I'm going out to the police station and get their take on this morning. You can do anything you like, except come with me." He stepped outside.
Rhonda yapped at his heels. "I'm coming with you."
He whirled and put a finger in her face. "You got me into this, but I get to do it my way. I don't have to look at you or talk to you or listen to you. Go visit your grandmother." He walked away.
"Hey, Bernie," she called.
Like a sucker, he turned to face her.
Rhonda walked up to him and put her hand on his shoulder. "Where'd ya get that suit?"
Reflexively he smoothed the chalk-striped cloth of the wide lapels and smiled.
She grinned. "...the Salvation Army?" She turned back to the building. "You still living with your mother?"
He remained silent. A response would only encourage her. He skulked to the curb past a smiling man who mowed the four feet of lawn in front of the building. Bernie turned to the gardener. "I don't live with my mother! I haven't for almost a year." It was more like seven months. The guy shrugged.
Screw Bernie, Rhonda thought. She should follow him, but no. He was being a jerk, but he was a smart jerk. And, she believed that he would try to do the right thing for her grandmother. She would go and see how Nana was doing. If Bernie was going to be a shit about this whole thing, well, he was going to just have to get over it.
On the drive to the hospital, Rhonda reviewed her conversation with Bernie and Sam. She did leave a few things out, but she hadn't lied. She rarely did because she found it counterproductive. Better to tell people exactly what they asked for, then let their assumptions do the rest. If you lied then you needed to keep track of the things you said in relation to the facts and that was complicated. The best approach, if she was forced into an outright falsehood, was to use as much of the truth as possible. For the most part, a lie was overkill.
She remembered the exact incident during her sophomore year of high school when this approach crystallized for her. Her father moved the family to Los Angeles to start a trucking company. When he went away on business, he never told her where he was going, because he said that way she wouldn't have to lie.
This tactic proved to be a lifesaver when two large black men accosted her demanding to know where her daddy was. She was truly frightened, but could not tell them. After one of the men slapped her twice, the other said, "Stop, stop. She don't know shit, and she's too fine to be smart enough to lie." However, she was fast and ran from the men while they argued if raping her was permissible under the instructions from their boss, a person called Big Larry. It still stood the hairs of her arms on end.
Today she'd left something out of her story to Sam and Bernie. Not that it was any of their business, but Sam probably would have liked to know.
The stage manager at the Flamingo had given Rhonda another message when she came in the backstage door that previous afternoon. Written in a neat feminine hand, it read, "Mr. Standish would like to see you."
Hiram Standish ran the Flamingo and took quite a shine to her. His infatuation was the reason she danced at the casino instead of stripping off down the street. It started in LA when he first saw her do the nun routine, eight years ago, in '66. He was so overcome with lust for Rhonda that he attempted to accost her and was tossed out on his ear. After three such incidents, Hiram was banned from the place, which was extremely unusual for that establishment.
In her current circumstances, Rhonda would have rushed up to Hiram's office, but she was running late and needed to dress for the first show. Business was business and he understood that better than anything. Between shows she went to his office wearing a short robe that almost covered her costume.
The fat, bald man in glasses sat behind his oversized wooden desk using an adding machine to double check a list of numbers. She took a seat in a red velvet client chair as he worked his way to the end of his calculations. Dressed in blue sequins and feathers, she was a stark contrast to the deep reds of the office rug and wallpaper.
He finished with a grimace. "Crap."
"Anything wrong?" she asked.
"Nothing out of the ordinary. Just need to make a few changes on the floor." He looked at her and smiled. "But, look at you. You look terrific." He walked around the desk and took both her hands. "Stand up. Let me see the new costume."
Rhonda knew he had seen her costume at least fifty times before he authorized its use in the show. He just wanted to see her tits. Hell, Hiram could stand in the wings on any performance and see all he wanted. Still, she was here to ask a favor, so why not. She stood slowly like the dancer she was and moved to the open area of the office. She struck a pose then dropped the robe to the floor. She was naked except for a blue sequined thong, matching hosiery, four inch pumps and a large amount of blue glitter and feathers pasted to her body. With arms extended, she walked in a large circle giving the big boss a full view of the attire and her.
Hiram clapped with enthusiasm. "You look wonderful."
She agreed and arched her back slightly for emphasis. "Thank you." She smiled.
He came over, took both her hands again and led her back to the guest chair. He never let go as he took the opposite one.
Maintaining her smile she asked, "What's up, besides your dick?" She knew she shouldn't dig at him in that way, but she couldn't resist.
The bald man frowned in a smiley way. "Actually, I was hoping we could have dinner after your last show."
"Hiram, we said business was business and we were going to keep it that way. Besides, I have a problem with my grandmother in Milwaukee. I have to catch the red-eye tonight."
"Nothing serious, I hope."
"Not if you don't count the local cops and the feds."
He dropped her hands. "Really?"
"It's an eviction."
"Anything I can do?"
"Not directly. I just have to get up there. So, I need some of that money we talked about."
"No problem. How much do you think you need?"
"Five grand."
Hiram smiled. "Take ten, you never know."
Right, ten is twice the hook five would be. "No, five is fine." Now for the big favor. "And, I need you to talk with Elizabeth about my sudden departure and eventual return."
He stood and walked back around his desk. Rhonda got up and walked behind him. When he stopped she put her hands on his shoulders. She could feel the tension through his Brooks Brothers suit. It was understandable. She just asked him to talk with his mother about another woman. The money was nothing. This was parting the Red Sea.
He sighed. "Okay, but we'll have that supper as soon as you get back."
Rhonda gave his shoulders a squeeze. He turned toward her. She gave him a peck on the right cheek and danced back to the place where she dropped her robe.
As she pulled the garment around her, he said, "I watched the movie. It's worth every nickel."
It was Hiram's money she used to skip back to LA three weeks ago where she retrieved Smith's film from the editor. She smiled at the accountant. "And, much, much more when we distribute it. We're talking millions here, millions."
"It's not my area. Do you really think so?"
"Do some research on 'Deep Throat' and 'The Devil and Miss Jones.' Big bucks."
He smiled.
"Don't drool, baby." She blew him a kiss and went out the door.
At Milwaukee County Hospital Rhonda passed through a gauntlet of police, supervising nurses and a surly security guard to reach the door to Nana's private room. Rhonda used every bit of self-control to navigate through this bureaucratic clutter. Inside the old woman sat in a hospital recliner, smoking, and watching Phil Donahue.
Rhonda relaxed and stepped up to Nana, threw her arms around the little lady's neck. "How are they treating you?"
After a peck on her granddaughter's cheek the old gal said, "Pretty good, sugar," and refocused her attention on the television. "Hang on a moment. I think the little bleached blonde is gonna pop the fat guy in the nose."
Rhonda knelt on the floor next to the eighty-three year old, terry bathrobed woman and watched the television. The show cut to an ad and the blonde hadn't popped anybody.
"Damn." Nana kissed her granddaughter on the forehead.
"How are you?" Rhonda asked.
"Good, except my neck's pretty stiff where that bozo clamped his hand on my throat."
"Have you had anything to eat?"
"Yeah, lunch was pretty good. Then again any meal I don't have to make myself is okay with me. They tell me dinner should be around in a couple of hours. You wouldn't happen to have a candy bar?"
"No Nana."
The old lady took a drag on her cigarette. "I suppose that means you don't have a beer either?"
Rhonda cleared her throat. "What was going on this morning?"
Nana looked around the room furtively, turned up the volume on the TV and motioned her granddaughter to lean closer.
"We can't let them tear down that house."
"Why?"
The old woman grabbed a piece of paper from her food tray and a stubby pencil. "I'll write it down so you won't forget."
The door swung open and Nana slipped the note into Rhonda's hand as a female doctor came into the room. She explained that the District Attorney's office wanted a full work-up on Mrs. Lapinski.
As Rhonda left the room she said, "I'll come back tonight."
"That's all right, dear. You do whatever you have to do. I'll be fine." Nana winked.
Rhonda kept the note in the pocket of her dress until she reached Alice's house. Seated inside she took out the small piece of lime green paper. On one side was a hospital menu. On the other in her grandmother's shaky hand was written, "Under the dryer."
On the way out of the office, Helen had given Bernie a registered letter from the Wisconsin State Bar Association. Jolts of anger and fear hit him, but he turned and walked out before she could see his face. The fight with Rhonda had distracted him for a few minutes. He kept the envelope in his pocket while he conducted his interview with the police. Afterward, in the parking lot, he took time to consider what the contents might be. There wasn't any way they could connect him to that bastard, Judge Filmore. He used gloves to put the money in the envelope and he knew that nobody saw him put the package into the messenger's pick-up box. They might have the conversation on tape where that shit-bird solicited the cash from him, but just because the exact amount of money showed up doesn't mean he had anything to do with it. The cash was a campaign contribution, a donation. Christ, this was politics. All the evidence was circumstantial.
He opened the letter. It said that the case was under review and they would consider it in October. Ha, they were stalling. Good thing it wasn't his money, because the feds confiscated it. The client, a certain gentleman of Mediterranean extraction, would be pleased, bella.
Bernie started the Olds 88 convertible and headed to meet Rhonda. He liked days like today when the warm breeze rushed over him with the smell of the fall to come. With the price of gas up to a buck twenty-five, people asked him why he kept driving "The Mammoth." He loved the car for its memories alone, but he would rather walk than drive a Volkswagen or one of those cheesy Jap things.
Rhonda opened the door of the white Cape Cod on Honey Creek Parkway as Bernie walked up from the street. He drank her in. She wore some kind of red, short sleeved dress that looked like it was painted on her. Could have been silk, but he doubted it. More likely rayon. Well, better living through chemistry, much better.
Standing there in the early sunset, she looked gorgeous, in an angry sort of way. On the other hand, he hated when that happened. It was like watching a stripper. You really wanted to do something primal and intimate right there. Occasionally, that had been a stupid, sometimes dangerous, impulse when it came to this particular woman. The whole thing must have shown on his face.
"What's the matter with you? Too many chili dogs at the gas station?" She turned and went in. "Come on. I'm sure we have Pepto or something inside."
Concerning the way his stomach felt, she came close to the mark. He'd take the Pepto and work on the "or something" later. After they seated themselves in the kitchen the silence became uncomfortable.
"The DA's going to have the doctors hold your grandmother for observation for a few days, until the feds remove her stuff and knock the house down," he said
"They can't do that!"
"Well, Sam can delay for a little while, but it will happen sooner or later."
Handing him the note she said, "What do you make of this?"
He stared open mouthed at the green paper. "Don't order the orange Jello?"
"No, Bernie, the other side."
He turned the hospital menu over and read the message. "What's under the dryer?"
"She didn't say. A doctor came in to examine her before she could tell me."
He got up and walked once around the chair. After a call to Sam to ask him to delay the demolition, Bernie sat down.
Rhonda asked, "Will that work?"
"Maybe, but Sam might not get in front of a judge soon enough for a court order to stop anyone. Especially, if they move first thing in the morning."
"Well, we have to do something."
"Like what?"
"Like, like, get in there tonight."
"Oh, and how are we going to do that?"
"Well, I bet my sister has a key to Nana's around here someplace."
"And..."
"And, we can just go over there like we're making sure her things are okay."
"And ..."
"And, we see what's under the dryer."
He thought for a few moments. A feeling of unease was growing in his guts. Something about this entire gig was going to bite him in the ass and her name was Rhonda. "I have a question."
"Hmm?"
"What's with this 'we' stuff?"
In less than five minutes, Rhonda found the extra key to her grandmother's house. In another ten, they were in front of Nana's stepping out of Bernie's Olds 88. The front door of the house was barely open when the flashing red lights of a Wauwatosa cop-car drew their attention back to the street.
"What do you think your doing?" the man in the squad called.
Rhonda stepped to the front of the porch. "We're just checking on my grandmother's things."
The cop got out, put on his hat and arranged his holster before he took a step toward them. As he walked up the steps he asked, "You got some ID?" While Rhonda dug in her purse for her wallet, the guy eyeballed Bernie, "Say, weren't you just up at the station earlier?"
"Yes," he said, "Same deal."
"Show me some ID anyway," the cop said. He looked at Rhonda's California driver's license, then at Bernie's Wisconsin private investigator's ticket. "You people can't be here. I just came over to tape off the house. The Chief wants to keep it secure until we move the old lady's belongings out tomorrow."
"But ..." Rhonda began.
Bernie grabbed her by the arm, took back their ID's, and headed to the car. "No problem then."
"But ..." Rhonda started again.
"Glad you're on it. Do a better job than we would." He stuffed Rhonda into the Oldsmobile.
While they drove up Honey Creek Parkway she said, "Hey, that's the asshole who manhandled me this morning." She hit Bernie in the shoulder. "He groped me. You didn't even argue with him."
"What was I supposed to do? He's got six inches and a hundred pounds on me. Should I even mention the gun? The object is to see what's under the dryer, not get me beat to a pulp and thrown in jail."
"How are we going to do that, smart guy?"
He shuddered. There was that "we" thing again.
At half past nine Bernie and Rhonda jogged under the street lights along State Street near Nana's. They turned down 72nd past an empty lot and a boarded-up house.
"You see any cops?" he asked.
"No," she said.
They went around the block and cut into the bushes between the Menomonee River and Nana's. The wet, clean smell of the river hung all around them. From there they peered back out at the street. They stood and sweated from their run through the mosquito filled night.
"I don't see anybody," he said.
"Me either," she added. "What are we going to say if somebody finds us?"
"We could strip off and tell them we just couldn't wait to get home." It was plausible and would only take seconds in their summer running gear.
Rhonda hit him hard with a backhand to the chest. "Come on, let's go in."
Before they had set out on this excursion, he called Sam to discuss the situation. In typical lawyer fashion he said, "Use your best judgment, but don't do anything foolish." Foolish is how you felt when you were caught shoplifting a copy of Jugs. Bernie hoped that this little foray didn't turn out worse than that, but it showed potential.
Rhonda ducked under the yellow police tape and strained to get the key in the backdoor. A narrow beam from the pen light he carried illuminated the keyhole.
"Thanks."
"Shh."
Inside, they turned right and went down pocketed stairs to the old basement. With a sweep of the light, they saw the slip covered washer and dryer next to the concrete slop sink.
"Take the covers and block up the windows," he said.
The front-loading dryer stood on a short wooden platform that raised it a foot off the concrete floor. Working in the glow of the small flashlight, they disconnected the dryer and tipped it over. A close inspection of the underside of the appliance revealed cobwebs and rusty metal. Quickly they examined the platform and came up empty. Then they looked at the old cracked concrete floor.
"Crap," Bernie said. "Go upstairs and peek out the windows. See if the cops are around. I'll look for something to break up the floor." As she reached the stairs he added, "Keep your head down."
She creaked once on the steps and again as she moved around the kitchen. Above him the floor groaned as Rhonda walked toward the front of the house. He swept the flashlight beam over to an old work bench. Nothing on the top of the tool pile looked useful.
One of the front steps moaned as he squatted to look at the items on the lower shelf. The protest was followed by substantial footsteps on the porch. All he could do was hope Rhonda heard the prowler in time to take cover. While he sweated in the cool of the basement, the footfalls moved off the porch. About the time he was ready to retrieve a pickax, he heard their guest rattled the handle on the backdoor. For a second, he thought they forgot to lock it, but Rhonda had been smarter than that. Bernie felt lots smarter this morning than he did just at the moment.
His knees ached against the concrete floor while he waited in the silence. There might have been a dull thud that sounded like a car door slamming, but he wasn't sure.
From the top of the stairs Rhonda called hoarsely into the dark, "Keagan!"
"Shh," was his reply.
"It's Okay. He's gone." She came down the stairs.
"You sure?"
She wiped the sweat from her face with the front of her tank-top. "Yeah, same cop as before."
Bernie was mesmerized for an instant by the sight of the additional flesh. "He has a long day. How did you know someone was there?"
"Heard him climb the porch."
"Look, go up and keep watch. I'll dig."
An hour later covered in sweat and streaks of concrete dust, he walked up and touched his tense sentry on the shoulder.
With a shudder and squeak, she recognized him. "Damn, you almost killed me!"
"Do you need to change underwear?"
"No."
Bernie waved. "Then, come on."
A spot of light showed the area where he dug up part of the floor. The basement was cooler than the upstairs and Rhonda shivered.
She sneezed.
"Gesundheit," he said.
She sneezed again. "Dust," she choked then bent down to take a close look the small mound of brown earth and broken concrete that lay next to a hole in the floor. On the edge of the light was a large package wrapped in plastic. "Is this it?"
"Yeah, where you expecting something in particular?"
"Ah, no. What is it?" she asked.
"No idea. Just fished it out."
Rhonda knelt next to the parcel and pulled at the heavy plastic with her fingers.
"Here, let me do that," he said and began cutting the tape around the wrapper with a serrated pocket knife. In short order a blue Samsonite three-suiter stood in the fading light.
She pushed it down with a thud and tried to work the latches. "It's locked. Give me something to break it open."
"Wait a minute."
"Why?"
"If you open it, what are you going to do?"
"Ah, take it home."
"Lift it," he suggested.
She struggled and finally got it off the floor. Breathing hard, she put the suitcase back down. After a few seconds reflection, she said, "Go get the car. I'll wait here."
"And our little friends from the Police Department will drive by as we're toting this thing out."
"I've got to know what it is!"
"You didn't know it existed until two minutes ago. You'll live."
They stood in silence for awhile.
"Well, what do you suggest?" she asked
"Let's put it some place upstairs. Let the movers take it out tomorrow."
She looked at him in the dark. "But .... But..."
He shook his head. "No buts."
In the next half hour, they moved the three-suiter, filled in the hole, replaced the stand and dryer and generally cleaned up the mess they had created. As they stood at the back door about to leave, Rhonda said, "Shit," and went down stairs in the dark. There was a thud and a not very ladylike "Son of a bitch!" Shortly she limped back to his side.
"You Okay?" he asked
"Banged my shin."
"What was all that about?"
"When Nana had us do the wash, the last thing we did was put the slipcovers back on the washer and dryer. It would have been a mistake not to."
"Jesus, did you iron them, too?"
"Not all the time."
"Great, now let's get out of here. We want to be back in time for the movers."
On Wednesday morning Nick stood across the street in a magazine shop and watched Nuygen Thom arrive. She parked her car a block away and walked past the open-air café into the restaurant. As he entered he saw her in the back. She wore her hair on the short side, cut at chin level. It was nontraditional and he thought it looked good. He took a seat across from her without invitation.
"Do you have the cash?" she began.
"Excuse me. No, 'how are you? How's it feel to be out of jail?" responded Nick.
"I do not particularly care. We need the cash now. What has gone wrong?"
"Lapinski has the film and the list."
"God, you must be kidding. She does not have enough brains to ..."
"She does now."
"What about the back-up?"
Nick related the activities of the recently deceased Stoutman brothers and the impact on Thom and himself.
"Nick, this was the sweetest money machine ever and some bimbo from Milwaukee sinks the whole thing. Crap. What are you going to do about it?"
"I'll get it back."
Thom sipped her tea. "You need to hurry. I ran into Lucerio last night."
The cup broke against the wall and Nick's "Son-of-a-bitch!" occurred simultaneously. Three minutes later he was escorted, face first, to the sidewalk by two waiters and a busboy.
Thom squatted down next to him. "You will never get her if you do not keep your cool."
Nick sat up on the concrete. "Tell the wetback to hold his water." He stood and brushed off the left knee of his brown pants. "If these fish get away there will always be new ones in this town."
"That is true, but we need cash flow, now. We do not have the time to build up another stringer. So get your ass in gear and salvage what you can."
When Thom saw Nick drive away, she made her call. She filled the Columbian in on Nick's protestations. She did nothing to hide her uncertainty about his ability to follow through with the cash. After all Nick was a legend in his own mind, but she assured Lucerio of her commitment to pick up wherever Nick might leave off. Lucerio told her that they would talk again about ownership of the film, should Nick fail to meet his demands.
Stan Chubistuski had been in and out of prison fifteen of the past thirty years. At forty-eight he was on the make to collect on his personal retirement plan. From the second floor window of his apartment building he'd watched the Lapinski house for two weeks. He even chatted up Frances, the old bag living in that dump. As he was about to make his move, the damn Sheriff came in and started tearing down houses.
He watched her hold off the cops for an entire day. Yesterday, between the old bat and some good looking young thing, the cops got all they could handle for a few minutes. It was better than watching wrestling at the South-side Armory.
Stan expected the police to move the old girl's stuff out immediately, but for a single cop, most everyone drove away after the tussle. When he cleared out, Stan was going to break in, but the screw didn't leave until early evening. In short order, Stan strolled out the side door of the two-story, cream brick building. By the time he made it to the sidewalk some bozo and the hottie from the morning's tumble pulled up to the house in an Olds convertible. No sooner were they on the porch than the cop returned and chased them off.
Back in his apartment, Stan watched a local cop put yellow tape around the house. An hour or so later the bastard drove off. Stan ate a can of Vienna sausages and let another half an hour pass before he went out for another try to get into the house. He was in the bushes behind the building when he heard voices, then he saw two people, a man and a woman, run to the back door. They unlocked it and went in. From the flashlight the guy used, Stan figured the woman was the hottie from this morning. Well, he would wait.
Stan dozed and almost missed the reappearance of the cop. He saw the guy in the streetlight and recognized him. Damn, he needed a smoke. Later the couple came out of the house and jogged away. The hottie was limping. Baby, let me kiss it and make it better.
Now it was his turn. The hundred and thirty-two pound ex-con picked the old lock on the back door and went in the basement where he played a light under the dryer at a low pile of freshly disturbed concrete. "God damn! Son of a bitch!" They'd dug it up! He heard someone climb up the front porch stairs and all five foot five inches of him froze. This was just too fuckin' much! When he heard the car pull away, Stan left the Lapinski house and went back to his apartment to rethink the situation.
He burst through the backdoor of his second floor walkup and sucked in a big breath. Immediately, he wished he was back outside in the bushes with the mosquitoes. His old man, Leon, sat at the kitchen table in his underwear eating chicken noodle soup fro a dented sauce pan. A fan blew the hot air around the room. The light over the sink glistened off the lower half of a can of Old Milwaukee. Stan grabbed the beer and downed it in one swallow.
"Hey," the old guy said. "Get your own god damn beer."
With a smirk and a nod Stan went to the refrigerator. Inside were four cans of beer and a jar of peanut butter. "You want a beer, Leon?"
"Sure, I'm gonna have to get up in the middle of the night to piss anyway, might as well make it worth while."
Stan sat at the kitchen table with the older version of himself and opened their beers.
"I don't see you carrying anything. Where's the stuff?" Leon asked.
"In the house."
"I thought ..."
"Hey, it was like the fuckin' freeway out there." Stan relayed the comings and goings at the house. "So, we're gonna wait a little longer."
Rhonda and Bernie hadn't said a word to each other on the short run back. The adrenalin rush from the breakin made words difficult and actions dangerous for him.
"Come inside," she said when they reached the front walk to her sister's house.
"Naw, I'm gonna head home."
A man and a woman in their early thirties sweating under the street light in what amounted to their underwear, wicked. She was his brother's wife. Well, ex-wife. But, once they were Catholic. Ah the hell with it! God, she owned a body that the Stones sang about.
"Come in for a lemonade or ice tea or something," Rhonda said.
There was that "something" again. He could use a drink of water. Yeah, it would be okay. He could handle this. "Sure."
She bumped into him and slid off when they walked through the kitchen door. He looked over her shoulder as she searched the open refrigerator. She stood up and turned around pressing her boobs against his dirty, sweat streaked chest.
"Ah ... nothing there," she said.
He looked down as all the blood in his brain headed south.
"How about some water?" Rhonda rasped.
"Great."
The phone rang.
Somewhere in the back of his brain someone was yelling "Danger," but the pleasant pain of the tug-o-war in his jock strap was more powerful. He leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth. What the hell, the divorce was almost three years old.
The phone rang again.
She let out a small squeak and grabbed him around the neck as the refrigerated air chilled them. She leaned back and he kissed her throat.
"Upstairs," she hissed as he continued to examine her neckline.
The phone rang a third time and the answering machine picked up the call. A nasal voice came through the tinny speaker. "This is a call from the State Correctional Institution in Lancaster, California. Will you accept charges for a call from ... Ryan Keagan."
People told Bernie that the most important erogenous part of the body is the brain. Well, nothing gets your brain off of sex with your former sister-in-law faster than a reminder of her ex. Shit! The call seemed to have the same effect on Rhonda. She shook her head and gave him a twisted smile at Ryan's message. Damn.
Bernie still held her, but the passion was gone. "I'd better go."
She nodded as he helped her stand. When he reached the front door she said, "Too bad."
He looked back and smiled.
"See you tomorrow?" she asked.
"See you tomorrow." He watched her answer the phone.
Bernie sat in the car and tried to remember exactly when he met Rhonda. It was probably in 1950 or '51. For a long time she was just one of the forty-some kids in his class at St. Anne's Grade School.
The first time he had any recollection was a rare second grade art class. Half the group was doing finger painting. She stood across the table from him wearing one of her father's old bowling shirts over the uniform, blue and red plaid jumpers. A red barrette held her dark hair in a ponytail. She asked for the green paint and he handed it to her.
The next time they spoke was in fourth grade. A buddy of his and he wrote a play and they asked her if she wanted one of the parts. Rhonda turned them down for some reason he never remembered. He and Jerry were very disappointed, but they got a consolation prize. She came up to them on the walk home and thanked them for asking her.
When school let out for that summer Bernie spent most of his time at Hart Park. His mother paid his older brother, Ryan, twenty-five cents a day to take him along. The local rec department hired college kids to run programs that looked a lot like all day recess just to keep the Baby Boomers from driving their mothers crazy.
The boys went early in the morning when it was cool, because their mother wanted them home during the heat of the day. With good reason, all mothers were afraid of polio. They kept their kids resting and away from crowds during hot weather. If you caught it, the best you could expect was to be crippled like Roosevelt, but more than likely you were going to die, soon.
That first day of summer vacation the boys rode their bikes up Menomonee River Parkway to the park. Ryan said, "Keep outta my way and don't get lost, butt-head." They dumped their bikes in a rack next to the stone building. Ryan ran off to a bunch of buddies while Bernie wandered around.
He decided to go over to the basketball courts where the older boys were running ball-handling drills with some college guys. He took a seat in a shady patch of grass between the asphalt and the street. Bernie was at the point where he knew that he was having a really bad time. The dullest thing he could think of was another game of box-hockey or maybe watching Ryan play basketball.
"Crap." He picked up a small stone and threw it onto the blacktop playground.
"Hi, Bernie," she said.
He twisted around and found Rhonda standing on the sidewalk behind me. She wore a white T-shirt, new blue Jeans and pink Keds. Embarrassed by his language he jumped up. "Hi ... ah ... How are you? What are you doing here?"
She pointed across the street at a small, white, clapboard house. "We, me and my brother and sister, spend days over at my Nana's house."
"Who?"
"My Nana." She smiled. "My grandmother."
She stepped up on the grass, not a foot from him. "You wanna play some box-hockey?"
He could smell the Rice Krispies on her breath. "Sure."
He was never sure how may games they played, but he doesn't remember winning any. His brother came in after a while to shag him home.
Rhonda walked them to the bike rack. "Maybe your mom will let you stay at my Nana's."
Ryan jumped on his bike and rode across the playground while Bernie walked his beside Rhonda. "I'll ask her for tomorrow," he said.
"Hey, butt-head, come on," Ryan yelled from the sidewalk.
Bernie kept walking with Rhonda until he reached his brother, then jumped on his bike and rode home. Ryan was mad, but Bernie didn't care.
Their mother wasn't very positive about Bernie staying away the entire day, but with a phone call from Nana and some strategic whining by Thursday she agreed. He rode to Nana's by himself the next morning, because Ryan didn't have basketball on Fridays.
The last six weeks of the summer flew by. At first Ryan gave him some ribbing about having a girl friend. Bernie told him she was a friend who just happened to be a girl. While he kept company with Rhonda he got to know Nana. She pushed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch with the occasional Oreo.
A large public swimming pool was a ten minute bike ride from Nana's. It was in Hoyt Park just off the Menomonee Parkway which ran for miles through the Milwaukee area. During the summer between Bernie's 7th and 8th grade, a flock of kids from the area would go swimming. A sidewalk ran beside the road all the way to the pool, but there are many more interesting bike trails that wound through the undergrowth next to the Menomonee River. Bernie and Rhonda took the trails because those were more dangerous. They were indestructible.
On the afternoon of August 2nd, they rode their bikes over the trails while the rest of their group stuck to the sidewalk and street. The two of them stopped after racing over a favorite patch. She was fast and not easy to beat, but he did that day.
"Ha!" Bernie sagged over his handlebars.
"Get you next time." Rhonda stopped beside him.
They panted together until they both heard the yelp. He thought for a second, trying to determine where the sound of pain came from, but she was off like a shot. Without time to call out, he was after her. As they rode, the yelp came again to their left and she veered toward it. He skidded as he tried to turn and lost sight of her. In a moment he could hear her shrieking, "Leave him alone, you piece of shit." He redoubled his efforts and peddled madly toward the sound. Rhonda screamed. He rounded a turn and saw an older boy kneeling on top of her. Behind them a dog struggled as it hung by its collar and leash from a branch. She screamed again and the bigger kid hit her. The next thing Bernie knew he was tumbling in the dirt with the attacker. The other kid overpowered him in moments. The boy collapsed just as he pinned Bernie. As he squirmed out from under his assailant, Bernie saw the red wound at the boy's temple. With a blood stained rock in her hand, Rhonda stood a step or two from them.
"You okay?" she asked.
Bernie nodded and she ran to release the dog. The animal bolted away as the two grabbed their bikes and peddled like mad for the pool. The pair were skinned up and shaken as they joined their friends on the water slide. Rhonda and Bernie said they crashed when anyone asked about their bruises.
The next day, Rhonda and Bernie sat on a picnic table on the parkway and he held her hand as she cried.
"You didn't kill him," he said in his confusion.
After a gulp of air she said, "I don't care if I did. The bastard was torturing that dog."
She was back to normal in a few minutes. It was nerves, he guessed. That's what his mother always said when he found her crying. Bernie offered Rhonda his clean handkerchief, but she used her own.
"Thanks for saving me," she said.
"Well, you saved me too," he replied. "Guess we saved each other."
"And the dog."
"Yeah."
She kissed him on the cheek and hopped off the picnic table. "Let's see if Nana has any popsicles."
His mother used to kiss him like that too when he found her crying. He guessed it was just part of the nerves and went with Rhonda to see what Nana had.
When Rhonda's family moved to LA the following June Bernie was hurt and he thought she was, too. They wrote a few times then it stopped. Now, she was back in his life for the third time.
State Street was still damp with morning dew when Anton Kolichek maneuvered the rig carrying his D-9 bulldozer toward the flood reclamation area next to the Menomonee River. He drove slower than he normally would have, because his mind wasn't really on the job. Yesterday, the doctor told him he had diabetes, but it could be controlled by changing his diet. Change his diet! Change his diet! His mother, and now his wife, had fed him the same things for all his fifty-four years. On top of that the little pip-squeak of a doctor demanded he lose forty pounds. Forty pounds!
Anton parked the rig on 72nd Street across from the little white frame house they were going to turn into landfill. He adjusted his jeans just below his protruding front porch and re-stuffed the tails of his short-sleeve shirt into his pants. The faded, blue plaid shirt began to come out as he walked around the front of the cab to meet with the foreman from Caroni Demolition, his employer.
The City Engineer and Jimmy Caroni, the snot nose son of old Carmine, were sitting at a picnic table between their respective pick-up trucks. Movers were filling up a van as the demolition crew watched and waited. A hot looking chick and some guy in a suit stood next to an Olds convertible and glared at the workers. It was all pretty grim. The only conversation was one of the movers complaining about the weight of some suitcase. Just after nine the van pulled away from the old white frame house.
"We gonna' do it today, Jimmy?" Anton asked.
Jimmy looked at the City Engineer and grinned. "Unload the Cat and knock it down before anyone stops us."
"Good," Anton said. "I feel like wrecking something."
Stan woke with a start. His old man stared down at him with his rawhide face and a three day growth of beard. Not as scary as the guys in the pen, but disturbing nonetheless.
"Get up, jerkoff, the cops are here already," Leon said. "Where's your shit-for-brains brother?"
"He was talking about some chick yesterday. Probably stayed the night."
"Even a blind pig finds an acorn now and then."
Stan scratched his groin. "What time is it?"
"Seven."
"Okay, I'm up. Go keep an eye on 'em while I go to the john."
The old guy was looked out his bedroom window. The breeze off the river smelled fresh, but the sun was out. Just like yesterday the temperature would climb and the humidity right along with it.
Over the noise of a flushing toilet Stan asked, "What's goin' on?"
"More cops and the wrecking crew, but they're all just sittin' around waitin'."
Stan nodded as he combed his thin hair with his hand. "Anything for breakfast?"
"I went to the store and got some stuff, but you better eat fast before something happens here."
In the fridge Stan found eggs, baloney, bread and grape jelly. The pan on the stove was still greasy from Leon's breakfast. Stan used it to get to work on his own.
A cop car was at the house on 72nd , one door down from Chestnut when the moving van pulled up. Stan kept an eye on all the activity as he ate his breakfast out of the pan over the kitchen sink. The movers and a deputy stood around talking until a U.S. Government car rolled up and a tall guy in an Army Corps of Engineers shirt got out. He led a little parade up to the front door of the house and let everybody inside.
Stan decided to get a closer look. He wiped the last of his eggs from the pan with a piece of jellied bread, as Leon called, "Get a move on. Things are starting to happen."
A midnight blue Olds convertible skidded to a stop in front of the house as Stan was crossing the open ground between his apartment and the action. The woman in the passenger seat jumped out and limped toward the government man. Holy shit, the babe from last night! The guy driving the lead sled got out and walked up behind her.
Stan heard the woman yell something about "attorneys at your office" and "injunction." The government guy said "just following instructions" and "didn't know anything about any injunction." The movers began loading old lady Lapinski's stuff into the truck. A folding lawn chair rested against the side of another abandoned house. Stan used it to sit in a side yard and watch the goings on. Things got boring quickly as the couple and the guy from the Corp stood around watching the movers load the truck.
The comment from one of the movers, "Damn, she must have lead bars in this thing," startled Stan out of his day dreaming. The kid struggling down the porch stairs was carrying a big, baby-blue, suitcase. Out of the corner of his eye Stan saw the chick poke the guy she was with and nod toward the movers. The guy slowly shook his head and looked at the ground.
"Bingo," Stan said to himself in a low whisper. He would have to find out where the truck was going, but decided to wait a few minutes so as not to appear eager. Shifting in his lawn chair, he watched the babe and waited. Suddenly she stiffened, but didn't poke her friend. What was that about? Stan strained in his seat to see what was going down. Nothing special, just movers carrying boxes. Still? She relaxed and the couple left. Stan ambled back to the apartment to move his piece-of-shit car onto the street so that he would be ready to follow the moving van.
By the time Anton climbed into the cab of the bulldozer, his shirt was out of his jeans offering a clear view of the stretch marks on his belly to anyone curious enough to look. As the diesel roared to life, the hottie and the suit climbed into their Olds and drove off. Five minutes later, Anton took out the northeast corner of the small frame house. Twenty minutes later it was set for the landfill.
Another heavy equipment hauler carrying a large hydraulic backhoe arrived followed by two dump trucks. At ten all that was left of the house was the foundation. With both trucks headed for the landfill, Anton shut down his Cat and drew his right hand across his throat to the backhoe. He went to his truck to retrieve his lunchbox for the mid-morning snack, not that it was going to be worth the effort. Nothing but fruit. Shit!
Mike Mulligan, the backhoe operator, sat across the table from Jimmy and ate a sandwich. Anton figured he could either eat the fruit or talk to the boss's asshole kid. He ate the fruit as the kid ran off at the mouth about the latest action at the Packers' training camp. Anton noticed Mike chewed slowly. He kept his mouth full to avoid having to comment on the conversation. The moment he finished, Mike closed his battered, black lunchbox and stood up. One of the dump trucks turned off State into the flood abatement area.
"Come on Andy. Let's tear out that foundation," Mike said.
Anton nodded and stood.
As the two operators walked to their machines, Jimmy called, "You guys'll be done by lunch."
Anton kept walking, but raised his arm and waved his agreement. The two apples and the banana hadn't filled him up, but listening to Jimmy took him off his feed. He sighed to himself when he lined the dozer up to dig out the foundation. The machine cut through what was left of the lawn and flowerbed then knocked the old cement blocks into the hole. With a bucket load of dirt, Anton swung the big Cat toward the dump truck. Jimmy stood watching him with a particularly stupid look on his face. The jerk ran toward him waving his arms. What an asshole. The truck driver was running, too. Jimmy was up near the Cat gesturing across his throat with his right hand. Anton cut the dozer's engine.
The truck driver, Mike and Jimmy stood in the front of the machine looking up into the bucket when Anton joined them.
"What the hell are you...?" he asked.
Jimmy pointed to the lip of the bucket where the upper half of a skull smiled down at them with its single gold tooth.
Rhonda heard the roar of the bulldozer as it pulled toward Nana's house and said, "Let's go. I can't watch this." She and Bernie pulled out of the destruction zone as the Cat accelerated.
"Where to?" he asked.
"I don't know. Just drive."
They went north on Menomonee Parkway until she took a deep breath and shouted "Stop." He did. She jumped out. By the time he pulled to the curb she was sitting at a picnic table in the park.
He walked up to her. "You okay?"
"No." Rhonda started to cry.
He knew she wasn't the sentimental type and physical contact with her could be less than helpful. But, after a moment he figured, what the hell, and did the only thing he could think of. He held her until her emotions came under control. He was a tough guy. He could handle the heavy lifting.
She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I don't think Nana cared much about the house, either way. But, I hate losing." She punched him in the chest. "Shit! Shit! Shit!"
That's the Rhonda he knew. He rubbed his pec and gave her a handkerchief. She blew her nose. They sat silently as the hot west wind rustled the leaves in the maple overhead.
"Let's go see your grandmother," he said.
She squeezed his hand. "Thanks, Bernie."
He took a deep breath. "No problem."
When Rhonda and Bernie entered the over air-conditioned hospital room, Nana was playing gin rummy with a man who could have easily been in his nineties. She introduced him as Herbert Gastinau, a volunteer at the hospital.
Herb excused himself. "I'll stop by later, Frances, and we can finish the game."
"Sure thing. Don't forget you owe me eighty-five cents."
"I don't think you have to worry about that." Herb left the room.
Nana looked at the grin on her granddaughter's face. "What? The old coot could stroke out as he's walking down the hall and I'd be out that money."
Rhonda gave Nana a kiss on the cheek and introduced Bernie.
"Keagan, from St. Anne's?"
"Yes, one and the same," he said.
The old times never got rolling as the door banged open and three burly men walked in. One wore a police uniform and the two others were plain clothes cops.
The cop wearing the stretched-out, light blue, sport coat with the blue and yellow plaid pants began. "Frances Lapinski?"
Nana said, "Yes."
The cops introduced themselves and flashed their badges with vigor. They seemed to like that part. The older one in a shinny black suit said, "We'd like to ask you some questions."
"What's this about, detective?" Rhonda asked.
"Who are you miss?" the other detective asked.
"Rhonda Lapinski, she's my grandmother."
They asked about Bernie and he told them.
"Mrs. Lapinski, do you know an Aloysius Waldoch?"
Nana gave them a pensive look. "No, I don't think so. Why do you ask?"
"Some human remains were found in a flowerbed at your house. Mr. Waldoch's wallet and driver's license were among them."
"Doesn't ring a bell," Nana reiterated.
After some housekeeping remarks about not leaving the area and giving them a call if she remembered anything, the trio of cops left.
Bernie used the pay phone down the hall to call Sam and in less than half an hour Nana and her nephew-lawyer began a conversation.
"When did you first move into the house on 72nd street?" Sam asked.
Nana took a drag on her cigarette. "Sal bought the place in late 1930 and we moved in early in '31."
The lawyer leaned forward in his chair. "Can you tell us anything about this Aloysius Waldoch?"
Nana pursed her lips and fidgeted in her chair.
"Aunt Frances, if I'm going to help you, I have to know all the facts, preferably before the police find out."
Nana pulled her hospital robe close around her and settled back in her seat. "Well, Al was a guy I knew back in WW2 when I worked at Allis Chalmers. He was in the Merchant Marine." She twisted her mouth to the left. "Sal was gone lots around that time, driving truck up to Minneapolis. It was the war. Work kept me busy, but it was lonely."
From the background Rhonda asked, "Nana, you didn't get it on with this Al guy did you?"
"Hey!" Nana said. "Your generation wasn't the first one to invent sex, ya know."
Rhonda glared at the old woman. "And, how long did this go on?"
"None of your business."
"It would help us to know," Bernie said.
Nana twisted her mouth around a few times. "It lasted a couple'a years. The whole thing died out in '44, '45."
"Nana!" Rhonda said.
"Give it a rest," her grandmother shot back.
Sam suppressed a smile. "Did your husband ever find out about your relationship with Mr. Waldoch?"
"I don't think so."
"It would make a neat package for the cops to say Sal killed Waldoch out of jealousy. Sal's dead. No trail. Case closed," Bernie said.
"Maybe? Yeah," Nana said.
From his experiences with her as a kid, Bernie wasn't taken by surprise. She'd watch out for Rhonda, her brother and sister and him just fine, but she was sort of hard bitten and pragmatic. He remembered Nana was not a woman to hand out more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on Wonder bread with a glass of milk for lunch. Though, one time he did remember she gave Rhonda and him dessert - two Oreos. Rhonda often said Nana held onto her nickels so tightly she could make the buffalo scream - that Great Depression mentality.
"When was the last time you saw Waldoch?" Sam asked.
"Let me think." Nana took her time. "I bet it as nine, ten years ago, Spring of '63. Ran into him at that Italian market on 68th Street. Hi, how ya doin'?, nice to see ya, sort'a conversation. I went my way. He went his."
"Nothing special?" Sam asked.
"Sonny, all the special had gone outta that years ago."
The conversation dried up quickly. Rhonda didn't want to stay and talk. She and Bernie walked down the hall to the parking lot in silence. As he opened the car door, Rhonda turned to him. "Something's out of place here."
"Hey, it must be hard to think of Nana cheating on your grandfather or him as a murderer, but it adds up."
"No it doesn't. My grandpa may not have been the smartest man around. But, I don't think he would have killed the guy who was fooling around with his wife and buried the body next to his house, and thrown in the driver's license for good measure. It's too pat."
"That's a good point. But, why did your grandmother seem so eager to let Sal take the fall."
"Yeah, that bothers me. Let's go back."
When they returned Nana was up a dollar thirty-five playing gin rummy with Herb again. After he excused himself, Rhonda lit into Nana.
"What were you trying to do?" Rhonda asked.
"What do you mean?"
"You know grandpa didn't kill Al what's-his-name any more than Bernie here did."
"He could have."
Nana took a cigarette out of a pack she had on the card table and lit it with an old Zippo.
"Say, I don't think they allow you to smoke in here," Bernie said.
She took a deep drag, held it and blew the smoke out her nose. "Well, if they ask, you tell 'em they can kiss my skinny, Italian ass." She looked him in the eye and took another drag on the "coffin nail."
Okay, well, he decided to keep quiet and hoped neither of the women would remember that he brought up the idea that Sal Lapinski would be an easy scapegoat for Waldoch's murder.
"Nana, that's bullshit and you know it. What are you trying to do?"
"Honey, Sal was a good man. Probably better than I deserved. But I've got to put a lid on any police investigation or they might stumble across the stuff under the dryer. It's okay, isn't it?"
"But, to make him out a killer?" Rhonda dropped into the chair across the table from her grandmother.
Nana put her cigarette out in a small, green glass ashtray. "Hey, if Sal was anything, he was practical. He's dead. Al's dead. The cops get their package and I get mine."
Rhonda looked up at Bernie. "Don't say anything."
"What?" he asked. "What was I going to say?"
"You were thinking it."
"What? What was I thinking?"
"You know."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"No. I don't know what you're talking about."
"Unh!" Rhonda turned back to Nana. "Okay, what's in the blue suitcase?"
"What blue suitcase?" Nana asked.
Rhonda jumped to her feet. "The one that was under the dryer!"
"Really, is that what was under there?" Nana asked.
"Yes! Didn't you ever look?"
"No."
"Fine. What's in it?"
"I don't know," Nana said. "Didn't you look?"
"No, the cops were all over the place," Rhonda replied.
"Well I don't know. Sal never said."
Rhonda began to flap her arms. "Ah ... ah ... didn't you ever try for a peek?"
"Once, but I couldn't move the dryer."
Rhonda would have continued the conversation, but she was speechless.
Later, in the car Bernie said, "Now I know where you get it."
"Get what?"
"The habit of giving half the story."
"I told you everything I know," Rhonda growled.
He spoke before he thought. "It would be the first time." It was stupid to pick at old wounds, but that was going to be part of their relationship until she was out of his life again.
She looked out the passenger side window. "We should look in the suitcase."
"Hang on, hang on, I need something to eat."
If her look could have turned him to stone, it would have.
"The cops have secured it," he said. "Nobody's going to get it. And, I missed lunch."
"Bernie, who gives a shit?"
"Hey, it'll take a couple of minutes. I need the fuel. Better yet we need to take a little break and clear our heads."
She folded her arms and looked out the windshield.
"Let's go to Barbiere's. Mostaccioli and meat sauce sounds about right."
"No, just grab a sandwich and get going."
He turned toward the restaurant as she sulked in the red leather seats. Rhonda was just angry enough to eat the salad and spumoni that came with his dinner.
"Can you prove it?" asked the fat woman who ran the You-Store-It yard. Rhonda dug through her entire bag for two forms of ID before she was able to get the key to Nana's unit. Bernie waited in the car as the sun slid behind a bank of clouds coming in from the Northwest. He slowly idled the Olds up and down the aisles of two-car garage storage units until they found number G18. The units were made from sheets of corrugated steel with flimsy fiberglass doors.
He got out and grabbed the lock and hasp that was supposed to secure the unit, but now dangled from the overhead door. "I'm pretty sure this isn't right."
"With all the shit that bitch in the front office gave me, I'm gonna kick her ass with this screw up."
"Looks like someone pulled the hasp lose with a crowbar."
The overhead door sprang up when he lifted it. The hot blast from the air inside rolled into them.
"Yeow! Shit!" Rhonda jumped into his arms.
A thin man, whose salt and pepper hair needed a trim, sat open mouthed staring into the twilight. Bernie dragged Rhonda part way toward the man in a kitchen chair, just enough for him to turn on the single overhead bulb. The guy didn't move or blink. The copper smell of blood was strong.
"What's he doing here?" she whispered.
Bernie stepped in front of the figure. The man's clothes were simple and worn. His teeth were yellow from smoking and he needed a shave about two days ago. Blood soaked the left side of his T-shirt.
"Do you recognize him?" Bernie asked.
"No, why should I?" she replied. "He's dead, right?"
"From the ice pick in his ear, you're right on the money."
Rhonda walked over to where Bernie stood and sure enough, there was an ice pick sticking out of the corpse's left ear. "Oh," she groaned, turned and lost Bernie's dinner salad and ice cream. She took the handkerchief he offered while she struggled to regain control.
"What do we do now?" she gasped
"We call Sam." She gave him a complete blank look. "Your attorney?" The fog lifted. "Then we call the cops."
"What about Nana's suitcase?"
"Somehow I don't think it's here."
They used the pay-phone outside the yard office to make their calls. As they waited for someone to arrive Rhonda asked, "Should we tell them about the suitcase?"
"Probably not. With two corpses linked to Nana in less than twelve hours, the police are going to think there is more to this than some ratty old furniture." They went back to the storage area and stood beside the Olds. "No need to mention our midnight excursion to dig in the basement."
"Fine." Rhonda leaned against the massive, front fender of the car and stared at the corpse. "Say, isn't that the guy who was out in his lawn chair near Nana's house this morning?"
Bernie walked up to the dead man for a closer look. "Score one for the little lady."
"You don't think that if we had come here right away instead of going to dinner we ..."
"What, we might have intervened. Saved the suitcase. Stopped the killing. Run into the murderer. Maybe gotten an ice pick of our own." He reached a finger out and touched the body.
"What are you doing?"
"The blood on his neck is wet." He held out a discolored fingertip.
Rhonda turned and retched with the dry heaves. She fell to her knees. He walked up to her as she raised her left hand, pointed into the storage area and croaked, "There! Ack."
"Take deep breaths. You'll be fine in a minute."
"There, it's there."
"Relax ..."
With a "The case ... ack ... is there," she pushed him toward the open overhead door.
"Holy shit." With one swoop he scooped a blue suitcase from its resting place under the kitchen table and deposited it in the deep trunk of the Olds.
The bawl of sirens was coming down 84th Street as he returned to Rhonda. She sat against the side of the car. Thinking this was seriously out of control, he took a seat next to her on the warm pavement.
"D'ja get it?" she asked breathlessly.
"It's in the trunk."
She nodded.
After a moment's review he shook his head and said, "But, that's a bad idea. I should put it back."
He stood as a squad pulled into their aisle.
"Too late," she croaked.
She had a point.
"Freeze!" came the voice over the loud speaker on the cop car.
A detective from the Wauwatosa Police Department spent the next hour and a half questioning them as a late summer storm built in the northwest. Lightning shot from gray-green clouds when they headed for the Olds. Bernie smelled the ozone. Rain drops drummed on the convertible top as they nudged their way onto the street. He ran the air conditioning full blast to keep the windshield from fogging completely. Minutes later they sat outside her sister's house while the rain beat on the canvas top.
"How are you doing?" he asked.
"Fine, fine," Rhonda replied as she stared at the rain cascading down the windshield.
"Sure?"
"Yeah."
They listened to the rain.
Finally she asked, "What was that guy doing there?"
"Probably the same thing we were doing."
"And the killer?"
"Yup."
"But, we got the case."
"Nope."
Rhonda turned in the red leather bench-seat and grabbed his wrist.
"What do you mean, nope?"
He shook his arm to extract it from her grip. "Hey! Hey! Don't dig those nails into me."
"I thought you took the suitcase."
"It's not the one we pulled out of the basement floor." He rubbed his wrist.
"How do you know?"
"It wasn't heavy enough."
"You sure?"
"No, but it didn't feel right."
Rhonda crossed her arms across her chest and sulked. "When it lets up, we'll take the case inside and see."
The rain continued its tattoo, but at a slower pace. With the engine off the windows fogged over.
He touched her shoulder. "That dead guy really shook you up."
She nodded.
"That's okay. It was a shock to me, too."
Her shoulders started to shake and he hugged her to him. Just at the moment he didn't feel so guilty about lusting after his brother's ex. Her gulps and sobs subsided with the storm. She pushed back from him. "The divorce didn't have anything to do with you."
He nodded. That was unexpected.
"He was a doper, dragging me down."
"I know. The whole thing probably saved your life." What a load of bullshit.
A small grin appeared on her face and she sniffed. "I hadn't thought about Ryan in months, then it all came back."
"Yeah, it happens to me, sometimes." He kissed her gently on the lips. What kind of asshole did he have to be to still want his sister-in-law after a conversation like that?
She kissed him back running her tongue over his teeth. Bernie pulled her close while she held his head in her hands. Apparently, she thought he was a pretty decent guy.
She broke the kiss and said, "This is good, but I've got a big bed inside."
Ryan was rotting in a California state prison. Bernie was here with Rhonda and nothing could change that. He'd add it to the list and live with it.
They got out of the car as the storm blew south. Big drops fell off the trees and soaked them. He walked around the rear of the car, opened the trunk, and took out the suitcase. Bag in hand, he put his arm around Rhonda as they navigated the front walk to the house. At the door, they stopped for a kiss to tide them over until they got inside.
The situation was shaky. Not just that he was lip-locked with a woman he'd sworn never to get caught up with again. She saved his life, but sent Ryan to jail. The other part was trying to get through the front door holding a powder blue suitcase in one hand with the other stuck in the back of Rhonda's jeans. That was tough enough without having to deal with the hard shove somebody gave him in the back.
She clutched him and called out as they tumbled onto the floor of the front hall. The suitcase slid back to the kitchen door. Bernie twisted in a vain effort to avoid landing on her.
Tears came to her pinched eyes. "Damn, you know how to take the romance out of a situation."
He adjusted his glasses. "Are you alright?" A shadow fell over them from the front porch light. Bernie rolled slightly to see a dark man step forward from the doorway with an automatic pistol in his hand. For a moment Bernie thought the gun was some kind of toy. Maybe that was an illusion created by the size of the man.
Rhonda hit Bernie on the shoulder. "Jerk!"
"Shut up," the giant squeaked and stepped across their prone bodies on his way to the suitcase.
Bernie jumped to his feet and dragged Rhonda into a squatting position. With another yank he pulled her to the door then pushed her outside. Three steps and they were around the corner and running into the next yard where they huddled in the yews while their assailant sauntered down the front walk with their suitcase.
Rhonda made a move to stand. Bernie tackled her, clamped his hand over her mouth and sat on her. The light over the monster's license plate came on and Bernie read the numbers before the car pulled away. Just as he took his hand off her mouth, he was swatted in the head with a broom
"Let her up!" scratched the antique voice.
They both looked up to see a diminutive man in a maroon bathrobe.
"Hi, Mr. Kolchak," Rhonda said.
"Are you okay, Ro?" the old neighbor asked.
"Yes, I'm fine."
"Humph." Kolchak turned back to his house. "Well then, get a room."
Bernie helped Rhonda to her feet.
"Why didn't you chase after him?" she demanded.
"Pretty much for the same reason our friend at the storage barn should have stayed home."
"We could have followed him and seen where he's going?"
"That was an immense man with a big gun. If you want me to take on some guy, you're going to have to find one smaller and, preferably, older." He couldn't see the look on her face clearly, but he assumed she wasn't smiling. "Let's go inside and discuss this." The sound of reason, he thought. Actually, more like self-preservation when dealing with Rhonda in an agitated state.
Without a word she turned and limped toward the house. Inside she stood on the first step to the second floor. "Why don't you make us some coffee while I take a shower?"
"A shower sounds good to me, too," he said hopefully.
Rhonda shook her head. "Stick to the coffee," and hobbled up the stairs.
While the java brewed Bernie sat at the kitchen table. What did they know? The license number. He wrote it on the back of his hand. Some guy was murdered in the same storage unit where the sheriff dumped Nana's things. For a while they had a suitcase that looked a lot like the suitcase they dug out of Nana's basement floor. A big guy took the case from them. Bernie was sure that the case they just lost wasn't the one from the basement. Where was that case from the basement? The coffee finished brewing and he began to pour some in a mug he had fished out of the cabinet.
From the middle of the room Rhonda said, "Can I ...,"
He started with a "Huhn!" followed by a "Yeow!" as he poured coffee on his hand. Sucking the scalded fingers, he looked at her intently. She stood in bare feet next to the kitchen table wearing very brief khaki shorts and a red tank top as she rubbed her blonde hair with a pink towel. He took his hand from his mouth. "Don't sneak up on me like that." He handed her the half full mug.
"Sorry, next time I'll whistle when I enter a room."
He looked her over once again and determined she wasn't wearing a bra. She pushed him back when he leaned forward to kiss her.
"What?" she said.
"You ... ah ... ya know ... you wanna ..."
"Relax and tell me what you think is going on." She followed his gaze to her chest. "For crying out loud, with the suitcases, I mean."
They took seats at the kitchen table and he explained what he thought. He made a point of maintaining eye contact with her.
"If that wasn't the original suitcase, where do you think the right case is?" she asked.
Bernie turned to look out the window over the kitchen sink. "One of two places, back at the storage unit or with our recent visitor."
"And, you're sure the case we had here wasn't the one from the basement?"
"Yes, it was the wrong size and it didn't weigh as much." After a short silence he asked, "What do you want to do now?"
"I better call Nana."
He made a point of watching Rhonda talk on the phone. The conversation between her and her grandmother was short. The cops had just left Nana. She was okay and wanted to see Rhonda in the morning.
After Rhonda hung the phone up she turned to see him staring at her. "What?"
He kept a half smile. "You look as fine as the first day I met you. Maybe finer." That was a long time ago, long time - grade school.
She grinned and sighed, then turned on the radio that rested on the kitchen counter. Creedence Clearwater Revival was just starting.
Ooo I bet you wonder how I knew
'bout your plans to make me blue.
She closed her eyes and began to move her hips in the slow seductive way he'd seen her do before.
Some other guy you knew before
Two of us guys, you know I love you more.
He liked watching her dance. Anyone who danced like that couldn't be all good.
It took me by surprise, I must say,
when I found out yesterday
She put her arms above her head and began to make long serpentine motions. He turned up the volume.
Don't ya know, I heard it through the grapevine,
not much longer would you be mine
She reached her hands out for him and he began to dance next to her.
Ooo I heard it through the grapevine,
and I'm just about to lose my mind
Honey, honey yeah
With a shake of her head and a manic laugh she raised her shirt and flashed him.
Someone knocked at the back door. Through the glass panes on its upper half they saw the old guy from the adjoining house. He looked particularly creepy in his antique bathrobe with his sparse hair sticking out in all directions.
Rhonda gave a squeak and pulled her shirt down. All three of them remained frozen. Then Rhonda answered the door. "Yes, Mr. Kolchak. How can I help you?"
"Keep it down! Will ya'!" the man rasped. "Believe it or not some of us are trying to sleep."
"Yes, we will," Rhonda said. "Sorry to disturb you."
He raised a gnarled finger to face. "Next time I'm calling the cops." He turned in his slippered feet and shuffled into the darkness.
The lust of the moment broke. Bernie was saved from himself and old entanglements. "Well, I think I'll be going now."
"Not without me," she said. Seconds later they were in the car. Rhonda laughed. "God, can you believe it?"
He smiled as the humor of the scene crept in. "What now?"
"Take me someplace for a drink," she panted.
"You don't have any shoes."
She looked at her feet. "I'm not going back in there."
"Hmm, I may have something in the trunk."
Later that evening at a Red Carpet bowling alley, a lawyer of the verge of disbarment was seen in the company of a blonde woman, on the tall side, dressed in very brief khaki shorts, a red tank top and black galoshes.
Rhonda and Bernie laughed at the bartender's punchline as he closed the door behind them. The heavy summer air replaced the scent of liquor and smoke. The couple held onto each other and continued to laugh.
"Oh, God," she said. "My stomach hurts."
"Mine too. I think we've rung all the good time out'a this night."
She fished a cigarette from her red purse and stuck it between her lips. "Ha." The cigarette burst from her mouth and tumbled through the air.
Bernie caught it in his open palms and offered it back to her. "Here."
She plucked it from him. "Got a light for a girl?"
He fumbled in his pants then found a book of matches in his shirt pocket. He struck a match and held it to her cancer stick.
The lights of a car flashed from the parking lot. "Hey, Bernie," Sam called from the dark car.
Though unexpected, Bernie was pleased to see him. "Let's consult with your lawyer."
They ambled over to the black Buick Electra coupe and leaned on door next to the open driver's window. "Hey."
The orange glow of the cigarette illuminated the hand on the steering wheel. "How's our girl?" The diamond from his pinky ring glinted in the light from the street lamp on the corner.
Bernie leaned on the car door. "Rhonda or Nana?"
"Either, both."
"Tough as nails."
The tip of the cigarette shone red as Sam took a drag, held the smoke then exhaled through his nose. "Any idea what's goin' on?"
"Not yet."
"Could it be just what they say?"
"I don't think so."
Rhonda poked Bernie in the kidney. "Hey, I'm right here."
He stood up.
"Why not?" Sam asked.
Bernie stood and stretched in his crushed suit. "I don't sense any fear in either of them."
"Well, let me know if I can do anything for you." Sam started the car.
Bernie handed him a crumpled bit of paper from a pants pocket. "California plate number. See what it tells us."
Sam flipped on the overhead light and looked at the scrap. "Okay. Give me a few days." He touched the crisply starched collar of his shirt.
Rhonda and Bernie turned and walked toward the Oldsmobile.
The head nurse scowled at Rhonda as she got off the elevator on Nana's floor. Rhonda smiled. "Good morning." After ten hours sleep it was the greeting she had for everybody at the hospital. The yellow sundress she wore accentuated the tan she nurtured around the pools in Vegas. The mini-dress was simple by west coast standards, but just racy enough for Milwaukee to get smiles from the men. She was particular satisfied with the "Holy Shit!" she got from one candy-striper. The neckline and back of the dress were cut to reveal as much of her as possible without giving her hypothermia from the air conditioning.
She walked into Nana's room and kissed her grandmother on the cheek. "Hi, you're dressed." Rhonda handed her grandmother a large Styrofoam cup of coffee from the lobby snack bar.
The older woman looked up from her game of solitaire. "Wow, tootsie, that's some outfit you almost got on there."
Rhonda smiled and twirled. "You like? With the tan I don't need hose."
"Well, you got plenty to show off," Nana continued. "With what I got left, this old blue pants suit will do."
The granddaughter put her hand on the old woman's shoulder and laughed.
Nana pointed to a paper shopping bag on the bed. "They're releasing me at nine."
Rhonda pulled a metal chair close and sat down. "What happened last night?"
"The cops came about eight and told me about the guy you found in storage with my stuff. They showed me his driver's license and asked me if I knew him." She took a drink of coffee from the cup. "I said he was some coot from the apartment building across from my house. He used to chat me up now and then. Lookin' for something free." She winked. "How you doin'?"
Rhonda raised the volume on the television and leaned close to Nana to relate the adventure with the blue suitcase.
"Bernie doesn't think it was in the bag you dug up from my basement, huh?" Nana asked.
"No."
Taking her granddaughters arm, the old woman snorted. "Then, it was your uncle Harvey's comic book collection." She stopped laughing abruptly. "Shit, I bet those stupid things are worth a couple a thousand." She slapped her thigh. "Damn!"
The two women sat and drank their coffee.
"When that big bugger finds out what he's got, he's gonna be back," Nana said.
The door to the room opened and a woman of Asian ancestry in pink scrubs said, "Time to go home." Rhonda took Nana back to Alice's house.
Nana pushed open the plain wood door of the Cape Cod and stepped inside. "Hey, honey, ya left the place wide open."
Rhonda pulled the shopping bag with Nana's things from the backseat of the Javelin and hurried after her. The hot breeze barely moved the leaves on the elm trees that lined the street. With key in hand Rhonda stepped into the foyer and bumped into Nana. "No, I didn't."
The gigantic, tan man from last night stood before them. He filled the central hall of the house between the living room and the kitchen. The shine on his ox blood, penny loafers reflected the light from the door behind Rhonda. He was dressed in the largest blue blazer Rhonda had ever seen. She found it hard to think of anyone that big as a preppie. Her feet thought about running, but her head knew she couldn't leave her grandmother behind.
"Told ya, he'd be back." Nana gave the massive intruder the once over. "You are one big son-of-a-bitch, No-neck. How big is your neck?"
"Twenty-five inches and watch your mouth, old woman," the man said. He pointed to the kitchen and all three went in. The man looked at Rhonda and pointed a finger the size of a bratwurst at the avocado wall phone. "Call him."
Rhonda couldn't keep the reaction to his high pitched voice off her face.
"What?" the man asked.
"Ah ... I don't mean to be offensive, but your voice ... "
The man scowled then sighed. "Football accident. Now you gonna call him or what?"
"Who?"
"The guy who was with you last night."
"Sure," she said with full sincerity.
She dialed the office and left a message on Bernie's answering machine. "You remember that little discussion we had just before you left this morning, well why don't you stop over at my place and we can pick up where we left off. Or just call me. Bye."
"Hey, what were you talkin' about?" the man asked.
Nana raised an eyebrow. "Chief, I think she was just givin' him some incentive to hurry."
"Huh? ... Oh." The man moved his hips back and forth in a pumping motion.
"Nana!" Rhonda said.
"Honey, you've had a grin all morning." The old lady shrugged. "There are smiles, and then there are smiles."
"No. Things started in that direction once or twice, but something," Rhonda nodded toward the intruder, "got in the way."
"Hmm, some days if you didn't have bad luck, you wouldn't have any luck at all," Nana mused.
The big guy pulled on his left ear lobe and looked down at Nana. "Who you callin' chief?"
Rhonda leaned against the kitchen counter. Now that her grandmother mentioned it, the man's profile looked distinctly Native American.
Nana dug a cigarette out of her purse. "Okay, what should I call you?"
"Rudolph," he said. "And, I'm Samoan."
"Really?" Nana asked.
"Yeah, Rudolph. Not Rudy or nothing like that. Rudolph. Got it?"
"Fine." Rhonda raised an upturned palm.
Nana blew some smoke out of her mouth. "Sure, what ever you say." She took another drag. "We got anything here for lunch?"
"I could eat," Rudolph said.
"I bet you could." Rhonda walked to the refrigerator.
Rhonda was dancing at a strip club. The smoke in the room gave the spotlight on her a hazy glow. Bernie hadn't seen her face, but he could tell it was her from the tattoo on her butt, the eye of Horus. It seemed off that he would know that because as far as he knew she didn't have any tattoos. The crowd of bald businessmen in rumpled suits stood on their feet cheering.
His mother called him. "Bernie!" That wasn't right. His mother never went to strip clubs and seldom called him Bernie.
"Bernie!"
"What?"
"Wake up!" she said. It looked like his mother, but the voice was Helen's, the receptionist at Sam's office.
He rolled on his back while Rhonda danced in his head. "What?"
His mother said, "You need to call Rhonda Lapinski." The dancer faded into the smoke and the voice was definitely Helen's.
He pulled his right hand over his face. "What?"
"She left six messages on your answering machine. You need to call her right away."
"Who?"
"Rhonda. She said its murder."
He opened an eye. "Yeah."
Helen stood at the door to his bedroom. "Bernie, are you awake?"
"Sure."
"Sit up and tell me who you have to call?
He did. "Rhonda, gotta call Rhonda." He slumped forward.
"Keagan!"
"What?"
"Call her now!"
He sat back up and focused on the doorway where the voice emendated. Without his glasses he could just make out Helen's fuzzy figure.
"You came all the way over here just to make sure I got this message?"
"It's on my way home. Call her now," she said.
"How'd you get in here?"
"Your door was unlocked."
"Not smart," he mumbled. "Could you lock it on the way out?"
Helen put her hands on her hips. "Sure."
The sunlight crept around the sides of the shades on the curitanless windows. "What time is it?"
"Five-thirty."
"Damn."
He rolled over and stretched for the phone on the night stand. Retrieving it he heard her say, "Nice butt." He realized he went to bed naked and wrapped a sheet over himself as he sat up. "Thanks."
She nodded, "The floor show was worth the trip," and left.
While he groped for his glasses with his left hand he dialed Rhonda with his right.
"Where the hell are you?" came the greeting.
With a yawn he said, "My place. What's up?"
"I need you here, right now," she snapped and disconnected.
He looked at the phone in his hand. "What's your problem?" Still foggy minded he concluded that he needed to clean up before going out in public. "Shower, need a shower." His window box air conditioner whirred on doggedly.
There was a knock on his front door. He adjusted his brown and yellow paisley tie in front of a full length mirror from Walgreens. He ran a hand through his damp brown hair. The knocking picked up it's pace and volume as he pulled on a dark olive suit coat and walked to the door. Clean laundry lay on the leather couch in the living room.
"I'm coming," he yelled. Three more strides and he pulled the door open. Rhonda and Nana stood on the back porch.
Rhonda said, "Hi."
Nana said, "How ya doin'?"
He didn't respond because he was concentrating on the the man behind them whose body blocked out the light that should have been coming from the late afternoon sun. Run was the word that flashed through Bernie's mind. He would have done that, except the monster in the doorway pushed Rhonda into him, hard enough to knock the both of them to the floor. Literally, the colossus picked her up by the back of the neck and tossed her into his arms.
"Who's your friend?" Bernie asked from underneath Rhonda's familiar, but tense body.
"This is Rudolph. He took care of our bag last night," she said.
"Ah."
She got to her feet and helped Bernie to stand facing the giant.
"Where's the other bag?" the big guy inquired.
Bernie gave Rudolph a quizzical look and then turned to Rhonda. The visitor seemed to know that Bernie was thinking about his absurd voice. Rudolph gave him a slight shove and Bernie fell to the floor.
"I had an injury playing football. That's why my voice is so high," Rudolph said.
Bernie stood a second time. "Sure, fine."
"So," Rudolph said. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?" Bernie asked.
"The other suitcase," Nana put in.
Bernie looked from Nana to Rhonda. The granddaughter nodded affirmatively.
Rudolph held out the light blue hard sided, two-suiter in his right hand. "Yeah, like this one. Only it ain't filled with comic books."
"Can I see?" Bernie asked.
The mountain of a man put the bag on the dark, wood floor and Rhonda opened it. There were two stacks of comic books in sealed plastic bags. Bernie leafed through them noting the volume numbers. From what he could tell they were all high quality, first editions - The Green Hornet, Spiderman, The Flash and other popular series.
"Ah, this isn't what you wanted?" Bernie asked.
"Naw."
"I guess that means there must be another bag and it's probably back at the storage yard."
No-neck grabbed the women by the arms and began to drag them out the door like a couple of fresh caught fish.
"Let's go," Rhonda squeaked.
As the group stood on the sidewalk Bernie asked, "Did you kill the guy in Nana's locker."
Rudolph gave him a blank stare.
"You know, the fella with the ice pick in his ear," he reiterated.
The Samoan continued to stare blankly.
"That's reassuring," Rhonda said.
"Did you take a suit case from my locker?" Nana asked.
"Yup," Rudolph said.
"Did you see anyone around when you were there?" Rhonda asked.
"Nope."
"Hey Rudolph, if you took a bag from storage and and a bag from us, what makes you think there's a third bag?" Bernie asked.
"Never know if we don't go look," he said.
"What exactly is it we're looking for?"
The man mountain shrugged.
Now Bernie asked what he thought was a key question. "Hey, Rudolph do you ever lie?"
Mammoth man held the car door open and stuffed the women inside. "Sometimes."
"That was not reassuring," Bernie said to no one in particular.
In half an hour, the mismatched quartet stood in the open bay where Nana's worldly possessions rested. This afternoon was just as hot and sticky as the previous one.
"Looks different from the last time," Rhonda said.
"With all the distractions, I'm surprised you remembered," Bernie added.
She stuck her tongue out at him.
"Well, where is it?" Rudolph asked.
"My guess is that the cops took everything out, examined it and then but the stuff back in," Bernie said
The other three looked at him expectantly, but Nana asked, "And, that means?"
"Maybe they took it with them."
"Oh," the other three said in unison.
"Hmm," Nana said. "You mean we have to pull all that stuff out of there to check it out?"
Rhonda nodded.
After a moment's silence Rudolph asked, "Well?"
"Well, what?" Bernie asked.
"Get goin'."
"Get goin', where?"
"Empty the place."
Bernie put his suit coat and tie on an end table and began to move things out of the garage. He picked up two chairs and looked at the trio leaning against the car. "It will go faster if I get some help."
Rudolph put a big paw in the back of each woman and pushed them forward. They stumbled toward the open door.
"Hey," Rhonda said. "You can help too fat boy."
The mountain looked at his waistline. "I ain't fat."
"Who cares," she hissed. "You can help."
Nana, Rhonda and Bernie watched Rudolph prepare to help. With great ceremony he took off his coat, tie and shirt, folded them and laid them on the passenger's seat of his car. He stood and looked at his audience. "What are you waiting around for?"
Nana took a seat in a kitchen chair early in the search. After half an hour they were pretty sure that another blue suitcase was not on the premises.
With half of Nana's things sitting out in the lane between the storage buildings, Bernie sat down on an old milk crate. His clothing stuck to his body. Rhonda wiped a drop of sweat from the end of her nose as she took a seat on a kitchen chair next to her grandmother.
"I need something to drink," Nana said.
Bernie stood to check his pocket for change to buy sodas then turned toward the sound of the car door slamming. Rudolph drove off in his white '73 Caddy El Dorado convertible.
"That son-of-a-bitch," Nana said, "Now we have to put all this stuff back by ourselves."
Eventually, a cab dropped the three of them off at Alice's house. A line of thunderstorms grumbled over the neighborhood. Inside, the old woman sat down heavily in a living room chair and went right to sleep in the air conditioning.
"Shit," Bernie said. "I shouldn't have let that cab go."
"Why?" Rhonda asked.
"I've got to go back home and clean up."
"You can clean up here."
"I don't ..."
She put her hands on his chest. "I'll wash your back."
"What about ..." Bernie nodded toward Nana.
"She's out like a light. Besides I don't think she would mind."
"She wouldn't mind if I screwed her granddaughter upstairs?"
"She likes you." Rhonda winked.
"That's a lot'a like."
"I like you, too."
He kissed her softly. "That's probably more important."
The doorbell rang. Rhonda opened the door and saw a kid with two shopping bags standing on the porch.
"Yes?" she asked.
"You owe me $52.96," the kid said.
"Why?"
"For the food."
"What food?"
"You ordered Chinese."
Before she could tell the kid that they hadn't ordered any Chinese, a distinctive, high pitched voice spoke from behind the delivery boy, "Pay'em."
A glance behind the kid revealed the lower two-thirds of Rudolph's torso and two light blue suitcases. As Rhonda and Bernie scrounged up sixty bucks Nana came up behind them.
"You got Mu Shu in there?" the old lady asked.
"Chicken and pork," Rudolph said.
Rhonda and Bernie looked at each other.
"Why am I not surprised?" the granddaughter asked.
"Come on," Rudolph said. "Pay the guy and let's eat."
The kid gave Bernie the bags and beat a quick retreat around the big guy. Bernie headed for the kitchen with the food and everybody followed him. Rudolph put the suitcases down and started to unload the white cardboard boxes onto the kitchen table. Rhonda got plates.
"What'd ya want ta drink?" Nana asked.
"Ice tea," the man mountain said. "Orange Pico, if ya got it."
"Sounds fine," Bernie said.
Rhonda nodded and Nana dug into the refrigerator. Rudolph took a seat and began to open the food containers. "I got two blue suitcases. One was full of comics. The other was full of iron bars. Now what's with that?"
They looked at him then at each other. Nana opened her mouth and closed it. Rudolph and Rhonda looked at her.
"Well?" Rudolph said.
"Well ..., the iron bars were used to keep the box underneath from floating up through the concrete," Nana said
Bernie jumped up. "What! What! I dragged that damn suitcase all over ...."
"Hey," Rudolph said. "Sit down."
He sat.
"Is there any mustard in the bag?" Rhonda asked.
Rudolph reached in the bag and brought a fist full of condiments in plastic packages.
"So you're tellin' me there's something else buried in the basement?" Rudolph asked.
"Hmm ... yes," Nana said.
"What is it?" Rudolph asked and passed Bernie some pepper steak with tomato.
Nana spooned some rice on a plate and passed it to Rhonda. "Don't know."
"Hmm," the Samoan said.
With the exception of being released from jai,l Knickerbocker Smith's week was in the shitter. Rhonda stole his pornographic tour de force and his blackmail pics. His backup copies burned in the cabin fire.
Thom's clear voice on the answering machine gave him all he needed to take up the hunt again. "She's dancing in Vegas." Things were looking up. He broke his parole without a second thought.
Rhonda had gone to Vegas and he followed. It was a six hour drive. He knew Thom's information was dead on when he spotted Rhonda's crappy '63 Volvo in the employee's lot at the Flamingo. He was hungry and the casino advertised a 24 hour buffet.
Minutes later Nick looked up from his midnight lunch to see Dale Tomalchk standing next to his table.
"Hi, mind if I sit down?"
Nick took a moment to think if he wanted this weasel in a blue sharkskin suit to sit at his table. "What brings you here, numb-nuts?"
Dale shifted his weight from his left to his right foot. "I bumped into a friend of yours last week. Or, maybe it was two weeks ago."
Nick took a spoonful of his beef vegetable soup. "Really, who would that be?"
Dale took a chair and leaned irritatingly close to him. "That would be Rhonda Lapinski."
Nick's right hand stopped half way between the bowl and his mouth. The sudden odor of Dale's "Old Spice" was intense. He put the spoon down, leaned back in his chair then used his napkin to blot his mouth and wipe his hands. "Where was this?"
"Like I said, in Vegas."
Nick rolled his eyes.
"The first time, at a strip club. Sort of an interesting routine. She came out dressed as a nun ..."
Nick leaned in close. Finally, some good news.
"I don't give a fuck about the act. What's the name of the club?"
Dale looked away. "Doesn't matter. She's not there anymore."
"What! How do you know?"
"Well, when I saw her I sent her a note. You know on a napkin. Sorta thought we could get together and share old times."
"You sent her a note. So she knew you saw her." What were you thinking, if anything?
"Yeah, well, you know she's got that killer body. And the way she was throwing it around up on stage. Well, I figured ..."
"Did she come over?"
"No, something about having other commitments. If you know what I mean."
Whatever he thought of her this confirmed to Nick that Rhonda was no dummy. "Slick. What happened next?"
Dale cleared his throat and pointed at the glass of water on the table. Too discusted to speak, Nick nodded.
Dale took a long drink. "I went back the next night, but she didn't show. Announcer said it was her night off." He took another drink. "I went back the next night and she didn't show again. This time the guy said she quit and he thought she'd left town."
Nick made eye contact again. "So what good is this to me?"
"Hey, I'm not stupid."
"Are we gonna vote?"
Dale twisted the water glass on the tablecloth with the tips of his boney fingers. "I asked around and found she'd got a job in the line here."
"Really?"
"Yeah, no shit."
Nick sat and looked off into space for a few minutes while Dale fidgeted in his chair. His heart pounded and his breath started to come in short gasps. Now I have you!
"You okay?" Dale asked.
Nick nodded as he tried to compose himself.
"So does that help you?" Dale asked.
Nick got up. "Yeah."
"But she doesn't work here anymore."
"What?"
"She doesn't work at the Flamingo. She left."
"Well, Dale, where does she work?"
"Don't know."
Nick sat back down.
"The stage manager said she got an urgent call on Sunday and flew home, wherever that is."
Regardless of the airline, they all smelled of the same air freshener. To Nick the trip to Milwaukee was a three hour pain in the ass. It took a few hours, but about half past six on a hot summer evening, Nick parked up the block from Rhonda's sister's house. That an Olds convertible and a white Caddy parked out front might mean she had company.
Nick's head snapped back against the head rest of the rented Matador. He caught some sleep on the plane, but he'd been up much of the past three days. Time for a little pick-me-up. He took two of the pills from the baggy in his coat pocket, a swig of RC Cola, and waited for the surge.
As the amphetamines kicked in, he gave himself a play-by-play of the events that emerged in front of him. "Well, well, lucky Nick, here comes Rhonda down the front walk. But, she's with two guys. A guy the size of Montana has her by the arm and she doesn't act like she likes it. Whoa, he just shook her like a stuffed toy. That settled her down. Hey, big guy do it again for me. They're going for a ride in the Caddy. Looks like it's time to get a move on."
The sky to the northwest turned purple around the lightning bolt. The thunder rolled over the trio as they pulled up to the lot where Nana's house once stood. A pump banged away next to the open foundation, sending muddy water into the street.
Rudolph eyed Rhonda while they sat in the residue of the Caddy's air conditioning. "If you run I'll snap your neck like a chicken's." He turned his attention to Bernie. "Out! Move!" He leaned across Rhonda and shoved Bernie out the passenger door. Rudolph grabbed her by the bicep and dragged her from the car.
"Hey, that hurts," she yelped.
Bernie could smell the ozone in the air. "Rain's coming."
"Get the pick and shovel out of the trunk and get busy," Rudolph said.
The place where the bulldozer turned up Waldoch's body and broke the foundation was muddy and slippery. They made their way into the sloppy divot - the only way into the basement. Rudolph elbowed Bernie forward. Sliding down the slope, he made it to the mud scummed floor with only one fall on his ass. His suit was ruined, but it was a cheap one. Rudolph stood at the top of the crease holding Rhonda by the arm.
"Get busy," he yelled over the hammering of the pump motor.
Bernie glanced up at him then began scraping the mud off the floor to locate the place where the clothes dryer used to be. The sky over Rudolph's left shoulder went gray-green as lightning flashed inside the clouds. The first strike of the pick brought a report from the storm that told Bernie the weather was closing in. Big drops began to fall as he shoveled the wet dirt out of the hole. Another shovel thrust was greeted by a clank from beneath the ground. Rain stung him as he pulled at the metal box to no avail.
He walked to the side of the basement and waited for a blast of thunder then called, "Hey, numb nuts get your ass down here!"
The monster from the South Seas appeared at the top of the mud crease. Rhonda was clearly suffering from the grip Rudolph maintained on her arm.
"What?" he yelled down.
"I found a box." Bernie spit the rain out of his mouth. "It's too heavy for me to pull out."
The Samoan shook his head and pushed Rhonda down into the crease.
"Son-of-bitch!" She slipped and fell on her back, then got up and continued down into the basement.
Rudolph followed with heavy steps, seeking firm footing in the muck while destroying a pair of oversized alligator shoes. He pushed Bernie out of the way, grabbed the box and pulled it out with a single yank. He handled it like an evening bag as he shoved the box into Bernie's gut. Bernie staggered momentarily under the weight.
"Let's go," Rudolph squeaked over the hiss of a lightning bolt. He emphasized his request with jerk of his right thumb over a blast of thunder.
The trio proceeded to the broken foundation with Rhonda in the lead. She started up the crease dragging the shovel as Bernie hefted the box over the broken wall into the mud. Rudolph brought up the rear.
After the grimy struggle up to ground level, Bernie sat on the box while the rain pummeled him. He gasped for breath and stared at Rhonda's feet. Why had she brought the shovel up from the basement? Their captor's smiling face appeared above the crease. The blade of the shovel disappeared from its resting place next to Rhonda's mud covered legs. It went whistling past Bernie's ear and was followed by a loud clang as it struck Rudolph on the left side of the face.
The monster's eyes crossed momentarily as another hiss of electricity stretched across the sky. He shook his head. Rhonda swung her weapon a second time and found her mark. Rudolph went down.
She yelled "Let's go!", but her call was drowned in the thunder that rolled around them.
Bernie shook his head. "What?"
She yanked on his arm. He staggered to his feet then bent to pick up the box. As he struggled to rise with the weight, he saw Rhonda's feet disappear and heard her shriek. He twisted his head and saw Rudolph standing with his gigantic right hand around her throat. Rudolph's face did not betray any emotion.
"Shit," Bernie groaned, picked up the short-handled shovel and hit the mammoth in the side of the head.
Rhonda dropped from his grasp and fell into the mud like a discarded double cheeseburger box. The same calm eyes focused on Bernie as the monster turned in his direction. Bernie swung another time, but Rudolph blocked the shovel with one enormous paw. The tool bounced from Bernie's grip and fell in the pit. The big man and he stood for a moment looking down into the muck as the sheets of rain pounded them.
Rudolph thrust an arm in Bernie's direction so slowly that Bernie was able to dodge the probe even in the slop. The trick, as he saw it, was to keep away from the dazed but menacing Samoan until Rhonda could get away. Rudolph blocked the path to the car so Bernie headed toward the river. Crashing through the bushes he came to the stone walled banks of the Menomonee. The river ran high from the rain over the past few days, but now it was roaring with the added downpour.
In the moment that he stopped to turn down the bank, Rudolph caught him. Without a choice Bernie lurched in the direction the big guy was heading. They dropped into the flood. The grip on Bernie went slack as they hit the water. He fought from under the bulk above him as they were swept away with the current. He freed himself and moments later washed up onto a flooded road. Clutching a tree in chest deep water he gasped to catch his breath while Rudolph's monstrous body floated down toward Lake Michigan.
The air conditioner wasn't worth a shit. The damn thing was loud and couldn't get close to cooling the apartment, but his old man wouldn't let him open the windows. So Stan sat on the low stoop in the front of the building and watched the thunderheads build in the northwest. He finished the second last fag in his pack. The air was still and humid. He rested his bare, boney elbows on his knees. Lighting danced between the clouds as he dug his Zippo out of his shirt pocket.
He was about to light up again when a white Caddy pulled down 72nd Street. It stopped across from the wrecked basement where the Lapinski house used to be. A brick shit house of a man climbed out of the driver's side then he pulled out the suit and the chick. Interesting. Stan put the cigarette behind his right ear and his lighter in the pocket of his cutoff shorts. He hurried along in his flip-flops to the side of the abandon house catty-corner to the group. Big drops splashed on the street.
When the group came out of the hole Stan's eyes fixed on the box that the suit carried. "Holy shit! There it is." He hardly noticed the fight. Unconsciously, he stepped out of his hiding spot as the trio crashed into the bushes. Stan hit the ground as the hottie returned to struggle with the box. She quickly gave up and drove off in the Caddy.
The rain came down hard as Stan got up to take a closer look. He lost a flop-flop when he fell in the mud, but saw the prize as he lay there in the rain. Lighting sizzled over the tops of the trees. The soggy cigarette fell from his ear.
Minutes later he was dragging the metal cube behind his '78 Chevelle. His ol' man stood in the rear door of the eight familypicking his nose as Stan skidded into the parking lot.
He stepped from the car and hollered at his father. "Leon, gim'me a hand, will ya?"
"Why?"
"Because I just saw three people fighting over this here box."
The two men used a plank as a ramp to slide the 50 caliber ammunition box into trunk of the Chevelle.
"What now?" Leon asked as Stan slammed the truck closed.
"I need a beer."
The ratty pair turned and saw scrape marks on the pavement that ran from the road up to the car. They walked out to the street and looked at the trail that ran down the blacktop.
"You better get out'a here," Leon said. "I'll stick around to see what happens."
Stan made it down 72nd to State just as the Caddy turned from Chestnut and raced up to the Lapinski lot.
Nick tailed Rhonda and her companions then parked on 71st. Though he was easy to spot, his targets were too wrapped up in their own mission to notice him. The rain obscured much of the action going on in the mud, but he did get significant vicarious pleasure when the big guy decked Rhonda. The box, however, was the most interesting thing about the entire incident. At least Rhonda thought so as she tried to drag it over to the car. She couldn't budge it and quickly gave up. He could have stopped her as she ran off to the car, but he wasn't about to step out in all that mess. Better keep an eye on the box. It could hold the photos or the movie she stole, but most likely it didn't because it wasn't large enough. The monster and the skinny guy were gone as Rhonda took off though the flooded street like her hair was on fire. Well, he knew where she lived. Now was the time to get the box.
Hold it. Hold it. Who's this jerkoff now? Looks like a drowned rat walking upright. And, what's he doing with my box?
Nick fished two more uppers out of his baggie and popped them in his mouth.
The water where Bernie stood was almost stagnant compared to the torrent twenty feet to his left. He was on the parkway, south of the Menomonee, about a mile down the river from Nana's house. He slogged through the hip deep water. Tires shrieked as he reached the 68th Street bridge. Rhonda got out of the Cadillac.
"Where were you? What happened? Where's Rudolph?" she asked.
"I think he's dead." Bernie got into the car. "Do you have the box?"
"No, it's back in the yard. I couldn't lift it."
They sped in silence back to the spot where Nana's house had been. Rhonda was tense and he was nearly comatose from his fight. He hardly noticed they'd stopped until she shook him hard.
"It's gone."
"Where was it?" Pain crept into his body.
Rhonda pointed to a pile of debris from the house. "Right there."
With reverence for his pain, he got out and began to turn over pieces of broken boards and miscellaneous trash. "It's not here now." He straightened up and winced.
"Keep looking!"
"It's not here. Did you see anyone hanging around?"
"No!"
The leaves rustled, dropping the remains of the storm on them. The sound of a door closing caused Rhonda to turn and look at one of the remaining structures in the flood abatement area, an eight family apartment. "I didn't know anybody was living there."
There were four cars in the lot next to the two-story building and lights shone in six of the windows. Without a word they walked through what was left of the wet, unmowed lawns. Half dazed, Bernie crossed to the parking lot driveway, but Rhonda stayed in the street.
"Hey!" she said. "Come here."
He sighed and walked back to her. "What?" He struggled to focus his thoughts on something other than the aches in his body.
She pointed to drag marks gouged in the blacktop of the street. They followed them with their eyes into the parking lot. A quick jog brought them to the point where the gash ended.
"Damn it!" she said.
"Think it could be someone who lives here?" he nodded toward the apartment building.
She said, "Sure," and went in the front door.
He searched the names on the mailboxes. The building smelled of garlic and mildew. "What was 'ice picks' name?"
"Who?"
He put his hands on his hips and dropped his chin to his chest. "The dead guy in storage, the place where the cops put Nana's stuff."
"Oliver," Rhonda said.
"No, last name."
"Chubituski"
Bent over by the pain in his back, he scanned the eight mailboxes. He rested a muddy finger below the penciled address label. "You think Leon in 2A could be related to him?"
She took a quick step toward the stairs before he grabbed her by the arm and put an index finger to his lips. The stairs creaked a single time as they climbed. They skulked down the hall to the door of the apartment in the southwest corner. From the racket coming from inside they need not have been so careful.
Bernie stepped back to the flimsy iron railing on the landing and began a rush at the door of 2A.
A voice inside said, "Where's he taking the box you old turd?"
Rhonda said, "Knickerbocker?"
Bernie hit the door with everything he could muster and it exploded out of the frame. It fell on the floor and he went right on top of it. An old guy who looked a lot like "ice pick" sat on a beat-up kitchen chair while a short guy in a wrinkled suit threatened him with a large, black revolver. The sight of the weapon shifted Bernie's whole system out of its stupor and into high gear.
The short guy said, "Rhonda."
She whirled out of the doorway as he fired a blast from his pistol in her general direction. The bullet lodged in the wall. He let go of the geezer's greasy T-shirt and ran for the open door. Bernie tripped him as he passed. Another shot boomed out as he bounced on the floor.
The short guy, or Knickerbocker as Rhonda called him, was small and quick. Bernie couldn't jump on top of him before the guy was on his hands and knees. Bernie grabbed for the gun hand with both of his as the little man hit the floor again. He elbowed Bernie in the side without much effect because of his short arms. The pistol discharged again as Rhonda ran down the stairs.
Bernie's left ear was millimeters away from the firing chamber when the shot went off. It was like somebody stuck a knife in his skull. Bright lights went off in his head and he let go of Knickerbocker, who twisted out from under and stepped into the hall. Bernie lunged at the short guy, butting him in the kidney with his head. The smaller man fell against the railing with enough force to break it free and topple onto the stairs below.
Bernie stood and looked at the troll as he lay facing the first floor with the six-shooter still in his grip. Needing a weapon, Bernie tore a support from the shattered railing and staggered to the top of the stairs. Knickerbocker got to his knees as he picked his way over the rubble. When Bernie reached him he was almost fully erect so Bernie smashed the wrought iron support into his back. The cheap metal bent and the blow propelled the little man down to the first floor.
Knickerbocker staggered around the corner and down the hall to the front door. Bernie hit him with a flying tackle as he reached the stoop. They both flew out onto the sidewalk. Bernie's knuckles scraped along the concrete, but Knickerbocker's body took most of the blow. The pistol went flying into the street as Bernie jumped on top of his opponent. The short man twisted, kicked and squirmed from his grasp. After the tussle with Rudolph and another with Knickerbocker, Bernie wasn't ready for any more action.
Sirens approached as Knickerbocker picked the gun out of the muck in the gutter and pointed it in Bernie's general direction. Two attempts to fire the pistol failed. "I'll get you, you mother fucker," he said as the blood from a scalp wound ran down his nose. He jumped into the brown Matador at the curb and sped away.
Bernie had wrung the last bit of energy out of his beaten body. Rhonda dragged him into the Olds and they took off for the freeway. The box wasn't at this apartment. No sense hanging around for the cops. They wouldn't understand the explanation. Semiconsciousness arrived to dull his pains.
Not counting the past two days, the last time Bernie saw Rhonda she put the keys to the Olds in his hand, slapped him hard across the face, and said, "Get the hell out'a my life. You're more trouble than I can handle." She turned and stepped onto a bus bound for Las Vegas.
He saw it all in his mind's eye as he drifted between passed out and stumbling home. That was eight years ago.
That scene was the finale of a stop he made in LA to see Ryan, his older brother. It was on Bernie's way home from Vietnam. His visit began when Ryan met him at the airport and drove them two miles to a concrete block building in an industrial section. A neon sign said it was The Excelsior. Inside, Bernie looked around. The building was big enough to hold a single stage, twenty-three tables and a twelve stool bar. The block exterior was painted light blue, while the interior walls were beige, if anybody noticed. Maybe the owners devoted extra cash to keep the place looking shiny and clean, because they felt that would attract a better paying clientele.
Ryan motioned to the chair next to him and pulled it out. The fierce competition between his brother and Bernie made him wary of this excursion. He took a seat and leaned close to Ryan. "What are we doing here?"
"Have a drink and watch the show. You'll find it interesting."
Someone put a drink in front of Bernie. He picked it up and touched the liquid to his tongue. Glenlevit or something of similar quality. Ryan was going to pull something on him. "Come here often?"
"I own a piece of it, no pun intended"
"You must be shitting me." That was good, but not good enough.
"Twenty-five percent. Tell me what you think later."
A naked blonde woman strutted off the stage to the whistles and applause of the male crowd. As she hit the curtain the stage lights went out and the announcer's voice floated from the sound system. "Do you remember the times when women of a certain religious persuasion kept you and your mates in line with a combination of conditional love and threats of physical violence? Now the Excelsior Gentlemen's Club provides you with a special treat. For all of us who have enjoyed the disciplined life, we are happy to present Sister Mary Elizabeth!"
The house lights snapped off and a spotlight shown on stage left as a nun in full habit stepped out. The response from the audience was an eruption of sound three or four times greater than the ovation for the blonde. The nun glided to the front of the stage and held up her hands, revealing a triangular wooden ruler, also used by engineers and draftsmen. Often remembered by elementary and secondary students as a knuckle buster. The audience fell silent.
Pointing at a middle-aged, bald man sitting next to the stage she said, "Have you been a good boy?"
He smiled and shouted, "No, Sister!"
She turned to the rest of the room and said, "Have you all been good boys?"
"No, Sister," came the roared reply.
"Then, I have a little treat for you," responded the nun. She strutted to the back of the stage to a drum-beat that was joined by a cowbell and then a guitar.
As she stopped Mick Jagger started.
"I met a gin soaked, barroom queen in Memphis,"
The nun began to sway in time with the lusty beat, undulating various parts of her black clad anatomy. As the volume of the song rose she twirled toward the front of the stage revealing shapely legs in four inch, black heels.
"She tried to take me upstairs for a ride.
She had to heave me right across her shoulder"
The dancing nun reached the pole on the front third of the stage. She gripped it and did a back walkover, giving the guys a flash of black thong and a tight butt framed by a flying ankle length skirt. "'Cause I just can't seem to drink you off my mind."
A quick trip around the pole and another walkover led to a spin to the front where the dancer leaned back. In perfect time to the accompaniment she ripped the off the skirt to show the boys what she hinted at seconds before. They went wild.
"It's the honky tonk women.
Gimme, gimme, gimme the honky tonk blues."
The music pounded as she strutted and twirled the perimeter of the stage, giving everybody a good look. At the back of the stage she turned and ran toward her audience, did a cartwheel landing in the splits at exact stage front. She waited two beats for the music to catch up then tore the long sleeve top off. With great strength and agility she sprang up to stand before the guys in her high heels, thong, and wimple.
"I laid a divorcee in New York City,
I had to put up some kind of a fight."
The nun grabbed her ruler, pointed sternly at the bald man. Catching the beat of the music, she grabbed the front of her thong, pulled it of, and tossed it to Baldy. The sequences on her G-string flashed in the spotlight as the applause rose to a crescendo. Mick Jagger repeated
"The lady then she covered me with roses,
She blew my nose and then she blew my mind."
Every customer in the club pressed to the stage except the two who sat in the back. The dancer started to work the audience. With a series of rolling leg kicks, air kisses, and tit jiggles at stage edge she relieved the assembled throng of the money they stuck in her g-string and garter.
"It's the honky tonk women."
Another cartwheel at the pole ended with her hanging upside down.
"Gimme, gimme, gimme the honky tonk blues."
The boys out front would have applauded, whistled and hooted louder, but she had worn them out. Sister Mary Elizabeth gave a short encore and a victory lap as the song played itself out.
The dancer exited back stage where she grabbed a towel off a rack and began to wipe the sweat off her body. The bald man from out front came up to her as she finished a large glass of water and gave her the discarded parts of her costume. She kissed him on the cheek, said, "Thanks, Glen," and handed him her cash, "Sixty-five, keep it safe."
"Here's a note for you," Glen said proffering a folded napkin.
"You know, I don't go to the tables."
"From Ryan."
The dancer smirked as she opened the note. It read, "Great show. Come meet someone special." She smiled and nodded to Glen.
Minutes later she walked to the back of the barroom in her wimple, heels and a short silk dressing gown covered in lavender paisleys.
A gut feeling or intuition or whatever itched in Bernie as the girl who had just been on the staged walked toward him and his brother. Maybe it was something about the way she moved her body and a faint memory of playing one-on-one in the alley behind his house. The context of that moment versus times and places where he knew her were not related in any way to their current surroundings. She didn't look much like the girl he'd known all those years ago in parochial school. When she looked into his eyes and relaxed her smile, the penny dropped. Stunned, he gaped at her like a moron while a waitress brought her a glass of water and another single-malt for him.
She seemed stunned too as well and she pulled her small cover tightly around her. She recovered herself more quickly than he did by using a glass of water to block his view of her face. She closed her eyes as she drank. Between gulps she asked, "What'd you think?"
He offered a strained smile. "Very ... ah ... athletic."
"And?"
"Popular." He wasn't prepared for the tightness in his chest.
"And?"
"I'm a fan of the Rolling Stones myself." He paused and took a breath. "And, a long way from St. Catherine's High School?" He shouldn't have said that. From the look on her face he could tell that she knew exactly what he meant.
She took a moment to put on a stiff smile and shook her head. "You remembered. I guess I'm flattered."
"Well, how about dinner?" he asked. It was as if he were alone with her again on those walks home from school.
"Sure thing," said Ryan. "I was planning on you comin' with us Bernie."
Ah Ha! Back to the real world. And, Ryan's knife.
Rhonda got up, took her water, blew a kiss at him, and turned to go. "Meet me out back in half an hour."
As Rhonda crossed the room, a balding man in a business suit got up from his table and blocked her path. She smiled, said something, and tried to step around him. He moved to impede her and touched her shoulder.
"Oh crap, it's that clown, Hiram Standish," Ryan said. "The little dweeb is fixated on her."
Bernie hadn't seen the two bouncers in the area, but they materialized behind the drunk. Without comment they grabbed the man's arms, lifted him until he was on tiptoe, and ran him out of the building.
Rhonda looked back at Bernie then shifted her gaze to Ryan. With a wink she moved on to the dressing rooms.
"That was impressive."
"Nobody touches Rhonda," Ryan said.
Bernie took a sip of his drink. "I'll keep that in mind."
"Do that, bro. We're talking about my wife."
He felt the ache in his chest where Ryan put the blade in. That's what you were after bro.
Bernie was flying high from the relief of getting back from 'Nam in one piece and meeting Rhonda again seemed to fit in with that good luck. He knew Ryan invited him to the strip club to show off his prize. The fall to the pavement was painful.
Rhonda was Bernie's friend, his closest friend and his girl right up to the time her dad moved the family to California. They were fourteen. Now eight years later, she was married to his brother.
Hunting Charlie in the bush taught Bernie patience and the wisdom to hold his fire until a surprise situation became clear. He could not control the situation, but he could control his attitude and reactions. Bernie grinned a stiff grin and resolved to enjoy his two weeks off in LA with his brother. What's the saying, accept what you couldn't change. Bullshit!
Ryan, Rhonda and Bernie went around and did the tourist things - Knott's Berry Farm, Disneyland, and the movie studios. They planned to take in the Dodgers, but Ryan had some business emergency so Rhonda and Bernie ended up at the game. For six days he kept his mind on his resolution.
After the game the couple walked out to Ryan's new Olds 88 convertible. "To bad he needed to do some business, he likes baseball," Bernie said.
"He went to San Diego." She flipped Bernie the keys as they reached the car. "He should be back late tonight or tomorrow. You guys can catch another game."
As Bernie pulled out of the stadium Rhonda said, "Stay on Sunset. There's a bar down the way with a great juke box."
They ended up in a decent sized establishment with a billboard that advertised live music on the weekends, but this was Wednesday. They took a seat at a small table near the juke. There were three other patrons at the bar who looked like they were playing hooky from factory jobs. Rhonda and Bernie ordered beers and five bucks worth of change.
She went over to play some tunes while he watched her. It was a sight worth seeing for any heterosexual male. She wore bellbottom jeans that looked like she'd painted them on, old cowboy boots and a white blouse over a top from some Frederick's lingerie. She pumped eight quarters into the machine then bent at the waist and leaned on the juke to read the song titles. Wilson Picket began to sing Midnight Hour and Rhonda began to move her hips from side to side as she made her additional selections. When she was done she stood and stretched her arms out to him. "Hey, GI when's the last time you danced with a white woman?"
Bernie shook his head and took a sip from his long neck Schlitz. She waved her hands at him to follow her. He stood. She grabbed his hand and pranced out to the dance floor in time to the tambourine. They were half way through Heard It Through the Grapevine by Marvin Gaye when four construction workers rumbled through the door and up to the bar. Rhonda and Bernie relaxed as they danced, clutched together to Otis Redding while he was Sittin' On the Dock of the Bay as the new patrons placed their orders.
When Proud Mary came up Bernie said, "We'll skip this one." Rhonda put her hands on her hips and gave him a hard look. "I heard this song way too often in 'Nam."
As he turned back toward the table one of the guys at the bar spoke, "If the lady wants to dance, I'll dance with her."
"No thanks," Rhonda said. "I'll sit this one out."
The would-be dancer walked toward them in his worn jeans and dusty work boots. His arms bulged from a faded plaid shirt where the sleeves had been ripped off. He was big, maybe a head taller than Bernie and thirty pounds heavier. "Hey, sweet thing, I'm a great dancer."
"He is," said an even bigger man from the bar.
The dancer planted his feet and did a hip roll that started at his ankles and moved all the way up to his head.
Bernie sighed and turned toward the would-be dancer. "She doesn't care to just now."
"Hey, Jake, she's a great dancer," came a third voice from the bar. "I've seen her dance at that club by the airport. You know, The Excelsior. She's got some moves that will keep you stiff for a week."
Jake nodded once then walked right up to Bernie's shoe tips and tipped his battered, white hardhat to the back of his head. "I was talkin' to the lady, asshole."
Rhonda put a hand on the construction worker's chest. "Hey, hey, look, take you hat off and we'll dance."
She was being the brave girl, trying to keep the peace. Bernie got a feeling it wasn't going to go that way. He was ten days out of the rice paddies of the Mekong Delta and he wasn't about to take any shit.
The would-be dancer set his scarred hardhat on a table and followed Rhonda as she walked back to the dance floor.
"Jake, maybe you can help her strip off the way she does at her job."
Jake kept his eyes locked on hers and fingered the collar of her shirt. "Maybe."
Rhonda's smile stiffened. Bernie picked up the hard plastic cap by the brim and as Jake turned his head back to say something smart, Bernie hit him with it using a big roundhouse right that began down at the knees and ended at the tip of Jake's chin. The construction worker's eyes rolled back and he went down like a cut sequoia.
In the silence the juke sang, "Rollin', rollin', rollin' on the river."
The dancer's three buddies were off their bar stools in a flash and headed toward Bernie. He charged and caught the biggest one in the knee with another swing of the hardhat. The guy bellowed and went down. The last two stopped in their tracks.
They danced around one of the little tables as the bartender called the cops. Bernie's attackers circled with their backs to Rhonda. With care and speed she swept up a folding chair and blasted the largest of the pair in the back. He dove to take a mouthful of floor while she lost her balance and took a seat a few feet behind him. The remaining construction worker looked over at his buddies sprawled on the hardwood. Bernie stepped around the table and nailed the remaining guy in the left kidney. The wind went out of him as he dropped to his hands and knees.
Rhonda jumped to her feet and led Bernie out the door at a full sprint. "You mother fuckers!" followed them out the door. While he dug the keys from his jeans, he caught her standing next to the panel truck in which their opponents had arrived.
"Come on!" he yelled.
She pulled a small knife from her skin-tight jeans and plunged the blade into the right rear tire.
"Shit, hurry!"
Rhonda trotted up to the passenger door as he backed the Olds out of the parking space. When her butt hit the seat he gave the gas to the big V-8 and laid rubber out onto Sunset Boulevard.
She threw her head back and laughed while she pounded her hands on the dash. "Eeoow!"
He shook his head as he gunned it for the nearest freeway ramp. "Son-of-a-bitch, you are one dangerous woman."
"But, I'm worth it."
"I'm glad you think so." A little voice in the back of his head agreed with her.
In the red glow of the afternoon smog, they cruised the LA freeways with the top down and the radio blasting until they reached the place Ryan and Rhonda shared in the Hollywood Hills.
At the house, Rhonda and Bernie sat silently in the car and decompressed for a few minutes.
"What are you smiling about?" she asked.
"I was just thinking about the time you ripped into that kid who was torturing the dog on the Parkway." He looked at her. "You were a maniac."
She smiled and nodded.
"How old were we, eleven, twelve?"
She opened the car door and stepped out. "Thirteen, I moved to LA the next summer."
He sat in the car until she was inside. They were buddies then. He would have liked it if the relationship had been more. When her family moved back to Milwaukee four years later she acted as if those times never existed. Ah well, except for that one month in the summer between high school and college. Best not to get into that just yet.
Inside, Bernie went to the fridge for some beers while she hit the button on the blinking answering machine.
It was Ryan. "Hey, Rhonda, I've got to go to TJ for a day. Call ya tomorrow." The machine continues, "Don't let Bernie get bored."
Bernie stood in the open refrigerator door with a long neck in each hand when she walked into his arms and kissed him. She ran her hands under his T-shirt and up his back as her tongue searched his mouth. He clamped his arms around her and crushed her to him. She didn't wear perfume, but her scent gave his brain a 10,000 watt jolt. It was all he could do to put the bottles on the counter. His resolution was out the window, but boredom would not be an issue.
"God, you smell good," he said.
"Just soap and water."
"And, Rhonda," he whispered into her neck.
He lurched backward as she pulled down his pants. "What about ... "
"Shh... " She put her hand on his mouth as they stumbled toward the deck at the back of the house. It was high on a hill out of anyone's view. She must have felt his frown under her fingers.
"It's private. I sunbathe here all the time."
By the time she slid open the door, they were working hard on each other's principal erogenous zones.
He climbed on the chaise. "Uh! Slower Rhonda."
"Sure, Bernie." She smiled and put her head in his lap to redouble her efforts for the result she clearly wanted.
At seven the next morning Bernie stood in the kitchen drinking orange juice and enjoying a great view of smog wrapped LA when the phone rang. It was Ryan. Bernie coughed his OJ on the kitchen floor.
"You okay?" Ryan asked.
"Sure, just can't breathe and swallow at the same time." The danger in what he and Rhonda did began to take hold of him.
"Yeah, know exactly what you mean." He sounded drunk. "I need a favor."
"Sure."
"Two guys are gonna stop by the club and pickup a package. Could you go there and make sure they get it?"
"Yeah."
"Rhonda has keys." Then he told Bernie where to find the box. "They'll be there at six. Make sure they get it."
"No problem."
"Hey, you okay? You sound different."
Crap. "Oh, yeah, hangover, little too much tequila last night."
"Know how that goes. Drink lots of water. Anyway, I'm trusting you now. It's important that you put it in their hands."
Bernie returned to the bedroom in a daze. Ryan must know he'd slept with Rhonda. He must have heard the fear in Bernie's voice. Odd. Fear, but no doubt or shame.
The room smelled like it was freshly painted with lust. Rhonda laid on her right side in the crumpled sheets of his bed, her smooth back and taught thigh exposed. "Who was that?" she asked without opening an eye.
He dropped his shorts and spooned up behind her. "Salesman," he replied not wanting to break the mood.
She shifted to bring them closer together. He slipped inside her.
"Oh, yes, mmm," she sighed. She moved her hips and sucked in a breath. Satisfied with the fit, she began a slow rotation of her hips. She reached her arm over her shoulder and pulled his head into her neck. "Do me good, Bernie."
He kissed her as the pleasant irritation in his groin built. He forgot about his brother and helped them get what they were after.
Later in the shower she said, "That was Ryan on the phone. What'd he want?"
He told her.
As she handed him a towel she said, "I've got to do some costume repairs for tonight's show. I'll go, too."
"Fine."
"Leave at eleven. Get there about noon."
They did.
Rhonda and Bernie were the only ones at The Excelsior in the early afternoon. The temperature was rising so fast he could smell the asphalt of the parking lot as they entered the cool interior of the club.
"Better find that package first," she said as she went off to the dressing room.
He nodded and found it right where Ryan said, in that matchbox of an office. Rhonda came in as Bernie put the banker's box on the desk.
"That's it, huh?"
"Yup."
"Good, now you can get something out of the car for me."
They went to the shady side of the gentlemen's club where they parked the Olds.
"It's in the trunk," she said.
He opened it, but didn't see anything.
"Way in the back."
He leaned in and saw an envelope stuck in a corner. Bernie crawled in and she slammed the lid on him.
"Hey ... not funny."
The car started.
"Rhonda!"
He gave up screaming as the trip wore on. The ride led to the truck stop in the desert where she slapped his face and tossed him the car keys. The Olds was out of gas, but in less than an hour he was back on the road to LA to find out what went wrong.
The Excelsior's sign was out and two squads sat in the parking lot as Bernie cruised by. No sense hanging around. He drove back to Ryan's house to find more cops and yellow tape. At that point he took Rhonda's advice and headed back to Chicago and law school at Northwestern.
When Bernie passed through Durango, the newspaper told the story on page seven. Seems his brother was doing some money laundering and drug smuggling when the feds closed in. Rhonda must have known something, but he couldn't prove it so he kept his mouth shut. What was he supposed to say anyway? He'd been screwing his brother's wife and she saved his ass. There was a debt in there someplace, but he wasn't sure who would collect.
He went back to see Ryan once or twice, but never ran into Rhonda. Ryan knew somebody tipped the feds off about the money or the drugs, but he didn't know who. Bernie bought the Olds to help pay Ryan's lawyers, and kept his own head down at school.
It was dark. Where was he? "Oh God," Bernie groaned as he came tossing out of an erratic sleep. A hand touched his right shoulder and Rhonda said, "What's the matter?" her voice full of sleep.
Oh yeah, the Samoan, the box, the fights, the pain. It came back through the fog. He put a hand to his head. "Everything hurts." His muscles ached. His head pounded.
"Hold on, hold on. I've got something," she said as she fumbled in the dark.
"Wait, I've gotta take a leak."
She helped him out of bed and into the john. He gritted his teeth at the burning in his dick as he pissed blood. He remembered his fight with Rudolph. The light in the hall made his eyeballs ache. It was everything they could do to get him back to the bed.
He opened a lid to see her silhouette in the doorway. Some water ran as he doubled up in the bed. The roaring in his head distracted him until she pushed a three-quarters filled glass of water into his hand.
"Take these." She slipped two capsules into his hand.
"What are they?" he asked.
"Pain killers."
"Where'd you get'em?"
"A doctor gave them to me when I injured myself in LA."
He sat up long enough to swallow the capsules, hand her the glass then fell back on his pillow. He rolled into a fetal position and hoped her stuff would kick in. She got into bed and slid up behind him. He shook with the pain as she held on. Just before the drugs took effect, he realized they were naked. Seconds later he slept.
Bernie remembered waking up during the daylight and getting more pills. She told him she was going out as he slipped back under. Another time at night he was able to make his way to the john and back. She sat on the bed and stared at him.
"I could have helped."
"It's been a long time since a woman got me out of bed to take a whizz. Until yesterday, that is." He grinned. "I gotta get back on my own with that."
"How are you feeling?"
"Better, but tell the NFL I won't be playing this weekend."
She smiled in the oversized T-shirt she wore.
"How about some more of those pills?"
"Those things can hook you. I've got something different." She bent and dug in a paper bag on the floor. She handed him four.
"What are these for?"
"They'll take the inflammation down."
He swallowed them. "I've got more inflammation than four lousy pills can handle."
"Shut up, and get in bed."
She held him until he slept. He heard her go out when it was light, but he dozed off again. He woke later feeling crappy, but mobile.
Knickerbocker Smith raised his right hand to touch the wound and a bolt of pain shot down his back and up his arm from where he'd been slugged in the kidneys. "Awww," he groaned and dropped his head, hitting the spigot on the sink. He collapsed on the turquoise tile floor. "God damn." Who the hell was that mad man with Rhonda? What a maniac. There was payback coming.
In his room at the Howard Johnson's, Nick examined his reflection in the mirror. The condensation from the hot water in the sink gave him a foggy appearance, which was exactly how he felt. The triangular scab on his forehead made him look like an extra in an Ed Burns movie. Hmm, maybe he could use that in his next one reeler. Anyway, it stung like a son-of-a-bitch.
The trail from the bathroom to his bed seemed long and arduous. He popped two pills from a glass bottle and stretched out. Thank god for Mexican pharmacists. While his pain subsided and sleep crept in, he realized that both he and Rhonda knew that the box was in the control of that degenerate old man in the apartment. That was good news.
The hot water rolled over Bernie's aching head, down his bruised shoulders and over his scrapped knuckles into the enameled tub. The familiar carbolic fragrance of Lifebuoy soap reassured him. The water felt good, but he was still sore as hell. The phone in the bedroom rang.
While toweling off, he walked to the phone and jammed his foot on a leg of the bed. "God Damn It!" He grabbed his right toes and fell on the bed as the phone stopped jangling. He didn't care who called as he rubbed the offended body parts. The phone rang again.
"What the hell do you want?" he answered.
"Good afternoon to you too, Sunshine," Rhonda said.
"Oh ... sorry. Things aren't going well right now. I'm still pretty messed up." He was irritated that she wasn't with him.
"Well, take some aspirin and get over here. Things are popping."
Things that let him lie quietly in his bed were at the top of his list. Things that popped weren't. "Like what?"
"Leon and Stan are back at the apartment."
That was interesting. "Where are you?"
"I'm at the pay phone next to the tennis courts at Hart Park," she said.
He sighed. "Give me a couple'a minutes to throw-up and I'll be on my way."
Forty-five minutes later he staggered out of his Olds 88 and up to a large elm tree where she stood with a pair of binoculars. She wore jeans, a Peter Max T-shirt, and some black, Converse hi-tops. She smelled spectacular. He didn't know what that fragrance was, but he loved it. No attempt had been made to cover the bruise that ran up the left side of her face from her jaw to just under her eye or the one on her upper right arm.
He reached up slowly to touch her face. She leaned away from him. "Bet that hurts," he said.
"Bet you're right." She straightened up and blocked his hand. "Let's get to work."
Bernie didn't have the energy to butter her up just then. "What's going on?"
With care she put the glasses up to her face. "Someone who looks like the dead guy from Nana's storage locker rolled up in that piece-of-shit Chevy. He went inside just before I called you. About ten minutes ago he and the old guy came out and got our box out of the trunk." She took the glasses down. "You should have seen it." She began to laugh then cut herself short, winced and clutched her ribs. "Oh, nuts!" She smiled. "Looked like something out of the Three Stooges. Anyway, they're inside."
Rhonda and Bernie parked the Olds in front of the building, then made their way up the stairs to 2A. From the screaming match going on inside, they need not have cared about what little stealth they used. The hall still smelled of mildew and garlic. The door was back up, but looked unconvincing.
"What do you mean you don't have any tools?" Stan asked.
"What do you think this place is a fucking machine shop?" Leon replied.
"I'll shoot the lock off."
"That pea shooter won't do shit."
"Then what do you suggest?"
"Go out and get some tools."
"Right, and while I'm gone, you take the box and run."
"Don't you trust your own dad?"
"No, you old fuck. You sent Ollie over to the storage yard and look what happened to him."
"If you think I had anything to do with him getting croaked, you're dumber than a bucket of turds."
"Well, I'm smart enough not to leave you here alone with this box."
"Screw off, we'll go together."
Bernie pulled Rhonda to the side of the door away from the stairway. Adrenalin began to mask his pain. Leon limped out of the door then stopped and turned back. Either he hadn't changed from the faded green T-shirt and cutoff green shorts he wore yesterday or he owned a matching set. Leon saw the couple in the hall and stopped. When Stan stepped out Bernie pushed him back into the room and pulled the door closed.
"Gun!" the old guy said and made a break toward the stairs.
Leon bolted down the hall with Rhonda in hot pursuit. He was at the top of the stairs when she tackled him around the ankles. They went down. He struggled to get away. "Let me go!"
The harder the old man struggled the tighter Rhonda held on. He pulled one foot free and suddenly he was standing over her. She lay there on the carpet holding a prosthetic left leg while the old fart hopped down the stairs.
Leon was good at getting around without his false leg and made it to the bottom as Rhonda started her run from the second floor. She carried the leg. He made it out the door and onto the stoop before she tackled him around the midsection. The breath went out of him as they hit the sidewalk and the prostheses rolled out on the lawn.
"Now stay down!" she gasped.
As she sat on top of the geezer and caught her breath, she saw a man run north from behind the building.
"Le' go," the geezer said as Rhonda pulled him to his foot.
"Shut up, you coot!" She grabbed her quarry's wrist and threw on a come-a-long hold she had picked up from an admiring bouncer in LA. Moments later she loaded the old man into the Oldsmobile, which was easy with the top down.
"My leg," the old man yelled from the back seat.
She tossed it in the front, then pealed out 72nd Street toward State.
Bernie yanked the door as Rhonda disappeared down the stairs. "Damn!" It was locked.
He rammed his shoulder into the door. The cheap wood resisted, but gave. He hit it again and it buckled. His shoulder screamed, so he kicked the door next to the lock and it gave way completely. Bernie pushed through the broken door.
Stan sat on the open windowsill with an olive green, metal box next to him and a tin can in his hand. He pushed the box out, threw the can at Bernie then jumped. From the window Bernie saw Stan picked himself off the soggy grass and high-tailed-it toward State Street with the steel box cradled in his arms.
Bernie picked up a tomato soup can from the counter and pitched it out the window at the fleeing man. He missed. Stan stopped, put the box down, gave Bernie the finger, then picked the box up and resumed his getaway. He looked too skinny in the yellowed wife-beater to carry the box very far, but he ran with determination, if not great speed. Rather than follow him directly, Bernie ran down the north stairs. Bursting out the back door, he saw the guy crossing the railroad tracks and gave pursuit through the high, wet grass.
Driving the Olds, Rhonda caught up to Bernie beside the supermarket parking lot on the other side of State Street. She genuflected a stop. "Get in."
He leapt over the door and into the passenger seat. "Turn left."
Stan held the steel box as he trotted west on St. Charles at an ever slower pace. He picked it up in response to the squeal of the 88's tires when Rhonda made the corner. She pulled the car level with Stan just as he was about to turn into a yard. Bernie swung Leon's prosthetic leg and knocked Stan flat. The car screeched to a halt and the couple piled out to retrieve their quarry.
"Go, go!" Rhonda ran around the front of the car.
"What did you do to my son, you mother fuckers?" the one-legged geezer hollered from the backseat.
Stan lay panting on the sidewalk, exhausted from his run, but conscious. He had an odor about him that reminded Bernie of a T-shirt Rick DeGraves had worn to football practice for three months without washing it. They hoisted Stan to his feet and dragged him to the back of the car. Bernie opened the trunk and tossed him in.
"You do that like you've practiced," Rhonda said.
Bernie took a deep breath and straightened up. "Just from the inside."
She smiled. "So you remember."
He walked back to the place where Stan dropped the steel box. As Bernie picked it up and turned toward the car, a scratchy female voice said, "Hey, what's going on?"
He looked up at an old woman with very boney knees in blue slippers and a short house coat. He locked eyes with her. "He stole the poor box from St. Jude's."
"Then, screw the bastard," she said around the cigarette that dangled from the left side of her mouth.
Back in the car, Rhonda asked, "What are we going to do with these guys?"
"Back to the apartment," Bernie said.
Moments later she dragged Leon from the car to a seat on the curb. Bernie opened the trunk to find his prisoner pointing a small automatic pistol at him.
"Back up," Stan said.
As the man knelt in the truck, Bernie slammed the lid. Stan collapsed and the pistol clattered to the pavement. Bernie glanced at Rhonda. "Don't want to make that mistake again." Bernie stuck the gun in the back pocket of his jeans. They dragged Stan out of the trunk and tossed him on the grass next to his one legged father.
Rhonda looked at the cataleptic wrecks. "They really do look like the guy we found in the storage shed."
Bernie bent down to take a close look. Panting he turned to the one-legged geezer. "There's a family resemblance."
"He's my son, Stan," the geezer said.
"And, the other ...?"
"His twin."
Bernie stood. "Stan and Ollie?"
The unshaven amputee raised himself on his elbows. "What can I say, my wife liked a good laugh."
"I bet she did," Rhonda said. "Let's get outta here."
"Where you goin' with that box?" he asked.
"None of your damn business." She pulled away from the curb.
"Hey, my leg!"
Bernie tossed it out of the car as they turned the corner from 72nd onto Chestnut.
Nick sat in his rented Matador coupe lurking from the supermarket parking lot. He watched Stan pass by with the box and realized it was the guy from yesterday in the muddy lot. The chump looked like he was going to bust a blood vessel right in front of Nick. El Chumpo would make better time if he dropped the box, but that was obviously not his intent.
A loud scraping sound caused Nick to look up at the intersection. An Olds 88 convertible raced north up Chestnut from the intersection. The driver looked like his Rhonda. It was Rhonda, hellcat granddaughter of old lady Lapinski. She had two passengers. The old man from the altercation in the apartment sat in the backseat, with her escort from yesterday in the front. Nick adjusted his sunglasses. This was interesting. The runner staggered out of sight as the car made the turn on squealing tires.
Nick sat for a few minutes before deciding to cruise the neighborhood to see if he could get a hint of what was going on. Suddenly, the Olds came past again and turned right toward the apartment building. Rhonda was going slowly enough now that the back end did not scrape as it crossed the railroad tracks.
It took half an hour for the two men to get into the apartment building, with one being a gimp and both of them hollering. Inside the building, Nick found the right apartment just by listening to the men yell at each other. He took a place next to their broken door and began to eavesdrop.
"Why'd you hollered gun, you coot?"
"It got your attention without a lot of stupid questions."
Someone lit a cigarette with a kitchen match. "He didn't have a gun."
"How the hell do you know?"
"He threw a can of soup at me."
"Well then, why the hell did you run? You had the gun. You can't run for shit, smokin' like you do?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Well, fuckin' eh, now they have the box."
"We just gotta figger a way to get it back. You sure that cellmate of yours said there was gold in there."
"Not just gold, but rare gold coins."
At that point the conversation stopped. Nick thought it was time to make a move. He wanted to know more so he stepped into the vacant doorway. Stan and Leon sat at the kitchen table. At the sight of the two losers, he considered dropping the entire thing, but just for the briefest moment. "Hi boys, I see you're having an exciting day. It appears you have a small problem."
The older, one-legger spoke first. "Beat it, asshole."
Without straining his smile, Nick walked in and shot his right fist into the groin of the younger man sending him to the floor where he wet himself and lay in a semiconscious state. It was against Nick's principles, such as they were, to abuse the infirmed, but these guys talked real money.
"You think I can help now, cracker?" Nick asked.
"Have a seat," Leon said.
Nick sat in one of the metal chairs. "Okay, pop, tell me the story."
Leon rubbed the white stubble on his boney chin. "Could you get me a beer from the fridge?"
Nick got up and opened the old refrigerator. A cauliflower lay browning next to a six pack. He held his breath and brought out two cans of Old Milwaukee. He gave one to Leon, then looked around for something to wipe the spots off the top of the other. Unable to find anything cleaner than the top of the can, Nick left it unopened on the table.
The gimp took a gulp of beer and made introductions. "You a cop?"
Given his short stature, no one ever accused Nick of that before. "What's it to ya?"
Stan gulped his beer. "We haven't broken any laws."
"But, you'd like to, wouldn't you?"
"Depends."
"On what?"
"If there's any money in it."
Nick smiled. "Is there?"
"I think so."
"Tell me more."
Leon pointed to a cupboard over the refrigerator. "There are some chips in there."
Nick brought the crumpled bag to the table. Leon stuck a handful in his mouth followed by a slug of beer. He offered the open bag to Nick, who held up his right hand to decline.
Leon swallowed. "Okay, this has to be just between us."
"Sure."
"No really, there are millions to be made here."
"What's the down side?"
Leon took another chip. "We could end up dead or in prison for the rest of our lives."
"How many millions are we talking about?"
"Four, maybe five."
"Bullshit."
"Well, one maybe two."
Nick squirmed in his chair and leaned back. He hated relying on these two idiots for anything even if there was potential for easy money, but with Lucerio breathing down his neck he needed cash. "Maybe you better give me the whole story."
"I'm gonna need another beer," Leon said.
Nick pushed the unopened can across the table.
"Rhonda's grandfather ..."
"That's the corpse they found in old lady Lapinski's garden."
"What?" Leon rubbed his greasy fingers across his dirty blue T-shirt. "No shit?"
"No shit."
"Hmm ... No, I don't think so." He drank more beer. "Doesn't sound right. Anyway, Rhonda's grandfather was a cell mate of mine in Joliet years back. He got crossways with some PRs down there. The night before he was going to be released on parole they were gonna shiv him. 'Cause I worked in the administrative offices. I heard about it and got him out a day early. Saved his no-good ass." Leon took a sip of Old Milwaukee. "Two months later I'm out and I look him up. He's in Waukegan working at some carwash. We go out and celebrate. He knows I saved his boney butt, so he gets all sloppy and grateful. He's gonna cut me in on the deal of the century."
Stan moaned from the floor, but didn't move.
Bernie's shoulder hurt. Someone shook his shoulder.
"Wake up. Are you okay?" Rhonda asked.
He groaned.
"Come on. Get up." Rhonda knelt over him as he opened his eyes. "Are you okay?"
It was cool where he was and not that uncomfortable. He gave some consideration to staying put. He twisted his head to the left and found that he lay on his back on his kitchen floor. The sun shone in the window. It must be afternoon. He wondered which day.
"Say something."
"Where is it?" he asked.
She pointed down at his feet. He propped himself up on his elbows to check. For the first time he took a good look at the box they expended such effort to recover. It was about a foot and a half high and eight inches wide. Painted olive drab, the worn yellow lettering stenciled on the side read, U. S. Army 50 CAL. A rusty chain went round its width and through a collapsible metal handle. The lid was held in place by a latch on the front.
"You look like crap," she said.
Between the fight with Rudolph and chasing down Stan and Leon, all his reserves were spent. He recalled that he let Rhonda drive to his place because the shakes had set in on him. They had dragged the metal box out of the Olds 88 and into his house. Between then and now everything else was black.
He leaned toward her and squinted at her face. "You've got a knot on the side of your face the size of a golf ball."
She touched it and winced.
They were both covered with dirt and sweat. She had dried blood on her right knee and a grass stain on the other. A wave of exhaustion swept over Bernie and he closed his eyes. "Aw shit."
She touched his forehead. "Don't you pass out again."
He got to his hands and knees and stopped.
"On second thought, you need to rest."
"A shower should bring me around," he lied. A two day nap would have been better, but the shower would have to do. What he really needed was to keep an eye on her.
She smelled her right armpit. "Yeah, a shower would do both of us good. But, then right to bed for you."
"What about the box?"
"I'm not going to run away with it. Get moving."
He stood, staggered to the back door and locked it. "No intruders." He left a trail of clothing as he made his way to the bathroom.
"Hey," Rhonda croaked.
"What?"
"You got any tools?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"In the kitchen, but wait till I get out before you start on that thing. Okay?" The pain of moving, plus his exhaustion, had knocked all the curiosity right out of him.
"Okay," she said.
The hot water of the shower splashed down on his aching neck and shoulders. "Oh, God this is good!" He sat in the tub, leaned his head against the tile and dozed.
The first shot didn't register, but he was awake and running into the kitchen at the sound of the second. Rhonda stood over Nana's box with his .45 automatic. The air smelled of burnt gunpowder as she took aim again.
"Stop!"
She turned at the waist toward his voice. "Sharp dresser."
"What are you doing?"
"Opening the box."
"I thought you were going to wait."
She swayed then regained her balance. "It's Nana's box. I'm curious."
Her eyes weren't focused on anything in particular. He shook his head. "Couldn't you use a hammer or something?"
"I suppose." She showed him the gun. "But, this was in the tool drawer and it seemed more efficient."
"Now I have two bullets in my floor."
She looked down. "Yup, but they'll buff out."
He took a good look at her face. It sagged with fatigue. "Put that down. You're as out of it as I am."
She laid the pistol on the counter. The realization that he was wet and naked in a room with a woman holding a gun caused certain fantasy-based hormonal reactions to express themselves. He looked around for something to cover himself and grabbed a dish towel from the counter.
Someone buzzed the bell at the back door. He looked at Rhonda and put his right index finger to his lips. Whoever was there knocked, waited, and then pounded on the door.
"Bernie, are you in there?" his next door neighbor called.
He shrugged at Rhonda. "Yes, yes Mrs. Mauer I'm in here."
"You okay?" she asked.
"Sure, why do you ask?"
"Didn't you hear that?"
He came close to the door. "Hear what?"
"Sounded like shots."
"No, no I was asleep on the couch. You woke me up."
"You didn't hear it?"
"Nope."
"Okay," she said without much conviction.
He chanced a look out a window and saw Mrs. Mauer glancing up and down the alley as she went back to her house.
Rhonda shrugged in response to his sour expression. He took another look out on the porch to check if his neighbor was hanging around on the alley. She wasn't. "Well, did you get it open?" he asked Rhonda.
"Yes." A tarnished brass lock lay broken on the floor. Rhonda straddled the container and strained against the latch to no effect. She slumped on the floor next to their prize. "You try."
Bernie put his knee on the top and pulled at the latch with some movement. He slid off and sat on the floor.
"Try again," she encouraged.
He examined the box. The lid had a cracking rubber gasket and the latch was rusty. "Three-in-one," he said and opened a lower cabinet door. Rhonda steadied herself and took aim at the box once more.
"No!"
She turned her head toward him. Her eyes were half closed.
"That won't work." He held up an oil. "This will."
She relaxed as he came over and oiled the latch.
"This could take awhile. Why don't you take a shower? I'll sit with the baby."
Rhonda looked at the box, then at him, then at her reflection in the mirror on the wall.
"For the moment the box is stronger than both of us," he said.
"Okay, join me?" It seemed like the polite thing to say.
He smiled. "It's a terrific thought, but I feel like I've just been put through a meat grinder."
She extended her lower lip for dramatic impact.
"A rain check? I'd hate to start something I couldn't finish." Ha, she didn't trust him not to run with the box. "You're crazy, Rhonda," he laughed. "I haven't got the strength to steal this thing."
She winked and walked toward the bath with a bounce off the kitchen doorjamb as she went.
Bernie twitched under the weight of her hand. Rhonda touched him, lightly running her fingertips over the purple and blue bruises on his chest. He was dressed in some blue and white striped boxers and lay half asleep on the bed.
While toweling her hair Rhonda whispered, "Oh, Bernie." She selected a blue and yellow rugby shirt from his closet. The green box and the oil can stood on some newspaper next to him. She took a tug at the latch which seemed to resist as mightily as before then sat next to him.
She got off the bed and applied another helping of oil to the latch, tossed her wet towel on the floor and crawled in next to him. He moved into her and fell back into a stupor. She began to snake a hand along his stomach and under the elastic of his boxers and brushed one of the bruises.
"Yeow! Shit," he yelped.
"Bad idea." She settled in to nap.
Rhonda sat in the dark on Bernie's couch. She looked out the bay window at the silent street and pulled a green blanket around her. The white glow of the few lights on the neighborhood street cast soft shadows among the parked cars. She was back in Milwaukee. How the hell did she get here? It was complicated. No, it was simple. Her roots, her family, or what was left of it, was here. Shit, once again, she'd fought guys on the banks of the Menomonee River with Bernie.
A car door slammed somewhere out in the night and she leaned forward to see who it was. A dog barked farther off.
She rested her chin on the back of the couch. "Mr. Keagan, what am I going to do with you?" She'd known him most of her life. He should just be a good friend, a surrogate brother, but he was more.
Each time she never meant to have sex with him, but there was something about the way she felt when she was with him. Though the sex was excellent, it wasn't the sex,
"Damn!" she exhaled. Was it that intense? It shouldn't be. That wasn't the plan. Shit, she never expected to run into him again after LA. How much betrayal can one relationship stand? Life will come up out of nowhere and roll over you. She felt a deep need to be with Bernie.
She stood and turned toward the stairs, then saw the man in the car. He was across the street. It wasn't the man, it was the glow from the tip of his cigarette. Was he watching this house? She got down on her hands and knees and crawled to the window to look out. Couldn't tell. Still, on her way upstairs, she went into the kitchen and got the pistol out of the drawer.
Hours later he emerged from the bathroom with a paper cup in hand. The bedroom was dark. He threw three brown pills in his mouth and washed them down.
She rolled on her stomach and asked, "How ya doin'?"
"Near death."
"What'd ya take?"
"Ah ... coated aspirin." He sat on the bed.
"Could I have some?"
He stepped back into the bath and returned with a medium-sized glass bottle. She poured four in her hand then washed them down with his glass of water. He flopped back in bed as she put the bottle and the glass on the night stand. She stroked his shoulder as he slept.
Later he said, "I suppose we should see how our green friend is doing." He stood, put his knee on the lid and both hands on the lever. He pulled. The latch creaked and moved. "More oil!"
With painful effort she squatted next to the box, oilcan in hand. She squirted lubricant in the latch and it moved some more.
With a screech and a twang the latch released. Bernie fell back on the bed. Rhonda grabbed the latch and pulled. The gasket ripped apart as the lid opened. They peered inside. Something was wrapped in an old Army blanket. They tipped the metal box on its side and slid the contents on the floor. When they unwrapped it, they found another box made of a dark, shiny wood. Rhonda knelt next to him as he opened the lid. A discolored felt cloth lay on top of the contents. She pulled it back. The information came in, but their exhausted minds took extra time to process it.
There was a tray with six rows of coins, each in a little translucent paper envelope. One by one they began to remove the coins from the container and examine them. Most were U.S.. Fourteen were foreign. Nine were gold, including a 1932 Double Eagle. With the fifty-six coins laid out on the floor, the green felt tray in the wooden box was empty. They leaned back against the bed.
"So," he said.
"Exactly." Rhonda knelt over the box. The shirt she wore rode-up giving Bernie a view of the bottom third of her bare glutes. "What do you think they're worth?"
His lewd interests in her must mean that he felt better. "Priceless," he said.
"You think so?"
He pulled his mind back to numismatic concerns. "Difficult to tell with coins."
"It should be easy to check out."
He looked at the Baby Ben on his night stand, eight thirteen. "But, not until morning."
She sat down cross-legged next to him. "Shit."
He put his left arm around her slowly so that he could stand the pain in his shoulder as he made his move. "You hungry?"
She twisted her face to his. "Sure, what do you want to eat?"
"Well, at least we have to show Nana," Rhonda said.
Morning light shone around the edges of the window shade and into Bernie's eyes. "Sure, call her first."
While she called her grandmother, Bernie found the simple act of dressing to be a grueling experience. Muscles he had no idea existed complained at every casual twist. The effort of pulling a Marquette University T-shirt over his head caused him to sit down on the bed to catch his breath. He hoped they were muscles and not dislocated ribs or something like that.
Rhonda hung up the phone. "How ya' doin'?"
"Just slow. Everything aches."
"That's good."
"What's good about it?"
"Aches are okay. It's the sharp pains that tell you there's a big problem."
He concentrated on slipping into a pair of jeans while she bounced into the bathroom singing about "Long beautiful hair - Flyin', Streamin', Gleamin', Flaxin', Waxin'." When she came out he decided that he could slip on a pair of sandals much more comfortably that tying his shoes.
Ponytailed in cutoffs and his rugby shirt, Rhonda strolled across the bedroom. "Let's go."
"You gather the coins and put them back in the box." He stood with a wince. "I'll meet you at the front door."
She touched his right shoulder. "Sure you can do this?"
"Yeah, I'll make it. Things should work better as I move around."
She nodded and knelt to collect the treasure.
He thought she looked very good. Maybe better than that, but, he should keep his mind on the treasure he had fought four men to recover. This was all confusing to him. "Hey, what'd Nana say?"
"Not much. I just told her that we were coming over with a surprise. She said it better be something important. If not, I was wasting a perfectly good evening just to keep company with an old lady when I should be jumping your bones."
"She said that?" He was heartened by Nana's good will.
"Not exactly, more like screwing each others brains out."
Well, a pleasant thought, but he could hardly walk, let alone go another round with Rhonda's athletic ability and varied tastes. Though Nana could be tight fisted with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, he always liked her. He restarted his journey to the front door and tried to think of something clever to say. Nothing came so he said, "Hmm." He looked at the pistol on the night stand.
Rhonda picked up the coin case. "You think we need that?"
He looked closely at the .45 automatic. "With the way I moving I'd probably shoot myself in the foot." He knew she could have easily outrun him. The only way he could have stopped her would have been to shoot her. He just wasn't going to do something like that to Rhonda and left the gun where it was.
Nana whistled, "Sweet Jesus and his Blessed Mother." The collection was spread out on the kitchen table. The old lady picked up a twenty dollar gold piece from 1929. "And, this was buried in my basement all along?"
"Yup," Rhonda said. "It's all yours."
Nana put the coin back. "How much do you think its worth?"
"We need to get it appraised," Bernie said. "I'll talk with Sam in the morning."
Nana picked up another coin. Sam might be family, but she saw no reason to tempt him. "No need to show him the entire thing. Five or six should due for starters."
"Good thought," Bernie said.
They sat there for an hour while Nana examined every piece of her treasure. When she looked at the last one she turned to him. "Take them back to your place for tonight and then find a safe place tomorrow."
"You sure?" he asked.
She nodded. "Too many of the wrong people know about this house."
"What's that noise?"
Bernie half rolled over, but couldn't open his eyes. "Someone's ringing the doorbell."
Rhonda shifted in bed. "Go tell'em to stop."
"You do it."
"It's your house. You're the man."
He rolled onto his back. "You can be the man."
"That's not what you wanted last night."
"'Want' and 'get' are two completely different things."
She hit him in his good shoulder.
"Uhn!" He sat up on the edge of the bed. "Go away!"
The ringing stopped and he flopped back on the bed letting his right arm fall back over his head. His left hand touched something warm and muscular that he knew instantly was Rhonda's thigh. With a twist of his head and shoulders and he rolled his eyes up until he saw her naked profile. Someone started banging on the door.
Without a move Rhonda said, "Bernie, tell them to go away."
He got up on his elbows. "Go ... the hell ... away!"
The pounding stopped. He smiled. The doorbell began ringing again and was immediately joined by the pounding. The phone rang.
He reached for the old black phone on the night stand. "Hello."
"Bernie, this is Maxine, next door. If you don't answer the God damn door this instant, I'm coming over there and castrate you with a rusty spoon." She hung up.
He put the receiver back in the cradle. His neighbor, Mrs. Mauer, might just do that. She was one to keep her promises.
"Alright!" he yelled. "I'm coming."
Rhonda rolled over on her back. "You're amazing." She put her hands behind her head. "Last night. Now this."
Bernie knew sarcasm and threw a pillow at her head. He also knew what was good for him and missed. "If it was that good for you, I hope I remember it someday." Life was exhausting, but he was getting used to the feeling of moving through it like he was swimming in pancake batter. The ringing resumed. He picked a pair of jeans from the closet doorknob and stumbled into them as he made his way to the front door. "I'm coming!" His image in the cheap mirror on the bedroom door stopped him. The bruises on his chest were fading to green and yellow from blue and purple.
He zipped his fly as he looked through the peephole. Rhonda's attorney and his boss, Sam, stood on the other side of the door. He barged through as Bernie cracked the door open.
Sam's tie was twisted to the side and the collar of his shirt was open. "What the hell have you gotten me into?" His complexion lacked its healthy color.
Bernie stumbled back. "Slow down, Sam, and remember I didn't want this job in the first place."
"Yeah, take it easy." Rhonda stood in the bedroom door holding a yellow bed sheet to her chest. "And, Bernie, you seemed to want to be involved plenty last night."
Bernie made a mental note. "Can this wait for a minute? I need to use the john." When he came out Sam was making coffee and Rhonda sat at his kitchen table wrapped in his sheet. "Okay, what's the problem?"
Sam plugged in the coffeepot. "Was that license plate number you gave me the real thing?"
"Yeah."
"You didn't misread it or transpose any numbers?"
"No, it's California GLH -- 1542." Bernie looked at Rhonda. "Right?"
"Yes."
"You're sure."
"Christ, I have the car if you want to see for yourself."
Sam banged the kitchen counter sharply with his fist. "Damn, I was afraid of that. You were always a good detail guy."
"What's the big deal?" Rhonda asked her cousin.
He rubbed his chin. "According to my guy at California DMV, that plate number doesn't exist. Never has!" He stopped and looked and the rainbow of bruises on the both of them. "Christ, you guys look like hell. Hope the sex was good."
Rhonda roared. Bernie sat and held his ribs as he tried to stifle his laugh.
After a combined one dozen cups of coffee, the three of them stood in the shade of a parking-ramp two blocks away and looked at the rear license plate of Rudolph's Caddy. Sam squatted down and touched the plate. "It's real, raised numbers, painted with a spray gun. Shit!"
"What are you driving at?" she asked.
Sam stood. "Nothing good." He walked around to the side of the car. "Authentic, un-recorded license plate means the feds."
"Which feds?" Bernie asked.
Sam opened the front passenger door. "Does it matter?"
Bernie and Rhonda didn't say anything.
"Did this guy, Rudolph, identify himself as a law enforcement officer?"
Rhonda walked up behind Sam. "No, never."
Sam took the few papers out of the glove box. "Open the trunk, Bernie."
He fished the keys out of his jeans and complied. "Showroom clean."
"Look under the spare."
He did and found a 9 mm Beretta along with a snub nose .38.
"What do you think, Sam?" Rhonda asked.
"Not good. Either of you ever do anything to piss off the CIA, NSA or anybody like that?"
Bernie looked at Rhonda. Working with her had always been a high reward, high risk proposition. Still, it was a rude awakening.
They walked back to Bernie's house to discuss the situation. Sam sat in the recliner. Rhonda grabbed a spot on the couch while the host brought six coins out from the bedroom and placed them on the coffee table. Sam picked one and examined it.
"Tell me about it," he said.
Rhonda did.
Sam waited until she finished, mostly because she was paying his bill. After a few moments to think he looked at Bernie. "What do you think?"
"From what I can see so far this entire episode is about an antique coin collection."
"How much do you think it's worth?" Rhonda asked.
Sam picked up another little envelope and held the coin up to the light. "Don't know. It needs to be appraised."
Rhonda stood and looked down into the street. "We want to have it done professionally."
"Somebody discrete." Bernie examined another coin.
"I've worked with a guy in Kenosha on this sort of thing. He should be okay. How many coins are we talking about?"
Bernie sat up slowly. "Couple a dozen."
"Do we leave them with this guy?" Rhonda asked
"You vouch for him, Sam?" Bernie asked.
Sam hesitated. "Sure, if I have to." He went to the desk and wrote on a piece of paper then handed it to Bernie.
He looked at the paper. "It's your brother, Milt?"
"Yeah."
Sam and his brother were talking again. That was news. "I'll give him a call."
Sam left.
As Bernie fell asleep on the couch Rhonda said, "I think Milt stole my First Communion money."
The librarian said that A Guide to United States Coins -- 1974 and Coins magazine were good sources to determine the value of their collection. Using a list of coins that Rhonda compiled, it took them half an hour to establish that the worth of the tray ran around $237,000. Rhonda and Bernie leaned back in the heavy wooden chairs to consider this information.
"Doesn't make sense," he said.
Rhonda looked at her notes and re-added the figures. "No, the number's right."
"Oh, I think the dollar amount is fine. I just don't think the entire thing makes sense."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's a significant amount of money, but it doesn't seem like enough for all the trouble everybody's going through."
"Such as?" Rhonda asked.
"The big guy."
"What?"
"Rudolph"
A "Shh!" came from the next library table over.
He nodded to Rhonda. "Let's go someplace where we can talk."
In the car she asked, "Where do you want to go?"
"There's a coffee shop on Downer that has great carrot cake."
As they drove she asked, "What's your problem with Rudolph?"
"I never thought of him as particularly bright or aggressive."
"He seemed belligerent enough to me."
Bernie turned onto a side street and parked in front of a row of 1930's apartment buildings. "He was ..." Rhonda furrowed her eyebrows at him as they got out of the Olds. "... inappropriate?" he said to finish the thought. They walked in the bright sun under the yellow leaves of the street side locust trees. "Okay, he drove a fed car." Bernie held the door to the shop open for her. "At any time did Rudolph ever strike you as a federal officer?"
"You think somebody put him up to it?" she asked.
"Yeah. And then we have two murders, Ollie Chubituski and Al Waldoch."
Bernie got his carrot cake and two coffees at the counter while Rhonda grabbed a table in the back. Before he could sit down she took the fork from his plate and carved a piece of cake for herself.
"Hey, I can get you your own piece."
"No, I just want a taste." She stuffed it in her mouth.
He sat and waited for his fork to be returned. "Then there's the two hundred and thirty-seven grand."
She swallowed and handed him his fork. "Yeah, I see what you're driving at. It doesn't seem like enough money." She used the little finger on her left hand to wipe a smear of cream cheese frosting from the corner of her mouth onto her tongue.
"If Rudolph was acting alone, it might be. People have killed for less. But, if he's just muscle there's probably more."
"You're right." She sipped her coffee while he ate his cake, then took the fork out of his hand. "That is good cake."
She cut herself another chunk as he reiterated. "I can get you your own piece."
"No, this is fine."
He was not winning the cake battle. He watched her eat two forksful while he finished his coffee. He stood to get a refill. "Can I get you more coffee?"
She nodded. When he completed his errand she said, "Let's see Sam's brother," and wiped her mouth with his napkin then stood.
Bernie stood. "Hold on, I'm still hungry."
"You had cake."
"You ate most of it."
She crossed her arms. "I did not."
This was a no-win situation. "Stay put. Take it easy. I'm getting more cake."
"You'll get fat," she muttered. Teasing him was fun, always had been. Leaning back in her chair she watched him buy another piece of cake at the counter and smiled.
He smiled as he paid the clerk. It was a game they'd played years ago. It used to be Oreos. Today it was cake. He always liked the game.
"Milt's" was a bar across the street from the American Motors plant in Kenosha near the Wisconsin-Illinois border. The tavern was a barn red building that had been a neighborhood grocery store back in the '20's. Rhonda stood next to the Oldsmobile. She raised her sunglasses slightly and squinted as she looked around the neighborhood while keeping a firm grip on a black briefcase.
Bernie took his broad lapeled suit coat from the backseat of his car, looked up at the sun in a cloudless sky and returned it. He looked at Rhonda rooted at the curb. "Is there a problem?"
"No," she sighed.
"We don't have to deal with Milt," he said.
"No, we need someone like him." She lowered the sunglasses to her nose. "And, he is family." She stepped toward the bar and Bernie followed.
The place was dimly lit and in need of a good sweeping. The smell of stale beer from this morning's third-shift patrons was yet to be replaced with the greasy burgers for the lunch crowd. An unshaven kid in a red, "Fuck'em Bucky" T-shirt leaned on the back-bar and studied a racing form. A large floor fan droned from across the room.
"Morning," Bernie said. "We're looking for Milt."
The bartender sucked on his toothpick and revealed a set of stained teeth that needed dental work. His arms were so skinny that his eagle tattoo circled the left bicep.
A guy with a mop of curly brown hair stuck his head around the back room door. "Who wants to know?"
Rhonda said, "Hey Milt."
Dressed in a lime green paisley shirt and polyester bellbottom pants, Milt waved them in with a "Come on back."
He stood next to an army surplus desk. "Close the door."
Bernie and Rhonda would have taken a seat, but the only chair was the one behind the desk. An oscillating fan swept the room from atop a battered filing cabinet as an air conditioner groaned in the window.
Milt whistled tunelessly as he opened Rhonda's briefcase. "This is gonna take a few days. You'll have to leave 'em."
"We'll need a receipt," Rhonda said.
Milt played with the heavy gold chain on his neck. He looked at a coin in its envelope and wrote something in a dirty notebook.
Rhonda dug a pack of cigarettes out of her macramé shoulder bag. "Mind if I smoke?"
Milt looked up. "It's a bar." He studied her face. "Anything wrong?"
She stopped fishing for a smoke and stared back at him. "Yeah, Milt, yeah. You stole my First Communion money and that pisses me off."
He looked at her. "So what?"
"I want it back."
"How much was it?"
"Sixty-five bucks."
He took his wallet out and counted three twenties and a ten onto the desk. "Will that do it?"
"Plus interest."
Milt peeled off another twenty. "Christ."
Rhonda picked up the money and jammed it into the shoulder bag.
"Okay?" Milt asked.
"Okay." She lit her cigarette up as he wrote a description for each of the six coins.
Sweat trickled down his backbone to the waistband of his pants. "How much is there, you think?"
Milt shrugged. "Give me some time here."
"Make a guess."
He dropped his pen on the notebook. "I don't know, thou maybe ten."
"That's quite a range."
"I've gotta make some calls."
"You got a safe place to keep these?" Rhonda asked.
Milt opened a closet door and showed them a small, sturdy safe. Back at the desk he pulled out a .38 Special. "That's as safe as I got. Okay?"
He ripped a page from the notebook. Rhonda took the receipt as Bernie opened the office door. The snaggle-toothed bartender was on the other side.
From behind them Milt asked, "Yeah, Steve, what do you want?"
The skinny bartender shoved a piece of paper in their general direction. "Beer guy's all done."
Rhonda took the paper and relayed it to Milt. She pointed to the cartoon on Steve's red shirt - a badger giving the finger. "Who's Bucky?" she asked.
The skinny kid took his eyes off of Rhonda's chest and looked at his own. "Bucky Badger, you know, University of Wisconsin Badgers."
"Your name Bucky?"
"No."
"You might consider changing it. Maybe you would get laid more often."
The eyes bulged in the bartender's thin face as he looked past Rhonda to Milt. "You think that would work?"
"Go back out front. Think it over," the owner said. Steve shuffled away.
Outside in the late morning sun Rhonda adjusted her sunglasses over her eyes. "Is he good for this?"
Bernie opened the door of the Olds and was knocked back by the superheated air. "Milt? Sam backs him."
She nodded. "What about the creep in the bar?"
"He pours beer and hands out pickled eggs. I don't think he's sharp enough to be part of Milt's other operations."
Bernie started the car and put the air on full blast.
Nick was not happy when the rental agency gave him an American Motors Matador coupe. Today the brown and tan car blended nicely into the surrounding environment on the streets of Kenosha where the car's manufacturer was headquartered. From their spot half a block behind the Olds, he and Stan watched the couple enter the blue-collar bar.
Rhonda's guy was dressed in a light blue polyester pants, white belt and shoes. She looked good in her tan, hip-hugger bellbottoms. It didn't hurt that she was braless in a maroon tank top. Conservative for a stripper, which she was, or a star, which is what he could have made her. Well, porn star anyway. But, no more, not after what she did to him.
While he fumed to himself Nick watched the couple trot up the crumbling concrete stairs into the tavern. He turned off the AC because it was freezing him out and cracked the windows while he waited for Rhonda and her escort to return. The windshield fogged immediately. He used the front page of the local newspaper to clear a spot on the windshield.
"Hot damn, the asshole with that chick is the same guy we tangled with at the apartment," Stan said.
"No shit, Sherlock," Nick replied.
Stan reached for his door. "Well, let's thump him!"
"What'd you say, thump him?"
"Yeah."
"Relax, let's see what's going on."
"Well, can we kick his ass later?"
"Sure."
"Promise?"
Sweat collected under Nick's mustache as the temperature inside the car rose. What a jerk. "Yes, I promise."
Stan beat a little tattoo on the dashboard. "Hot damn."
Nick looked out the windshield as the couple skipped down the stairs. "That was fast."
Rhonda and the dweeb stood on either side of the Olds having a conversation. Nick wiped the windshield again. Something was different. Nick and Stan watched them drive away from the bar and turn left at the stop light.
Stan rubbed his hand on the gray T-shirt that covered his skinny chest. "Aren't we gonna follow them?
Nick reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small white envelope, poured a single blue pill into his palm and popped it into his mouth. "Nope."
Stan open and closed his mouth twice. "Why the hell not?"
"Rhonda went in with a case, but didn't come out with it. I'm gonna bet you that something in that case was in the steel box we've been chasing."
They sat in silence as the heat built up in the car.
"What kinda pills are those?" Stan asked.
"Uppers."
"How long you been awake?"
"Not long, two maybe three days."
"Can I have one?"
"Why don't you go in and have a beer? See what's goin' on." Nick started the Matador and the AC kicked in.
Stan hesitated.
"What's the matter?"
"I'll need a buck to get one."
With a sigh Nick reached into his pants pocket and game out with two singles. "Here, buy yourself some peanuts, too."
Stan grabbed the money from Nick's hand and ambled toward the bar. When he reached the top of the steps he hardly had time to dodge the skinny kid in a red T-shirt who came roaring out the front door with a briefcase in his hand.
Tires screamed and drivers swore as the kid dashed across the four lanes of traffic narrowly missing two cars traveling south. A car turning north clipped the kid and kept on going. Though he rolled fifteen feet, he clutched the case to his red chest.
"Third one's the charm," Nick mentioned to himself while doing a screeching U-turn to pull up next to the accident victim. He jumped out and attempted to yank the case out of the kid's thin hands.
"Fuck off!" the kid said.
Nick kicked him in the head then pulled the case free. He returned to the idling Matador as Stan ran up to the passenger side.
"What about the guy?"
Nick looked out his window. "He has a concussion."
The brown Matador rolled from side to side as Nick dodged the potholes to the next street that went back to the interstate. About half way up to Milwaukee Nick asked, "Did you look in the bar?"
"Yeah, some guy was layin' on the floor. Baseball bat next to him. Head all bloody." Stan pulled at his seatbelt. "What'd ya figger's in the case?" He twisted around to eyeball it in the rear seat.
"Don't worry about it. Nothing's gonna change till we get back to the apartment."
In the parking lot of the only remaining building on the Menomonee River flood plain, a block from where Nana's house used to be, Nick and Stan engaged in a short tug-o-war over the black briefcase that Nick had pried from Steve the bartender's hands. Nick had the stronger grip while Stan had better leverage. Eventually, they walked up to the second floor apartment with the case between them.
Stan got the better of Nick when Leon answered the door in what smelled like the same shirt he'd worn for the past three days and Nick gagged. As the pair walked in, Leon cleared a place on the worn Formica top of the kitchen table. Stan grabbed a butcher knife from a drawer.
"Hold it," Nick said. "What the hell do you think you're going to do with that?"
"Open the case."
"Wait a second." Nick bent and looked at the locks. "You got something thin and strong?"
Stan reached in the drawer and came up with a nut pick. "This do?"
Nick nodded and began to work the lock, which opened easily. At least his time in jail wasn't a total waste. He opened the top. "Hmm."
Stan and Leon pushed in front of him.
"Jesus," Stan said. "One, two, three ... "
"Six," Nick sighed.
"This ain't no fortune." Stan picked out a coin in its envelope. "Guess the old bastard you knew in Joliet was as full a shit as you are."
Leon pulled a coin out with each sticky fist. "Doesn't seem like enough."
Nick raised a rusty, chrome-plated, kitchen chair and crashed it into Stan's neck. As the younger man collapsed Leon turned around in surprise and Nick belted him in the jaw. The older guy flew back into the refrigerator and slid to the floor. He drooled on his T-shirt. Stan groaned and tried to push himself up. Nick gave him a kick in the head and sent him back to the floor.
"Sorry boys, but I can put these to a much better use than you can." Nick retrieved a coin that rested next to the stove, then he plucked the two Leon held in his fists.
"You never know with rare coins, jerkoff. A little can mean a lot." He took the case and left.
Rhonda and Bernie stood in the break room at Sam's law practice and watched a pot of coffee brew. Helen, the office manager, stuck her head in and told them Sam wanted to see them, pronto.
He stood behind his desk with the phone in his ear as the couple stepped into his office. Rhonda took a seat on the brown leather couch while Bernie grabbed a chair across from the big desk.
Sam dropped the handset in its cradle. "Someone hit Milt over the head and stole your coins."
Rhonda bounced to her feet. "Shit!"
"Any idea who?" Bernie asked.
"According to Milt's bartender, two guys" he twirled a cheap pen with the fingers of his right hand, "one scrawny and grubby, the other short with brown pinstriped pants."
"Knickerbocker Smith," Rhonda hissed from across the room.
"How do you know?" Sam asked.
"Know what?" Bernie asked.
"How does she know it's this Knickerbocker guy?"
Rhonda looked at the men. "Well, Nick Smith and I have this evolving relationship."
Bernie snorted. "Explain evolving."
"Nick and I went out on a few dates. He's a movie producer and I was looking for work." She smiled. "And then, I had him thrown in jail."
Bernie thought of Ryan serving time in a California State prison. "Sort of a common thread in your relationships."
She gave him a hard look. "He was stalking me. I got a restraining order on him."
"Great, but how do you know our guy is your Knickerbocker Smith?" Sam asked.
"The brown pinstriped pants. He's short and the pants are his trademark."
"How does he know about the coins?" Sam asked.
Rhonda crossed her legs and arms. "How the hell should I know? But, it's him."
Bernie observed that she said it with such conviction, her answer shut Sam up. No small accomplishment.
"So how's Milt?" he asked.
Sam spun the swivel chair behind his desk. "Concussion, but he's awake."
After an appropriate pause Bernie asked, "So what do you suggest we do now?"
"We go back to my sister's and wait for Nick to call," she said.
The early evening air was melting hot and heavy with the last humid day of the summer. Nana was in the centrally air conditioned living room watching a soap when the trio came in. They walked right past her into the kitchen where Rhonda opened a harvest gold refrigerator and passed out Schlitz long necks. Bernie grabbed a magnetized church-key that was stuck to the side of the stove and popped the caps.
They stood drinking beer for a few minutes when the soap finished and Nana joined them. "Got one for me?" she asked.
"Sure," Bernie said.
While he got the beer she gave Rhonda a kiss on the cheek. "Oh Sweetie, some guy called for you. Said he knew you from California."
Rhonda smirked at the men. "Did he leave a number?"
Nana took a swallow from her long-neck. "Said he'd call back later."
Sam loosened his tie. "Well, I was thinking of pizza for dinner, how about you folks?"
In the call that came a few hours later, Nick and Rhonda decided to re-engage their battle at a nearby bowling alley. Rhonda and Bernie found him filling in for one of the teams in the 8 P.M. league. They took a seat at the dimly lit bar where she nursed a Tom Collins and he drank ginger ale.
Nick walked into the bar between frames.
"The red and green shoes go well with your complexion. Rhonda said, "You should steal 'em."
He walked over and squeezed between her and the next bar stool. "Hi, babe, surprised to see me?" He nodded toward Bernie, "Who's the jamoke?" and put a hand on her thigh.
With a smirk she brushed away the paw like it was some irrelevant bug. "In the great scheme of things, no, I'm not surprised to see you." She sipped on her straw. "And, none of your fucking business, you dwarf asshole."
Bernie decided to keep to himself, unless they came to blows.
"Ah, honey, here I thought we could start with a new beginning."
"Sorry to dash your hopes. I thought you'd developed some lasting relationships in the prison shower room."
He smiled and waved at the bartender. "Blue Ribbon." The guy in a white and tan bowling shirt pulled the pop-top on a can and set it next to Nick, who took a long drink. "I've got something you want. You have something I want."
"What could you have that I would possibly want?"
He looked down at his pin-stripped pants, grabbed his crotch, and smiled at Rhonda.
She laughed. "Not since they invented batteries."
Nick unzipped the fly of his pants and took out a small transparent envelope with a coin inside which he put on the bar in front of her.
Bernie thought that for a movie director this guy certainly went for cheap drama. Rhonda glanced down at the coin and slid it over to Bernie. He consulted a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his suit coat. "It's on the list."
"So you have the coins," she said.
"You have my movie, let's trade," Nick said.
Rhonda finished her Collins with a long slurp from her straw. "I'll get back to you." She slid off the barstool.
"Damn straight." Nick grabbed her wrist. "Give me back my film or things will get a lot worse than losing your grandma's coin collection."
She pulled her hand away and gave him a quick rap to the nose with the other. The troll rocked back on his heals and dropped his beer, but kept himself from falling by grabbing the barstool. Rhonda moved in for the knockout as Bernie stepped between them.
"Will it help?" he asked.
She lunged at Nick, but Bernie grabbed her. "Let's go." They did a clumsy tango toward the door.
Nick yelled, "I'll call you tomorrow and the answer better be right."
She yelled, "Fuck you, asshole," into Bernie's ear as they danced out of the building.
In the parking lot Rhonda lit a cigarette and considered what to tell Bernie about the movie, but only if he asked. Best control the conversation. She said, "Let's go to your place."
He didn't argue.
As they drove he asked, "What movie was he talking about?"
"Knickerbocker is a major sleaze-ball. Word is that he finances his crummy pictures with money he blackmails out of his backers. I assume the movie he's talking about is one of the 8mm he uses against them."
Bernie waited as the radio played "Can't Take That Away From Me" by Sinatra. "You got it?" he asked.
Shit, there it was! Technically, Hiram had it so she wasn't really going to lie to Bernie. That was good. She punched him on the shoulder. "No!"
"Then we need a plan."
For the rest of the ride and another twenty minutes at his place they brainstormed their way to nowhere.
During a lull in the conversation she twisted on the couch to take a closer look at the wooden box in the corner of his living room floor. "That was smart of Nana to only risk six coins from the collection."
He ran the back of his hand up her thigh. "Yes."
She slapped at him and stood. "Stop that." She squatted down to get a closer look at the box that held the collection. "There's something under this top tray."
With a wince he shifted positions to see what she was looking at. She piled the remaining coins on his coffee table, lifted the box and took it to the kitchen. He followed to find her pulling a knife from a drawer.
"What are you doing?"
"It's heavy. There might be more. Maybe there's something under the tray."
He took the knife from her.
"Knock yourself out," she said and took a seat on a bar stool at the counter.
He stuck and jimmied for a while then handed it to her.
"Maybe it's like one of those Chinese puzzle boxes." She began pressing at the top and the sides at the same time, then two sides. Something inside the box clicked and a corner slid down. None of the other parts of the box moved.
"Okay, so, there is something else. Let me see." She gave him the box. He pressed and pulled for awhile until another corner piece slid up.
She grabbed the box back and slid open the side. "Flashlight." He gave her one which she used to peer inside. "Tongs."
"What?"
"Tongs, you got tongs, like for turning hotdogs on the grill?"
He produced a short pair from a kitchen drawer. She took them and drew a single clear cellophane envelope from the box. A click whispered inside the wood.
She put the package on the counter and gingerly unwrapped it. Inside was another gold coin which they recognized as a Double Eagle. The images were crisp, as if the piece had been struck moments ago.
"What's the date?" she asked.
"1933."
"Anything else?" he asked.
She looked back inside. "Yeah." With the tongs she pulled out an 8 ½ by 11 envelope with brown stains. The envelope opened as if it were never sealed and showed her a piece of paper and two envelopes. She took them out.
"That it?" he asked.
Using the flashlight she looked inside again and gave a thorough scan. "Nothing else." She snapped the compartment closed.
"Do you remember how that opens?" he asked.
"As a matter of fact, I do."
She laid the two envelopes on the yellow Formica surface. One was business sized and used to be white. The other was a faded green stationery. She opened the unsealed business envelope and read.
August 7, 1937
My darling Hildi,
In 1933 the new President, Franklin Roosevelt, ordered all the new $20 gold pieces destroyed. I handled the final melting of the coins. I'm ashamed to say that I took some. Technically they are not stolen because I replaced the new coins with old ones. I hid what was left in the office where I worked, but never got the opportunity to take them out before I was transferred to New York.
The map and directions on the next page show the hiding place. Do what you think best.
Love,
Your Grandfather
Rhonda sucked in a whistle.
"Who's Hildi?" Bernie asked.
Rhonda shook her head. "Maybe Nana knows. I sure don't."
She opened the other envelope with a paring knife and removed the contents. The pale green stationery was flimsy and discolored with age. The handwriting was small and legible. Rhonda counted the pages
"Four pages." She cleared her throat.
"You want some soda?" he stood.
"Yeah. ... You want me to start?"
"Knock yourself out."
July 7, 1964
Dear Cousin Sal,
I'm writing to you because you are my last living relative. If you haven't read the letter from my grandfather you should do that before going any further.
When Rhonda paused he handed her a can of Grampa Graf's Creamy Top Root Beer.
She took a sip and put it on the counter. "Sal was my grandfather. So Hildi is his cousin. My great aunt, I guess."
"Well, that's something."
Rhonda cleared her throat and continued.
When I got the letter from him at his death I was employed as a secretary in the same building where he worked. I got my job because he was such a high, muckty muck in the Treasury Department. 'Iron Joe,' they used to call him because he was such a stickler for the rules. When I read his letter it was a real shock.
I didn't do anything about it for several weeks, then my curiosity got the better of me. One day I asked a couple of the old timers where my grandfather's office was when he worked in the building. They told me it was in the oldest part of the building. It was being used for storage. That night I spent several hours memorizing the directions grandpa left in the letter.
The next day I begged off going out to lunch. When I was pretty sure most people were gone, I went up to get a look at his old office. It was filled with odds and ends that probably hadn't been used for years. The room was so cluttered I couldn't even see where grandpa said the hiding place was.
That afternoon I filled out a form to have all the things on that floor removed to a warehouse in Virginia. I slipped it in with a bunch of other correspondence my boss would sign. He never questioned it.
To avoid suspicion, I waited a few days before going back. When I went up there to look around, a fella who was a new employee in the department came into the room. He scared me, but I tried to be casual. He asked me what I was doing and I told him how my grandpa's office used to be here. I asked him what he was doing. He said just looking around and trying to get his bearings. About then the building supervisor came into the room. He said hello, looked around quickly and left. I was terrified. The next day my boss told me that the old area was going to be remodeled.
At first I wasn't concerned, but in a few days there were workmen looking the place over. I thought that if they remodeled enough they'd find grandpa's secret and his reputation would be ruined. Maybe mine, too.
I decided to act the next day. Grandpa said I'd need a pry-bar to open the hiding spot. It was winter so it was easy to hide the one I brought in my coat. I did the lunch trick again and went up to the old office space. They were there like his letter said under the chair molding in the partition. I took the coins down to my floor and hid them in my desk behind a drawer along with the pry-bar."
Rhonda took a sip of her soda and then another. She re-paged through the letter. "This is amazing."
"Yes. You want me to read?" he asked.
She shuffled the pages, shook her head and took another sip. "That's okay, I'll finish."
"I took them home the next day, Saturday. It seemed too simple. The only thing I could think of was that that part of the building was completely walled off from the area where we made the money so the security wasn't as tight. I walked out with the remains of grandpa's stolen coins. Who would have thought to check for someone removing loot from twenty years ago?
Someone had. As I was leaving my apartment building that night to meet friends for a movie, the new man from the office met me at the lobby door. He told me he was a Treasury Agent and that he knew all about it. He hustled me around the corner into an alley and began to threaten me. I really wasn't listening to what he said, I was just trying to think of a way to get away from him. He said something about calling the police. He grabbed me by the wrist and started to pull me toward the street.
With my free hand I pulled out my pry-bar and hit him on the head. He fell right down. He moaned. I hit him again with everything I had and once more. He didn't make a sound or move. I felt for a pulse in his neck, but he was dead. I dragged him behind a dumpster and left to meet my friends. I wiped the bar clean with a bunch of tissues and dropped it in a trash can near the movie theater.
Monday went by uneventfully. Tuesday people began to ask about the new guy. On Thursday the police came to the office and questioned me. I told them I hadn't seen him since Friday. They questioned me a few times, but I stuck to my story. Nothing more ever happened. I don't think he was a Treasury Agent.
After the publicity about King Farouk's '33 Double Eagle, I knew the coins grandpa took were rare. I never told anybody. Now they're yours.
Love,
Aunt Hildi"
Bernie walked around the kitchen island and stood next to Rhonda. If the letter was legitimate, this woman, her great aunt, killed a man over this coin. The women in this family were something else!
Rhonda moved the paper around and picked it up. "Is this for real?"
"Hildi talks about coins. Where are the rest of them?"
Rhonda shook her head. "All we have is this one coin and these letters." She picked up the coin and weighed it in her palm. "We've got one maybe two dead guys."
"Don't forget the skeleton in the yard."
"And a fourth, if you believe Hildi." Bernie arranged the letters on the counter.
Rhonda touched her chin. "Sounds pretty real to somebody."
Rhonda held the coin close to her left eye. "What do you think its worth?"
"I don't know." Bernie took a seat on one of the chrome legged chairs of his hand-me-down kitchen set. "Do you think it's real?" Bernie asked.
"Well, let's assume it's real."
He frowned. "Hell of an assumption."
"Yeah, but let's go with it for the moment. What's it worth?"
"First, we have to find someone to buy it."
"Actually, we need several someones to hold some kind of auction." She smiled. "Yeah but, we should have an idea about what to charge."
He grabbed her arm. "Hold it, hold it. This is stolen property. Federal government property at that. Off hand, I think they send you to jail for possession of that sort of thing, to say nothing of trading in the stuff."
"Relax," she said. "We don't know if the coin is stolen. It all reads like one big fairy tale."
She had a point, but he was still talking with Rhonda, a woman of the Lapinski family. One thing he learned in the past week is that the women in her family appeared to have a broad mercenary streak and a loose interpretation of the truth.
"We need to talk with an expert. Where do you keep your Yellow Pages?" Rhonda asked.
Half an hour later Bernie and Rhonda pulled up to a little storefront on 70th and North Avenue. The sign over the door read "Henry's - Coins, Gold and Silver Bought and Sold."
Rhonda twisted the rearview mirror and studied her face, then applied some new lipstick and fluffed her hair with her fingers. When she unbuttoned her blouse and tied it under her breasts, Bernie had to ask, "What are you doing?"
"We're going to talk to Henry, right?" She rolled up the leg of her shorts to show as much skin as possible.
He glanced through the small window in the door at the lump behind the counter. "Yes, it's Henry Koppelstein."
"Don't know him."
"He was two years behind us in school."
"Is he straight?" she asked.
"Far as I know. They kicked him out of junior high for having skin mags in his locker."
She smiled and nodded. "I didn't spend all that time on-stage in LA and Vegas without learning a thing or two about persuading men to help me." She stepped out of the car and strutted toward the little shop. "Let me do the talking."
"Just so long as you keep your clothes on." What kind of psycho-sexual judo was she using on him?
Rhonda winked at him.
Inside the twenty by twenty foot room they found Henry. He was medium height and, without the dozen gold chains around his neck, he weighed somewhere north of two-hundred pounds. His long black hair and goatee matched his T-shirt and jeans. He look up from a magazine, put it under the main counter and said, "Hey, how ya doin'?" With his eyes glued to Rhonda's chest, he didn't acknowledge Bernie's existence. The air conditioning ran full-blast and the clear, orange shade on the south-facing windows gave the shop a glow that was almost golden.
"You always keep it this cold in here?" she asked.
"Mostly," he replied.
"You, I know you. You're Henry Koppelstein, right?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Rhonda Lapinski." She nodded in her companion's direction. "That's Bernie Keagan."
Henry squinted at them. "I know you guys. Grade school summers, I saw you two around the playground and the pool."
Bernie leaned against the wall near the door and gave him a wave.
"Good memory," she said.
Henry smiled and rested his hands on the counter. "Neat, swell, good to see you again."
"Well, I really don't know anything about coins." Rhonda stepped right up to the counter and in a voice so soft Bernie could barely hear it said, "Can you help me?"
The lump leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms across his chest. "Maybe, what kind of help do you need?"
Bernie wondered if Henry had been to strip clubs in LA and Vegas and was now not that easily persuaded.
"What would a 1932 Double Eagle be worth?"
Henry's small eyes hid under his broad eyebrows. "Why do you ask?
Rhonda leaned on the counter showing him a significant amount of cleavage over the knot in her blouse. "Well, if someone wanted to sell me a '32 Double Eagle for $1,000 would that be a good deal?"
A toothy smile from Henry's small mouth snaked its way from between his mustache and beard. "If it was real it would be a hell of deal, but at that price it's probably a fake."
"Good to know." She looked to her left and spoke to Bernie over her shoulder. "See, I told you Henry was the man." She turned back to their coin expert, looked into his eyes and asked, "How do I tell?"
"Tell what?" he asked.
"If the coin is a fake or not?"
Henry took a deep breath and touched his mustache with his right hand. "First, you've got to make sure its real US government issue. Second, you need to confirm its provenance, its pedigree is sound."
"I'm lost, Henry. How do I do that?"
He turned and searched the bookshelf behind him. "There are several things you can do." His hand twitched. "Measure and weigh it." He selected a paperback volume with a worn maroon cover. After a quick consultation of the index he found the page he needed. "Okay, if it's in good shape, a Double Eagle will weigh 33.463 grams. It should have a diameter of 34 millimeters." He closed the book. "Next, you put a drop of aqua regia on the coin. If nothing happens, it's real. If it eats through the coin, doesn't matter 'cause it's a fake."
"Oh, you know so much." Rhonda touched the screaming eagle tattooed on Henry's left forearm. "What's this aqua regia?"
Henry looked at her hand. "A mixture of nitric and hydrochloric acid. Any chemical supply house can get you some. Just be careful."
"What if the seller doesn't want to do that?"
"I'd be suspicious, but you can determine the specific gravity of the coin by measuring the volume displacement in water." Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"Henry, you're amazing. I didn't know any of that." Rhonda leaned closer to the coin expert. "What will the ... ah ... specific gravity tell me?"
Henry smiled and consulted the book again. "US gold coinage is 90% pure gold and 10% copper. Most fakes are made with something less pure. The difference in specific gravity will be readily apparent with something less than the 18.28 used in a real coin."
She said. "Got that, Bernie? That's important."
"Yeah." He wrote deliberately in a pocket notebook.
Henry looked at Rhonda's cleavage. "But, there's more."
She patted his arm. "Hear that, Bernie, more. I knew we came to the right guy."
"When you're right, you're right," Bernie said. It was fun watching a master and even more alarming to think of how she was using her talents on him.
Henry was almost glowing. "Sometimes less knowledgeable forgers try to pass off pure gold coins as fakes. The specific gravity of pure gold is 19.32. Bottom line, something too high or too low is suspect."
Rhonda considered the comment and straightened up. "Have you ever done any of this testing?"
He pointed to a framed document on the wall behind him. "To get that professional certification I passed a test using them all."
"Terrific, what about the pedigree, the provenance?"
"Much more difficult," he fished a cigarette out of a pack on the back counter, lit it and took a drag. "That's the paperwork that tells you the history of the coin - who owned it and when. Any breaks in the ownership record are very bad. Usually you need someone to insure that the information on the paperwork is the truth. Kind of like title insurance on a house. Know what I mean?"
"You are so smart." She smiled her best smile at him. "Ah, how much should a real '32 cost with good paperwork."
Henry retrieved the magazine he'd been reading when they walked in and flipped to the back. "Ah ... depending on the condition ..." He ran his finger over a page. "Maybe a fifteen, twenty grand."
Rhonda whistled. "Why so much?"
"It was the last year they circulated that type of coin."
"Mind if I have one of your cigarettes?" she asked.
With a hairy hand the coin dealer shook one up from the pack and offered it to her. She took it and put the cigarette to her lips. He lit it. She took a drag and said, "So there wasn't any 1933?"
"No, Franklin Roosevelt melted all of them down to stop hoarding. Well, almost all of them."
She half turned toward Bernie and smiled. "None survived?"
Henry took a drag. "The story goes that three proofs turned up missing. Two were recovered. One is reported to be in the Middle East with some oil sheik."
"How much is a thing like that worth?" Rhonda asked.
Henry let the smoke roll out of his mouth. "Shit, who knows? A couple a mil?"
She took his hand and squeezed it. "Henry, you are the man."
"The man," Bernie agreed.
They stood there in silence.
From the back of the shop a young female voice called, "Hey, sweetie, lunch."
Henry let go of Rhonda's hand like it was on fire. His eyes bugged out. "I've got customers up here, honey."
"Okay, I'll put it in the fridge."
He wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
Rhonda patted him on the arm. "Thanks, we'll get back to you."
"What's this all about?" the pear shaped numismatist asked.
Rhonda straightened up and adjusted her blouse to show more skin. "Believe me, Henry, if this deal moves forward we'll need someone with your background. We will get back to you."
He reached under the counter and produced a business card which he offered her. She took it and stuffed it into her blouse over her left breast. Henry held his breath.
Bernie let his out. "Thanks." He took Rhonda's arm and lead her out the door.
She waved back at Henry and breathed, "Bye. Thanks."
Bernie guided her into the car and drove away quickly.
"What's this getting back to him shit?"
She shifted back to her business persona. "We are going to need a reputable person to do those tests for anyone buying the coin. Henry could be our man."
Once again, she silenced him with a logical point. That is unless they remembered that this was most likely stolen Federal property. Obviously, she didn't care.
They were a good half mile from Henry's before Rhonda let out a whoop. "Hot damn, Bernie, two million bucks!"
"I suppose we should do the test to make sure the coin is real."
"Yeah, sure." Rhonda threw her head back against the seat as they made the turn south from North Avenue onto 76th Street. "Holy shit, two million dollars! Yeow!"
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. "Who you gonna sell it to?"
"What'd ya mean?"
They rolled down 76th street under the canopy of elms and maples. It was a great place to ride in an Olds convertible with the top down even if the price of gas was bankrupting him.
"I mean, in order to get the money you have to have someone who is willing to pay that amount to get the coin."
She sat up straight. "Well, right."
"Okay, how ya' gonna sell it? Who's gonna buy it? Nobody legit. Anybody who knows anything about coins isn't gonna touch it."
Rhonda looked at him open mouthed as they stopped in a line of cars that waited for a train to pass through the railroad crossing on Harwood Avenue. He turned off the engine to save fuel.
Her gaze shifted over his head and she squinted. "What the hell are you doing?" she asked.
Bernie twisted around to see who was behind and felt a cold circle of metal in his neck. His door opened and someone got into the back seat.
"Pull out and make a left on State," the visitor commanded.
Bernie restarted the car, nudged it out of line and into the vacant oncoming-lane as he tried to place the voice.
"Hi Stan, how's your dad?" Rhonda asked.
"Shut up," he said.
Fourteen minutes later they stood in Stan and Leon's apartment. They were in a small space among the piles of used furniture that filled the living room and kitchen. Though Bernie had been in their place twice before it was the first time he'd taken a close look. The two of them must have scrounged every abandoned chair, sofa and table in the neighborhood as the residents moved out. Leon sat at the kitchen table drinking a beer and eating Oreos.
"Look who I got," Stan said with a wave of his pistol.
"Do you wear the same clothes everyday?" Rhonda asked the old man.
Leon looked down at his gray-green T-shirt and ran his left hand over the front. "No, I have a bunch of 'em." He belched. "Where's that no good, son-of-a-bitch?"
"Which no good, son-of-a-bitch would that be?" she asked. "I know several."
Leon stood on his one remaining leg. "Don't try to be cute with me, toots. It's what's-his-name Smith?"
"Knickerbocker?"
"Yeah, that one."
Bernie pulled an armchair covered in worn, nubby green fabric from the pile and sat on it. Rhonda took a seat on half of a yellow flowered love seat next to a box of mismatched plastic food containers.
"Well," she said. "He is one alright. Why do you want him?"
"He stole somethin' from us and we want it back," Stan said with an additional flourish of his pistol.
"What would that be?" Bernie asked.
"Never mind," Stan said. "But, he knows Calamity Jane here. So I ... we think you know where he is or how to get in touch with him."
Rhonda sighed. "No way, loser."
Stan rushed up to Bernie and pointed the pistol at his head. "What? What?" Stan screamed. "Call that troll, or I'll blow his god damn head off."
Rhonda leaned back in the love seat and crossed her arms over her chest. "You're an idiot."
"That's what Ollie said before I shoved that ice pick into his ear!" Stan yelled as he waved his pistol at her.
"Why don't you give Nick a call?" Bernie asked.
"You people are amazing." She smiled. "Where's the phone?"
"We're not cutting that asshole in," Stan said.
Rhonda stood. "Yes, we are."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
Leon put his right leg on and they all piled into the Olds for the short ride to the Mayfair Shopping Mall. Nick Smith designated the skating rink in the middle of the mall for their meeting. Two late summer skaters were taking advantage of the indoor ice to work on their jumps and twirls.
Bernie pointed them out to Rhonda. "Not Olympic, but attractive."
"I'm freezing," Leon said while surveying the few other spectators standing at the main floor railing above the rink. "Why are we here?"
Rhonda rolled her eyes and turned to him. "Nick wants to meet in a public place."
"Why?"
"Because he doesn't trust her," Stan said as he scanned the skaters on the lower level. Stan and Leon danced in place to ward off the cold air creeping up from the ice.
While they were distracted Bernie leaned close to Rhonda and whispered, "What are you doing?"
She put a finger to his lips.
"Hey, what are you two talking about?" Stan asked.
"The weather," Rhonda said.
"Well, well, well," was the call that came from behind them. They all turned to see short Nick Smith exiting a store not ten feet from where they stood.
"Where's our shit?" Leon demanded to the consternation of a shopping matron as she passed with two pre-teens. Nick addressed Rhonda. "I thought we were going to meet alone?"
"A couple of things came up." She nodded toward the raggedy pair. "I thought we should meet and have a little talk."
"That's it?"
"Actually, there's more. Lots more." She dug her left hand into the pocket of her shorts and produced the 1932 Double Eagle in its clear cellophane envelope.
"What the hell are you doing?" Bernie asked.
She shrugged and handed it to Nick. Stan grabbed the coin in mid-transfer and brought it close to his face. Leon snatched it from Stan and stepped back out of arms reach. Nick walked up and kicked him. When Leon bent down to grab his knee, Nick took the coin out of the old man's hand.
"Unbelievable," Bernie groaned.
"What's the deal? This is the coin I gave you to prove I had the collection," Nick said. "Where's my movie?"
Rhonda smiled.
Nick glanced at the coin then at her. "This is more than it looks like. Right?"
"So?" Leon stood and clutched himself against the cold.
"But, there's something wrong," Nick said. "Isn't there?"
"We need to talk someplace more private than this," she said.
Nick frowned. "I've got a room at the HoJo. We can talk there."
Leon and Stan insisted on riding with Nick and the 1932 Double Eagle for the three minute trip to the motel room. Rhonda and Bernie went in his Olds.
"All this starting and stopping is costing me a fortune in gas," Bernie said.
"Christ on a crutch, if it bothers you that much get a VW. This is a huge deal and you're bitchin' about gas money."
"Why the hell are we talking to these people?" he asked in their momentary privacy.
"Just what you told me."
"Me? What?"
"You said we need to have a buyer and no one legitimate would touch the coin."
He nodded dumbly as he pulled into a parking space
"Nick knows people who have money and aren't exactly kosher."
His eyes widened as the fog lifted. "No, no, no!"
Stan was leaning out the door of the motel room as they stepped out of the car. "Get your butts in here. We got business to tend to."
That little voice people call a gut feeling, instinct or intuition was screaming "Run!", but Bernie's conscious mind was confused by a loyalty to Nana, affection for Rhonda and a curiosity about how she might make this work. He would have put the Olds in gear and raced out of there, but she was half way to the room.
Inside the motel Leon had his pistol stuck in Nick's neck. "Where's our stuff, dwarf?"
Everybody stopped.
"What'd ya mean, yours?" Rhonda piped in from the doorway.
"Ours. Finders keepers," Stan said.
Rhonda went into the room and got right in between father and son. "What is this, grade school? You took it from my grandmother's property, shit bird!"
Nick pushed the pistol away from his body. "I'm not a dwarf, jerk off. I'm just short."
Bernie said, "Well, technically the government seized Nana's house."
"Shut up," Rhonda hissed. "Okay, let me talk it over with Nick in private for a few minutes."
"No way, toots," Stan said. "You got anything to say, you say it in front of us."
"Put the gun away Leon." Rhonda sighed. "We've bigger fish to fry."
Nick's room at the Howard Johnson's was appropriately done up in a cheap '50's style emphasizing turquoise and orange. It had a slight disinfectant odor. Rhonda took the only chair. Leon and Stan sat on the end of the bed. Nick and Bernie stood in opposite corners.
"Okay," Leon said. "What's up?"
"Forget the coin collection," Rhonda said.
"Why?"
"It's only worth about twenty-thousand dollars."
Bernie scored Rhonda's first lie.
Leon looked at this father. "That sounds fine to me."
"Chump change."
Father and son frowned.
"We're looking at a million. If we do it right."
That was the second.
They listened to the air conditioner hum for a moment before Nick spoke. "What are you talking about?"
She smiled. "A 1933 Double Eagle gold piece."
Bernie's mind raced for something to say that would stop her, but nothing came.
"Big fuckin' deal," Leon said.
"Exactly." She gave them the barest details of the story. Nick listened and took a seat on the bed while Bernie pulled up a piece of floor.
When she finished Stan sat there with his mouth open. Leon said, "Whoa mama!" Nick didn't say a thing. The one-legged old man and his fratricidal son began to dance in place and holler. This bizarre performance was short lived and ended in fits of coughing followed by a smoke for each.
Nick spoke up. "Rhonda, why are you telling us this? You and I have this out of control hate-hate relationship." He nodded toward Leon and Stan. "And, these guys are idiots."
"Hey," Leon said and nothing more.
She smiled. "Excellent questions, Nick."
It was exactly what Bernie had been thinking for the past hour. "Cuts to the heart of the situation." The entire meeting seemed insane to him.
Nick smiled. "So?"
"We need a buyer for the coin," she said. "Actually, we could use several. You know, competition to drive the price up."
Stan and Leon stood silent while Nick smiled broadly.
"Ah ... okay ... no honest coin dealer will touch this piece," he said.
"It's hot so you need a fence," Stan said.
Rhonda nodded. "May be, but what we'd really like is to deal directly with a buyer."
"We don't personally know any crooks," Bernie said.
Nick stood. "And, we do."
After a moment of silence Leon spoke. "We can't just go around to every jamoke talking up this deal. Word would get around. Either the cops would get wise or some clown would try to rip us off."
Bernie sat stunned at Leon's common sense and saw that his reaction was shared by the others in the room. It was sound reasoning if they were going to commit a criminal act, which seemed to be the road they were taking.
"We've got to think this through very carefully. And ..." Leon took a drag on his smoke. "I don't trust any of you."
"Hey," Stan said.
"Don't take it personal, son."
Later that afternoon Rhonda explained the entire scheme to Nana as the little lady smoked at the kitchen table in her other granddaughter's house.
"Not bad, sweetie." Nana patted Rhonda's cheek.
"Not bad. Not bad!" Bernie danced around the table. "It's out and out nuts!"
"Why?" Rhonda asked.
"Yeah, why?" Nana blew smoke out her nose.
"For one thing those letters from your great aunt are a load of crap," he said.
"What letters?" Nana asked.
Rhonda produced the letters from her macramé purse and handed them to Nana. She read them while Bernie got some beers from the refrigerator. Rhonda took a cigarette from Nana's pack and lit up.
"They could be a load," Nana said. "But, from what I know of your grandfather Sol's family, the times, places and people check out."
"Oh good, a half-truth," Bernie said. "Why am I not surprised?"
The two women smiled at him and exhaled smoke in his direction. That sight was almost as unsettling to him as the idea of working with Leon and Stan. Oh, shit! "And ... and ... then, there are the people Nick says he can bring to the table to bid on this coin. They don't strike me as the type who will take too kindly to being conned."
Rhonda snorted and laughed. "Who's conning anybody? We are simply offering interested parties the opportunity to own a rare piece of American history. No one is going to put a gun to their heads. If they want to buy, they can. If not, not."
Bernie stood there silent. She was full of good points today.
"Two million, you say?" Nana asked.
"It's very rare. Could be more," Rhonda said.
"We told Nick and the boys a million," Bernie said.
Rhonda grinned and crinkled her eyebrows. "We lied."
He felt that this conversation was not reassuring. "Wait a minute, this coin belongs to the United States government. Do you think they might have an interest in recovering it?"
"I'm not gonna tell 'em," Nana said.
Knickerbocker lay on the bed of his room at the HoJo and looked into the muzzle of a .45. He would have screamed louder, but his Wemblon wrinkle-proof tie was stuffed in his mouth. He could smell the velvet aroma of fine tobacco.
"Relax, Smith." Lucerio spoke from across the room in that soft tone he liked to use.
Nick tried to suppress his terror and control his vocal cords with limited success. After attempting two more screams, he settled for breathing hard against the polyester fabric. The gunman stepped back as Lucerio leaned over Smith and tapped him on the cheek with his hand.
"Nick, Nick, Nick you should not lie to me," he said.
The little man mumbled something about not lying to the Colombian.
"Do not insult me with another lie, Nick. You told me everything was okay with our movie project, but now I have found that it is not so. Your investors are not happy." Lucerio took a seat in a chair next to the bed. "Now Mr. Mendez..." He nodded toward the swarthy gunsel. "...is going to take your tie out of your mouth and you are going to tell me the truth, yes?" He placed a thick cigar between his lips, inhaled and allowed the smoke to drift from his mouth.
Nick nodded.
Mendez leaned forward and lightly pulled the tie from his mouth.
"So what have you done with our money?" Lucerio asked while Nick exercised his tongue.
"I shot the picture. It's in the can."
"We talked with ..." Lucerio raised his hand and frowned.
Mendez said, "Paulie."
"Yes, ah, Paulie at the film lab." Lucerio blew a smoke ring. "He said that you didn't pay him so he stopped working. We gave you the one-hundred thousand dollars you said you needed to complete the movie, but you did not finish it. What did you do with our money?"
Nick turned his head to the left to look at the Columbian sitting next to the night stand. The light from the small lamp made Lucerio's features sharp and illuminated the gold tie bar in the collar of his silk shirt. Nick said, "Well, it's kind of a long story."
"Make it a short story. Where is our money? And, where is our movie?"
"There are additional expenses, but I ... I can get the money to finish it."
Lucerio nodded at Mendez and he put the tie back into Nick's mouth. The Columbian slapped Nick very hard across the face. He screamed more from terror than pain.
"I told you. No more lies. Paulie told us that the woman you used in our movie, this Rhonda, took the uncut film away with her. You cannot finish our movie if you do not have the film, can you?"
Nick pulled the tie from his mouth. "I can get your money back to you."
Lucerio held up his right hand. "We invested our money with you, because we know that type of movie gets a very nice return. It is not just the investment. We want the return you promised, also."
"How much money are we talking about?"
"Six-hundred thousand."
"What?"
"That is what you told us. We expect you to keep your word. Plus the one-hundred thousand comes to seven-hundred thousand."
"Holy, shit."
Mendez and his pistol loomed over Nick.
"Is this a problem?" Lucerio asked.
"What, what, I'm not worth anything to you if I'm dead."
"True."
"Let me ... let me get this straight. You either want the finished film or seven hundred grand."
"Exactly."
"Well ... well I'm gonna need some time to do either one."
"Certainly you will."
"Good, good, swell. I'm working on it right now."
"Wonderful, Nick. I'm glad to hear it. Mr. Mendez, help Mr. Smith up from the bed."
Lucerio headed for the door.
"Ah, how much time do I have?"
"Enough."
"How much is that?"
"I'll be in touch. Your investors want to see progress."
Nick followed them to the door and steadied himself against the jam. "Say, how did you find me?"
Lucerio laughed. "Who do you think cleans motel rooms in Milwaukee, Jewish princesses?"
Rhonda sat in the booth at Denny's because she knew Nick hated sitting in them. He could never touch the floor with his feet. She fingered the single strand of pearls she wore as she saw the door swing open. Though she couldn't see his head over the booths, she knew the little creep had arrived. He stepped into the aisle, then looked around for her and frowned when he saw her. Tough shit. As expected, he wore a brown suit that looked like it had been pressed with a mix-master.
Unfortunately, he grabbed a chair from a nearby table and dragged it up to the end of the booth. The waitress frowned at him as she approached with the coffee pot. He turned the cup right side up and waited in silence as she poured.
"Do you have any blueberry pie?" Rhonda asked.
"Yes we do." the waitress said.
"Good, I'll take a piece." Rhonda nodded at Nick.
"Sure, why not."
When the waitress in her brown and white uniform walked four paces away he said, "What's going on here?"
"Lots of money."
"I guessed that, but why did you cut those idiots in on the deal?"
"At some point we'll need someone to take a fall."
Nick smiled on the left side of his face. They sipped their coffee when the waitress returned with the pie. Rhonda watched while he adjusted his chair several times before finding a comfortable position to address the slice. His every inconvenience delighted her. When the performance was over, she began to eat her pie.
After two forkfuls, Nick said, "If that's their job, tell me again what's mine?"
"Bernie says, that to get the most money for the coin we need to hold a little auction. He also said, that nobody honest would be interested in buying a stolen coin." Rhonda shifted in her seat. "You know some people who might be interested."
"You said that before, is that all?"
"Yes, but we need to work out some details."
"Okay, who's this Bernie guy?" Nick asked.
"He works for my lawyer."
The troll looked at her over a forkful of pie. "And what else?"
This was an area she didn't want to get into. If she said too much about Bernie, it might give Nick some kind of leverage on her. Still, it was obvious that Bernie was more into the situation than just some hired hand. Better give a plausible answer. First the lie. "He's my second cousin on my father's side." She looked over Nick's right shoulder. "And, Nana likes him."
"How about you? Do you like him?"
"He's okay, but he's sort of a screw-up."
Nick tapped his fork on the dish. "How?"
Now the truth. "He's gonna be disbarred."
"You know why?"
And, a lie. "Someone complained about an estate he was handling."
"Crooked?"
Rhonda looked over his head. "No, poor record keeping."
"Hmm." He sipped his coffee then toyed with his pie crust. "How about you just give me the movie back?"
"After we sell the coin, maybe we can talk about it."
"You know I have some tough investors who want to see that film hit the market."
"Sure Nick, but it's my naked ass up there on the screen. I want a bigger bite of the action."
"Hey, if we're talking money here, I think we can make a deal."
"Like I said, after we sell the coin. One thing at a time."
"I'm gonna need the list."
"What list?"
"My customer list."
"For what?"
"The people I sell the porno to."
"I really don't have it, Nick."
"Bullshit, you left a note."
She sat back and put her palms on the table. "You could come up with a dozen names without looking at any piece of paper."
"Sure, but you want to be absolutely sure. You want to have the right people, the ones who have the money and won't talk. For that, I need the list"
"Fine, but, I didn't take your list. The note I left was on your desk."
"But, you know where it is."
"Now that you mention it, I can make a good guess. If you think about it you can too."
He put the fork down and looked into the half eaten
pie. "Thom."
Rhonda screwed her mouth up. "If you need the list, you'd better go get it."
Nick smiled. "We, sweet cakes, you and me."
She finished most of the pie, but left the crust. "I don't trust you, but I've got the coin and the film. You'll be back."
"Tell you what. We'll let Bernie do it." He grinned. "He's your guy."
Rhonda sat and played with the pie crust. "No, you go to LA. Bernie can call on your clients to set up the auction."
"Sure, why not."
They sat in the nearly empty restaurant and studied each other.
"Rhonda, I could'a made you rich," Nick said.
"No, you could have made me notorious while you got rich, but we are going to fix that."
He flexed his eyebrows. "Anyway, I have a question."
"Shoot."
"How do we know the coin is real?"
This entire thing about Nana's house had spiraled completely out of control. Bernie took a can of Pabst from the refrigerator and went out to sit alone on his patio. Actually it was a small piece of concrete behind his garage on the alley. If he was honest with himself, it was out of control that first night when he and Rhonda went inside the house and dug up the suitcase. Then there was the corpse in the flowerbed, and Ollie with the ice pick in his ear, and Rudolph drowning, and Knickerbocker Smith and Leon and Stan. Bernie rolled the can between his palms. Okay, the situation had been out of control almost from the get go, but those were all things that happened to Rhonda and him. Selling the stolen Double Eagle, or maybe it was a phony, was something they were going to do to somebody else. That was the difference. He sipped the beer. It was in a whole different league than his dealings with the judge.
Yes, he should'a told the cops a bunch of things, but he could justify that to himself because they weren't doing anything wrong. Now, they would be either selling stolen government property or conning someone. He would be risking jail or major physical injury. Why would he do that? He took several big swallows of beer.
There was the money. It might be lots of money. But, he could always get money. If he was in jail or dead, the money wasn't going to do him any good. On the other hand, the State of Wisconsin might disbar him for life or something close to it. He was going to have to hustle some work, other than the law. And, and, he needed the money.
Then, there was Rhonda. He didn't want her to do it for pretty much the same reasons he didn't want to see himself do it. She was likable in so many ways. If he needed to watch out for her beautiful rear end while he watched out for his own then that was a level of complication he could deal with, maybe. And, there was that day in LA ... LA. He finished the beer, crushed the can and threw it at a tree. "Aw crap!" He didn't really trust her. He missed and the can landed in the grass.
"What's the matter?" Rhonda asked as she walked out his back door with two cans of beer. Her long tan legs stretched down from a pair of small red shorts with her equally tan arms emphasized by a sleeveless white blouse open at the neck.
Bernie stood. "Don't do this."
"Don't do what?"
"Sell the coin."
She opened the cans with a church-key, gave him one then slipped her arms around his waist. "Why not?"
"Because it's illegal."
"So what? Nixon's a crook. His top guys are thieves and liars." She kissed him lightly on the lips. "No Bernie, everybody is out for themselves and I'm gonna get mine."
"Then, because you might end up in jail."
"And?"
"And, the people who might buy it might hurt you."
"That would bother you?"
"Yes."
"You are a sweet man Bernie Keagan." She touched her lips to his then leaned back an inch or two. "But we don't know if any of this is real."
He sighed and sat down. "No, we don't."
"Let's find out." She put her can of beer on the upturned milk crate that acted as a patio table and stuck her hands into the pockets of her shorts. When she brought them out she had the '33 Double Eagle in her left and a small amber bottle in her right.
"What's that?"
"Aqua Regia. We're gonna run the little test Henry talked about." She squatted down and put the coin on the concrete. With great care she pulled the eye-dropper from the bottle. "Ready?"
He knelt beside her. "Yeah."
She placed a drop of liquid on the coin. Nothing happened. She dripped another. Still nothing. And, one more.
Bernie tried to speak, but had to take a breath first. The caustic smell of the acid grated on his sinuses. "Is that stuff the real thing?"
With a glance to the left she spotted an old washer in the grass and put a drop on it. The metal instantly began to smoke.
"Holy shit," he whispered as she gingerly slipped the stopper back into the bottle.
She looked at him with a strained smile. He poured his beer on the Eagle to dilute the acid and clean the coin. They sat down in the canvas folding chairs and listened to the breeze blow the yellow leaves off the locust tree in the neighbor's backyard.
"We're in the big time," she said.
"Yeah, I guess there was always a little part of me that hoped it was a fraud and we could just walk away."
"Sorry." She touched his knee then stood. "Better clean up."
When the coin was clean and back in its protective envelope, he took her hands. "Don't do it."
She stepped into his arms and held him around the waist. "You are a very sweet man," she whispered then kissed him. "I'm gonna take you upstairs right now and jump your bones."
"Rhonda, I ..."
She released her grip and took his hand in hers. She kissed his cheek as she led him away. He would bring the subject up again later. He could. He really could.
The little click the treasure box made when she removed the coin wormed its way into Rhonda's head as she drifted toward sleep. She was exhausted and tried to push the thought away. It crept right back to nag her awake. "Nuts."
Bernie snored softly on his left side. Rhonda opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. With a disgusted exhale, she sat on the edge of the bed. Her muscles ached with the exertion of the past days, but there was nothing for it. She would have to go downstairs and take a look. She thought to wake Bernie, but he was now on his back sawing wood. Poor guy was still purple and green from the fights he endured.
Downstairs in a faded yellow T-shirt of Bernie's that proclaimed "Marquette Warriors," she took the box from its hiding place next to the couch and brought it into the kitchen. The vinyl of the kitchen chair was cool on her bare legs as she sat down to reopen the hiding place. Two tries and the panel slid open.
She maneuvered the opening so that the overhead light would shine into the chamber. Nothing fancy or interesting. She angled the box a different way. Light reflected for a second. "Hmm." Flashlight in hand, she looked closer and saw a tiny metallic button buried in the wood.
Press the button, Rhonda. She looked around the kitchen. With what? She stood and began opening drawers while munching on the cold moo shu pork form dinner. You don't have much in the way of cooking utensils, do you Bernie.
Finally, she found a barbecue fork with two long tines. Reseated at the table she put the box between her knees. With flashlight in one hand she jabbed a tine into the metal button. The treasure box clicked. The chamber where she had removed the first coin stood open. She tilted the box to get a better look and another small envelope fell into view. "Damn," she breathed. The second coin was there just as Rhonda had left it.
Frozen in place, she barely reached the tongs on the table. With measured movements, she removed the second prize. She realized she wasn't breathing and gasped for air as she put it on the table. A moment to unwrap the coin and she knew there were now two 1933 Double Eagles.
Rhonda jumped from her chair and made it to the top of the stairs before she stopped. What good would it do to tell Bernie about this coin right now?
She sat on the top stair. His snoring echoed in the hall. Well, she wasn't going to get any sleep in that room. No sense waking him. The news wouldn't change. Still, nothing to be gained by letting people know. Rhonda went into the bedroom for her pillow and a blanket, then camped out on the sofa downstairs.
The sharp smell and taste of juniper berries mixed with the cold, clear liquid and the burn at the back of the throat, that's what made a dry martini great. Rhonda placed the stemmed glass back on the counter and stirred the liquid with two olives on a small, black plastic sword. Queen Victoria looked out at her from the bottle of Bombay gin on the kitchen table. Rhonda toasted the lady on the bottle. Between the two of them they made a damn fine drink. Martinis in the afternoon with Nana, decadent and unproductive. Just what she needed to chill her out, ever so slightly.
This was the big one and Rhonda knew she needed to play it carefully. Bernie was right. A 1933 Double Eagle was only worth what somebody was willing to pay for it. So she needed a buyer and a plan to force a big price. How to do it? Too many players in the game just now. How to weed them out? She took a sip of the wicked potion. High reward. High risk. Did she need any help? Maybe, maybe not. If she did, who should she get? Could she protect Nana? Could she protect Bernie? Could she tell him? Another sip warmed her from the tip of her tail bone on up. Keep it simple. Keep it close. The front doorbell rang.
The man at the door wore a cheap, dark suit with a tie that looked like it had been tied only once then left as a noose to be hung on a door knob or around the owner's neck. He stood about five-eight, balding and his shoes needed shining.
"Frances Lapinski?" he asked.
Rhonda put her hands in the pockets of her faded jeans. "No, that's my grandmother."
"Is she available?"
"Who are you and what do you want?"
The man reached into the breast pocket of his wrinkled suit coat and produced a small leather folder which he proceeded to open and show. "Agent Allen Durone, United States Secret Service."
"May I see that, please."
Agent Durone placed the folder in her hand. She studied the badge and the picture on the ID card. She read the information provided and matched the features in the photograph with the man in her doorway before she handed the credentials back. Seemed legit. But, this guy looked like he'd slept in his suit for the past few days. "You need a new picture. This one's getting old. What can I do for you?"
"I'm here to see Frances Lapinski. Is she in?"
"My grandmother has been in the hospital for the past several days and is resting at the moment."
Durone put his little leather folder back into his cheap suit. "When would she be available?"
"Difficult to say. She's recently lost her house and is pretty shaky."
Rhonda could tell from the way the man was screwing up his face that he was unhappy with her answer. Well, life was difficult and he would just have to get over it. She also thought that it was unprofessional of a highly trained federal officer to show any emotion over such a simple exchange. Hard to believe he was with the Secret Service. What's his angle?
The man shifted from his left foot to his right. "Ah, I'm looking for one of our agents, a Rudolph Waldoch. Have you seen him?"
Rhonda's jaw dropped. "What?"
"You've seen him then?"
"He's a federal agent?"
"Yes, yes he is."
Rhonda's mind raced. What to say. What to say. Stall. Think. Think. "Come in, ah agent, ah ..."
"Durone."
"Yeah, come in agent Durone."
They went into the front room and sat in matching chintz covered chairs.
"So you've seen him," he asked as he took out a little note book.
"Yes, but he never identified himself as a federal agent."
"He's supposed to be undercover."
"Undercover? The man is six-eight, four-hundred fifty pounds!" Rhonda rubbed her upper arm where Rudolph gripped her.
"Agent Waldoch contacted you?"
How much to tell him. "Yes, he was looking for a blue suitcase. He took two."
"When was that?"
"Um, three, four days ago."
"Was it three or four days ago?"
"Both actually. One suitcase three days ago and another four days ago."
Durone wrote in his notebook. "Did he say anything to you?"
"Nope, he just took the cases and left."
"Have you seen or spoken to him since?"
Right here was where all the time working in the strip joints came in handy. Rhonda could lie to men and make them believe it was gospel. She looked over Durone's right shoulder and spoke. "No, I haven't seen him since." She looked him in the eye, smiled slightly, and held it.
He wrote her answer down.
She touched her left cheekbone with her right index finger. Not bad. And, she still had all her clothes on. "Is he missing?"
Durone stood and walked out. At the door he turned. "Thank you for your help."
Nana joined Rhonda at the front window as she watched the fed get into his dull gray car.
"What was that about?" Nana asked. Granddaughter and grandmother talked about the encounter. At the end Nana said, "That was strange."
"Yeah, very. I've never met a fed who looked so scruffy."
Nana lit a cigarette.
Rhonda stepped onto the front stoop to watch Durone's car disappear down the street. "Did you put the coin I gave you this morning in a safe place?"
The smoke rolled out of the old woman's mouth.
"Sure,its in my tube of denture adhesive."
Nick smelled the rich tobacco before Lucerio said, "Come in. Close the door."
"Can't we just meet in a bar or restaurant or someplace civilized."
"I like your room."
"Really?"
"No."
Nick turned on the lights in the HoJo motel room. Seated in the room's single easy chair, Lucerio adjusted his gold rimmed glasses. The diamond in a pinky ring sparkled as he raised the half smoked cigar to his lips.
"What are you doing here?" Nick asked.
"Checking up on you."
"Without your gorilla?"
"Why would I need him?"
"In case I've got a gun."
"Do you think killing me would help you?"
Nick knew the answer. It was the same reason he did not bother changing motels. Lucerio was only one of many. Nick sat in the spindly desk chair on the other side of the double bed from his companion.
Lucerio let a few moments pass. "How are you doing with our movie?"
Maybe it was the stress of the moment. Maybe it was just out and out stupidity, but Nick said, "Look, I've got something that can square things with the backers and buy them out of the movie."
The Colombian puffed on his smoke lovingly. "Go ahead."
"Are your people interested in rare coins?"
"Depends."
"How about the rarest coin in the world?
"You are so full of shit."
"No, no, hear me out. If it's not the real deal, we can still get the movie back. What do you have to lose?"
Lucerio twirled the cigar between his pursed lips. "Tell me."
Nick told him the story of the 1933 Double Eagle in less than five minutes.
"You think you can acquire it for us?"
"Yes, but I might need some help."
"Such as?"
"Muscle."
"And you say that Rhonda, the one who took the film has this expensive coin?"
"Yes."
Lucerio stood, puffed once on the cigar and smoothed down the front of his tailored suit coat. "Very imaginative, Knickerbocker. It is a quality we liked in you at the beginning. I will discuss it with the others and get back to you."
"Make it quick. She intends to auction the coin off in a week."
The Columbian nodded and walked out the door.
Rhonda sat in Bernie's kitchen when she heard Nick, Leon and Stan walk in the front door. While the trio played grab-ass out in the living room she lit up a cigarette and proceeded to smoke it.
"Hey," Stan yelled. "We don't have all night."
"Yes you do, you lame-ass shit-heads," she mumbled and took another drag.
Just as she was stubbing the butt out, Bernie stuck his head through the doorway. "Could we start? I don't know how much more Nick can stand before he shoots Stan and Leon."
She stood and squared her shoulders. "Time to get the ball rolling." In ten minutes she told them what they needed to know about the coin - the history of the 1933 Double Eagle, Rudolph, digging the box up in Nana's basement, the hidden compartment, the letters and Nana's recollections of her husband's family. The little troupe sat silent.
"Alright!" Stan danced from one foot to the other.
"Let me get this straight," Nick said. "There is only one coin known to be in circulation. But, you have another."
"Yes," Rhonda said.
Nick leaned back in his chair. "How do we know the one you have isn't a phony?"
"Yeah! How do we know?" Stan asked.
Rhonda walked in a circle then picked up the coin. "First, we can prove that this is gold." She explained the aqua regia test.
Nick nodded.
"From census and employment records we can determine that the people who wrote the supporting letters really existed. They worked in the Philadelphia Mint during and after the times the coins were there." She smiled. "After that I'm not sure."
"We can find out if the guy Hidli says she killed was killed when she says she killed him," Stan added.
"How?" Leon asked
"Old newspaper files. Old police files," Leon said.
Bernie smiled at the father-son pair. "You've been giving this some thought, haven't you?"
They smiled.
"But, we don't know who she killed, because she never was caught." Nick looked out the window. "Lame."
"Nothings perfect," Bernie said.
The group was silent again.
"Is that enough?" Stan asked.
Rhonda shrugged, "It all sounds circumstantial. I don't know."
"It's up to the buyer," Nick said. "Unless the government acknowledged that the coin is the McCoy, we could never prove it."
"Well, we could ask them," Leon said.
"Who?" asked Stan.
"The government."
Rhonda cleared her throat. "Yes, but we're not going to do that." She took a deep breath. "So Nick, do you know anybody who might be interested?"
"You have a nice ass," the young Mexican said to the stately Vietnamese woman.
Thom gave him a look out of the corner of her eye while she took a seat. She was dressed in a red business suit with a close-fitting skirt and high heels - a little much for a cantina in East LA. She judged him to be about twenty and handsome in an unshaven, flowered shirt sort of way. Finally, she did have to admit that she did have a fine ass. "Can you get the message to Mr. Jaguar?"
"Sure, if I want to." He draped his right arm across the back of the chair and blew her a kiss. "Tell me again about this knicker guy."
She crossed her leg to show him a bit of thigh. "Knickerbocker Smith, Nick Smith is the guy. He's short, about five feet. Did time with your cousin, the Jaguar. Smith got out two, three weeks ago."
Halieto took a pen out of the apron pocket of a passing waitress. The girl slapped his hand.
"Hey," he said. "I'll give it back."
The girl gave him a sour look and marched to the bar.
Halieto took a napkin and raised the pen. "Spell that." He wrote it down as Thom spelled Smith's name.
The AC in the bar was bad. Thom took off her suit jacket. The guy smiled. "What do you want me to tell him?"
"Smith makes and sells special films. I have his customer list."
"What kind of movies?"
"Hardcore porn. And, sometimes pictures of important people in situations that they would like to keep secret."
"Such as?"
"A United States senator's son having sex with a young boy. A war hero robbing a gas station. A woman from an old southern family in a wild orgy with several black men."
He gave her a quizzical look. "He blackmails these people?"
"Yes, to get the money to make more movies."
"So, now you have the pictures?"
"No, I have something more valuable than some cheap porn. I have the list of people he sells the junk to."
The man nodded.
"Smith wants the list back. He is working some kind of bigger deal. He is coming out to get the list from me. I need leverage."
Halieto touched his chopped ponytail.
Thom licked her lips. "If Knickerbocker Smith thinks that whatever he has coming down is a bigger deal than the scam he has been working with these fish, I want to be a part of it."
"You want muscle behind you, just hire a big guy."
"I want reputation and that's what you guys and the Jaguar have."
The young man nodded as he put the napkin in his shirt pocket.
"Tell him, Smith thinks it is worth a lot of money."
"How much is a lot?"
"Two million bucks."
Halieto grinned and looked down her blouse at her small breasts. "You want a drink?"
"Can you get the message to Jaguar?"
"Sure, I can do it." He waved the pen at the waitress. "You want a drink with an umbrella? They can do that here."
Thom smiled at him.
The plane arrived at LAX gate G17 ten minutes ahead of schedule. Knickerbocker Smith disembarked and hurried down the concourse to catch a cab to the hacienda style hotel in El Segundo. Thom waited for him on a Mediterranean loveseat near the fountain in the middle of the six story lobby. The sound of the water echoed off the painted tiles and filled the air with a fresh-washed smell that contrasted pleasantly to the smog outside. Her spot among the large ferns and palms offered some privacy.
"Hello Nick. Have a seat." She pointed to a chair next to her.
"Let's make this quick. I've got a plane to catch." He consulted his watch. "In less than an hour. Did you bring it with you?"
She reached in her black patent leather shoulder bag and brought out a thin envelope.
"What's this?"
"Find out."
He looked at his handwriting on a single piece of yellow legal paper. There were eight names and addresses. He read them carefully as each one jogged his memory, then folded the paper and put it in his suit coat pocket. "Okay, let's see the rest." He tapped the gray plastic briefcase at the side of his chair. "I have the cash you wanted for keeping my property safe while I was away."
"There's been a change in plans," she said. Halieto stepped out from behind a thick dwarf palm.
Nick smiled. "And, you think this is a surprise to me?" He whistled loudly and two very large black men stepped into the group.
"Don't you want to hear the deal?" Thom asked.
"Sure, why the hell not."
"And, I want in. Fifty-fifty."
"Is that all." Nick smiled and looked at the brothers. "Thanks fellas, you can go." He got up and shook hands as they smiled and moved off.
"Catch us on the next picture, Nick?" the blackest one asked.
"It's a lock, Tyrell," he said to their backs. "You know," Nick leaned close to Thom, "if this thing goes bust, half of nothing is nothing."
Halieto spoke up. "If this deal, whatever it is, doesn't pan out, we keep the list."
"Fuck you, I make the rules."
"No Nick," Thom said. "The Jaguar makes the rules. Halieto, here, is his cousin. We keep the list until the deal is down and then we turn it over."
Nick almost smiled. They could kiss his ass and keep the rest of the list. The page he put in his pocket was more than enough to get the coin auction rolling.
"Manuel says hello. He remembers you from the library," the Mexican said.
Nick blanched. He underestimated the little bitch. The list would still be worth plenty after he got his movie back from Lucerio, that Colombian asshole. "You'll have to bring it to Chicago on short notice."
"No problem," Halieto said.
"I'll call you to tell you when."
"Sure. And, we'll keep your briefcase just for collateral."
Thom grabbed the brown wrist. "Don't bother. There isn't any money in that thing. Knickerbocker Smith never even saw that much money. And, if he did, he'd never pay it out for any reason."
Nick shrugged. Halieto stepped back.
Nick took the case. "Say sugar, what happened to your accent?"
Thom twisted toward him. "Left on the sidewalk outside Stanford."
"Live and learn," Nick said. "Well, gotta catch a plane."
Instead of leaving the hotel in El Segundo for the airport, Knickerbocker decided to wait outside. In due time Thom and her new benefactor left together. The next morning Nick waited in the doorway of a bodega in the section of LA that was coming to be known as "Little Saigon".
Smith knew the advantages of being short. Long ago he learned how easily he could hide in the shadows as he watched neighborhood girls undressing for bed. He cut his chances of being arrested as a "peeping tom" by only looking in on high school classmates who liked to be watched. That was then. These days, everything was through the viewfinder of a camera, but the proclivities of the young ladies hadn't changed.
Nick didn't find it difficult to follow Thom and Halieto, because he had been to her place many times. He parked behind the Mexican's flashy Chevrolet convertible. Hours of waiting in the car to avoid the desert chill slid into a brilliant dawn and brought him outside to confront Thom's man as he left the flat over the beauty shop.
Nick struck a match to light a cigarette as his mark walked from the building's side door. "Hombre."
Halieto squinted at him and felt for the pistol under his left arm as he walked to Nick's position. "Smith?"
"Good morning. Man, you look worn out. She must have really put you through your paces."
Halieto smiled wearily. "I though you were going back to Mil-walk-ee."
"I am, but I wanted to discuss something with you."
"Okay, but hurry up. I gotta get some sleep."
Nick gave him the whole thing about Keagan, Rhonda and the gold coin.
"So you want us to fence this coin for you?"
"It's as rare as any coin gets. The collector who can afford to buy it can never show it. We're looking for a buyer."
"Oh! That's why you want the list."
"If the Jaguar isn't interested in owning the coin, maybe he knows someone who is. If we get several people interested, Rhonda wants to have a little auction to drive up the price."
Halieto scratched his tangled hair. "The whole thing sounds like a scam to me."
"I know, but I've seen the gold and it's the real deal."
"So?"
Nick decided to look at one of the many different angles that were possible. "So, instead of taking the shitty cut she's offered me, I'm going to steal it. I could use another man to help me out. You look like the one I need. What do you say?"
"I think, I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"
"I've been up all night waiting for you while Thom hauled your ashes."
"My tia owns a place close by. We can eat and talk."
Nick crushed the cigarette butt out with the toe of his shoe. "Sounds fine."
Leon and Stan knew they weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer, but they were crooks. As such, they carried a certain cachet in the criminal community, albeit one of low quality. They knew one real, big time bad guy who was in a position to get the kind of cash and the connections needed for a deal like this. Dressed in suits they purchased from an upscale church thrift shop, they wrangled themselves a meeting with the capo on the south side of Chicago.
John Pelagraso sat in a booth at his restaurant and listened to these dunces. Either these guys were dumber than they looked or the story was strange enough to be true. He would have to sort it out mostly, because that's what the don wanted him to do. But, John was curious. Normally, he would have tossed guys like Stan and Leon out on their asses just on principle. When he heard the story it was all he could do to keep from spitting his Campari and soda on the table, but that would not have been in keeping with his image as a serious man. He took a moment to consider these crackers from Milwaukee. These fools were dressed up as fancy as they knew how and traveled to Chicago for this meeting. They gave him a neatly typed list of a few of the coins, and took their story seriously. Maybe he would, too.
His sister's kid was into collecting shit - stamps, coins, small dead animals, and other things his mother didn't want to know about. The kid was spooky. Still, the little, pencil-neck could talk your arm off on that shit.
John scratched his eyebrow, "You got a phone?"
The idiots nodded in unison while the older one said, "Yeah, Mr.Pelagraso. Yeah."
Swell. The capo picked up his glass and pushed the napkin over to them. "Write your number down and I'll be back to you tomorrow."
Stan wrote the number as he and his father stood up. "We'll talk tomorrow, right, Mr. Pelagraso, right?"
The capo looked at the napkin to make sure he could read the numbers. The scrawl was tricky. The nuns at St. Damian would have walloped the crap out of these guys for this kind of penmanship. "What is this, 414-258-9693?"
"4693," Stan said.
He took the pen and made the adjustment.
"Tomorrow then, Mr. Pelagraso?"
"Yeah or the day after."
Leon and Stan slithered backwards out of the restaurant door and into the sun.
John took a moment to consider the situation and called to one of the large men sitting in a nearby booth. "Angelo, let's go see Rose."
The big man's shoulders sagged and a weary frown crossed his face. "Do I have to go into the house? That kid creeps me out."
John stood. "Yes, but I'll do all the talking to the kid."
The bodyguard sighed.
The capo sat in his sister's living room admiring his thousand dollar suit when his nephew walked in the front door of the large ranch style house. He carried a skateboard and a book bag. The kid was dressed all in black - T-shirt, jeans, canvas gym shoes, no socks. He looked like a fifteen year old vampire. It didn't work that well 'cause the boy had a deep olive complexion.
John thanked Jesus, Mary and Joseph that his mother was dead, because if she saw this grandchild of hers there would have been no peace from the woman. And, somehow he would have taken the brunt of her wrath. He twisted to his left in the faux Louis XIV love seat to face the kid. "Hi, Tommy."
The kid started at the greeting. "Oh, ah, hi Uncle John." He dropped the bag on the marble floor in the hall. "Is my mom around?"
"Sure, she's in the kitchen with Angie and Bruce. Are you still collecting coins?"
Tommy gave the big man a sideways look. "Sure, why?"
"Two men want to sell me some coins and I want to know if they are offering me a good deal."
"What kind of coins?"
John reached inside his coat for the list in the pocket next to where he normally would have kept a pistol, except he was in his sister's house. He gave the paper to his nephew.
The boy studied it. "Is this for real?"
"So they tell me."
"These are really cool coins. How much are they asking?"
"They're looking to have some kind of auction."
The kid nodded.
"What are they worth?"
"I've got some magazines in my room that can tell us what they sold for a few weeks ago."
The capo was surprised by the excitement in his nephew's voice. "Okay."
"You wanna come up and see? You can have the prices right now."
John wasn't sure about that, then he remembered his position in the organization and that this was a fifteen year old kid. "Let's go."
To the uncle, his nephew's room was a world of its own, with dirty laundry, posters of rock stars and sexy young women were taped to the walls, some sporting gear, and plastic models thrown in to boot. John knew that his mother would have skinned him if his room had looked like this. The thing that impressed John was the large number of books stacked all around and piled on the kid's bed. He picked up a book - science fiction. "You read a lot?"
Tommy dug into a disorganized heap on a desk. "Yeah."
"Anything special?"
"Na, just what gets my attention."
John nodded. There just might be something to this nephew someday.
The kid flopped on the bed with a magazine, the list and a pen. He began turning pages and writing on the paper. When he stopped minutes later he offered the sheet to his uncle.
"You're telling me these eight coins are worth a little over $58,000?"
With a tap on the magazine Tommy said, "That's what it says in here. Though they didn't have a price on the 1933 Double Eagle. I'll have to ask around on that."
This could be serious. John pursed his lips. "How do I know this stuff is on the up and up?"
"These coins are rare, but commonly traded." The boy sat up straight on the bed. "You could be cheated, but there are some pretty easy ways to eliminate anything obvious. After that it would almost cost them as much to cheat you as it would to sell you the real thing."
"Could you tell?"
The boy looked in the book. "I've never tried to buy anything this expensive, so I've never bothered. The tests are simple. Mostly high school physics and chemistry." He looked his uncle in the eye. "Yeah, I could if I can get the right equipment."
John smiled and put his hand on the kid's shoulder. "You may just get a chance."
Tommy smiled. "You want me to ask around about the 1933 twenty dollar gold piece?"
"If you want to, but this is good for now."
"Actually, it may be the most important piece on this list."
"Why do you say that?"
"Well, no offense, but why bring these to you?"
John frowned at the kid and sat on the bed. "Go on."
"Like I said, all of the coins except the double eagle are listed in these trade magazines. Anyone who wants to buy or sell one could do it easily though a regular dealer."
"Even if they're hot?"
"It's difficult to prove. Someone could say that their Aunt Bessie died and left them her husband's coin collection."
The capo stood. "So, if this other coin isn't listed it could be rare."
"Very rare."
"Very valuable. And, maybe a fake."
The kid stood. "Difficult to fake an expensive gold coin."
"Okay, check it out and get back to me."
The kid smiled broadly. "Right, Uncle John."
The capo winked at his nephew as he opened the door and returned to a world his mother would have appreciated.
There was a problem. Yesterday, Nick told Rhonda he didn't want to offer the coin to any of his clients in person. He was anonymous to them and wanted to keep it that way. She knew he was afraid that they would beat the crap out of him. It sounded reasonable to her. And then, nobody in their right mind would send Stan or Leon to the store to get a can of peas let alone handle an arrangement like this.
Today, the question remained the same. Who to send? Rhonda sat at the restaurant overlooking the Veterans Memorial on Lake Michigan and smoothed out the white tablecloth in front of her with both hands. Nick worked on a highball while Bernie looked out the windows. She knew that whatever they were going to do with the coin, they needed to move fast. The feds, the Organization and some gang of South American drug smugglers knew about the 1933 Double Eagle. Nobody felt comfortable about letting this auction drag on for a long time.
That left Bernie. This morning she saw that the bruises on his body were faded to yellow with a green cast. He could stand and move around for reasonable periods of time without needing several hours of bed rest. He wasn't great, but he was it. She wasn't thrilled.
"That's four plane trips in five days," Rhonda said and pressed her hands into the tabletop. "Bernie, I don't think you're up to it right now."
Nick said, "Hmm."
Rhonda sat up straight. "Okay, change of plans. I'll take the two women. Bernie takes the two men and makes three trips in two days."
Bernie thought it was a good option. The four marks were a woman lawyer in Philadelphia, a widow in Omaha, a developer in Atlanta, and a Senator's son in San Francisco. Airplane, hotel and rental car reservations were made. They would both fly out tomorrow morning. Stan and Leon would take turns watching the bank where Rhonda told them the coin was in a safe deposit box.
At noon the next day Bernie walked into an office building forty minutes east of the Atlanta airport and two blocks off the freeway. Dallas Fanning's headquarters occupied the fourteenth floor. Maybe it was Bernie's imagination or regional prejudice, but the place smelled of fried chicken to him.
Fanning had a marked scowl and did not rise from his seat behind a large, dark wooden desk. He dressed in a conservative blue suit with a red tie held in place with a diamond tie tack. In his mid-fifties, he could stand to lose twenty pounds. An American flag stood behind the desk to the right with the Stars and Bars taking a similar place on the left. "You've got a lot of god damn nerve coming in here."
Bernie dropped his carry-on bag at the door and took a seat in front of the desk without being asked. "Let me get right to the point."
"Have you seen the movie that little shit is holdin' over me?"
"No, what movie? What are you talking about?"
"She's my only child and I will not have her humiliated. She was high on that marijuana crap when she did those things with those black bastards. If I ever catch those sons-a-bitches I'll skin 'em." He pressed a button on his phone and two large men appeared in the doorway. They wore blue suits that seemed a size or two too small.
"The som-bitch is into me for forty grand."
A bad feeling crept into Bernie's stomach. "Are you being blackmailed?"
"Hell yes!"
"Like I said on the phone, there is a very rare piece of Americana that has come into our possession." He was talking louder than he should. With a swallow, he readjusted his tone. "We're just looking for interested buyers." Bernie looked around and tried to stand up. "Mr. Fanning, I don't know anything about this, ah, movie. And, I really don't need to know." The two men pushed him down into the chair.
"We'll see about that," Dallas said and nodded to his men.
They grabbed Bernie and slapped a piece of wide tape over his mouth before he could say anything else. His hands and feet were taped to the chair. They dragged him into a large bathroom behind the office.
Moments later Fanning entered in his shirt sleeves carrying a long cylindrical tube. "Know what this is boy?"
Bernie had seen pictures of such devices and guessed it was a cattle prod. He said, "Mumph!" which was "Don't!" for a guy with his mouth taped.
Fanning nodded at one of his storm troopers and he raised Bernie's left pant leg. His tormenter stuck him with the business end of the prod. A scorching jolt went up his leg as he thrashed against his bonds.
He said, "Mumph!!" which was "Fuck!!" for a guy with his mouth taped and thought Fanning must have put new batteries in the damn thing. Someone ripped the tape from his face and he winced in pain.
"Now boy" Fanning said. "You gonna tell me who the little shit is who's blackmailin' me?"
Bernie took a deep breath. "Blackmail, I thought the little turd just made porno. Hell, it's Knickerbocker Smith."
The three guys in the bathroom with him looked down at their captive in disbelief. Fanning stuck him again.
The pain was just as extreme as the first time. "Mother Fuck! What the hell you doin'? I just told you the guy's name!"
Fanning scowled. "Well, you told it awful quick, boy. Hard to believe that you'd turn over your partner that fast."
"I can't stand the guy. I'd have told you five minutes ago if you'd have asked."
The trio stood there silently for a moment.
"Oh," Fanning said. "Turn him loose, boys."
The two minions helped Bernie back into the office because his leg was asleep and wasn't working well. It was "Sorry about that and all" and "Would you like a drink?" Bernie took the large bourbon and sat on a leather couch as he pulled his thoughts together.
Fanning sat on the corner of his desk across from Bernie. "Ya see son, those cock-suckers got her buck naked ..."
"Mr. Fanning, I don't know anything about that and I don't want to know." Bernie drank with one hand and rubbed the injured leg with the other. "So could we get down to the business that brought me here and let it go at that?"
Fanning nodded and Bernie began his story about the coin auction. Half way through Fanning held up a right hand. "You got anything in writing on this?"
"Mr. Fanning ..."
"Call me Dallas."
After the trip to the bathroom with him, Bernie would have called him the Queen-of-the-May if he'd have requested it.
"Sure. Dallas, it's illegal to own this coin inside the US and its other jurisdictions. We haven't written much down. I would suggest you contact an expert of your own." Bernie reached into his suit coat pocket and took out an envelope, which he gave to Fanning. "That is a picture of the coin and copies of documents received with it."
Fanning looked them over. "It talks about coins. Are there more than one?"
The four burns on his left calf began to throb. "Not that I'm aware of. We're dealing with a single item."
"How much are we talking about?"
"I don't know. That's why we're having an auction."
Fanning frowned.
"You ever heard of King Farouk?" Bernie asked.
"That some blues singer down in New Orleans?"
"No, he was the last king of Egypt."
"So?"
"His estate has the only recognized copy of that coin. Bought it in the late '30's."
Fanning looked at the papers in his hand.
"Ask an expert. If you want to participate in the bidding let me know by next Monday." Bernie handed him his business card.
"When can I see the coin?"
"At the auction, a week from Tuesday in Chicago."
He waved the papers at Bernie. "And the originals?"
"Same time."
He nodded and shuffled the papers. "If I buy your coin, what about my daughter's movie?"
"If you pay enough, we'll throw it in." Bernie didn't know where Knickerbocker stashed the film, but he'd have a good time beating it out of the little asshole.
"What's enough?"
"We'll let you know."
"For the moment you can count me in. Ah, what if I just turn you over to the cops?"
"Well, apparently, we still have some interesting pictures and a very fine quality film." Bernie's leg throbbed as he got up and headed for the door.
"My boys can be pretty convincing."
"Except I don't know where any of that stuff is." He stepped through and closed the door. Nick set him up. Screw 'em both.
Bernie bought some ointment at a pharmacy on the first floor of Fanning's office building and applied it to the burns on his calf during his cab ride to the airport. Pornographer and a blackmailer, he was gonna rip the dwarf's gonads off and jam them down his throat. There was a three-hour wait for the flight to Denver where he would catch a plane to San Francisco and a morning meeting with the senator's creepy son. What sort of crooked deal was Nick working with this kid?
The experience in Atlanta didn't make Bernie feel any better about keeping the 10:30 appointment at a dim sum restaurant in San Francisco's financial district. Nevertheless, he got there ten minutes before ten and waited.
A petite Chinese woman in a white uniform opened the door for him. "Mr. Cranberry says you should go right back." She spoke with a New England accent as she pointed to a door in the rear of the main dining room.
Bernie started through the spare seating area of white walls and blonde furniture. It looked Swedish. There was a room beyond the door with three small tables.
Andrew Cranberry, Jr., the heir apparent to the Cranberry shipping dynasty, lounged in the far chair under a high window. "Come in. Would you care for some tea?" He gestured toward an ornately painted pot with a long left hand. Andy was dressed in a blue broadcloth shirt, khaki pants and oxblood penny loafers, no socks.
Bernie nodded as he took the seat at the corner. His host poured tea into a handleless cup while Bernie glanced around for sugar and milk. There wasn't any.
"Green," Andy said.
"Hmm?"
"The tea, it's green."
"Ah." Bernie sipped the hot liquid gingerly.
Andy raised his cup and spoke over the rim before he drank. "An investment of mine. The Chow's were cooks for my parents and I stole them away to run a chain of these little stores. It's a good place and time to discuss unsavory topics." He drank again. "What can you do for me, Mr. Keagan?"
Bernie gave him the pitch about the coin. Cranberry nodded and looked at his cup in silence. Andy was either playing some sort of head game or giving his proposal deep consideration.
"You came to me through the man who's blackmailing my father," he said.
"That's true, but I was unaware until yesterday."
"I keep telling the ol' man not to pay. I'm not going to reform."
Bernie's face betrayed his surprise.
"I spend most of my time outside the US - Thailand, Costa Rica, India, some such place." Andy waved to someone behind Bernie.
The Chinese woman appeared with another pot of tea. The pot was pure white. "More?" she asked.
Cranberry nodded and she poured. They drank their tea silently.
When he finished, Andy said, "I like your little situation. And, you didn't insult me by offering the pictures as a sweetener. Give me your documents and I'll let you know in two or three days."
The Senator's son took the same document packet that Bernie passed on to the asshole in Atlanta. Andy remained so quiet and smooth about the entire thing Bernie was hard pressed to think of him as the predatory pedophile.
Back outside the shop it dawned on Bernie that he should expect a child molester to have a winning personality. As he walked around the corner, two large men in black suits grabbed him and tossed him into the back of a limo waiting at the curb. From the floor he looked up at a pair of shapely legs, crossed at the ankles.
"Mr. Keagan, the senator does not want you to have any further contact with his son," a youthful female voice said from above him.
Bernie raised himself on his elbows and saw a good looking blonde in a severe black business suit. "Don't you think he's old enough to decide for himself?"
The woman placed her high-heeled shoe across his throat and pushed his head to the floor. "I was afraid that you wouldn't understand." She pressed hard and Bernie began to choke. "If you understand now, I won't have to ask Mr. Culpepper and Mr. Hathaway to exert themselves clarifying the message for you. Do you get my meaning, you blackmailing little shit?" She pressed harder. Bernie tapped the woman on her stockinged calf and she let up.
"Got it," he croaked.
"I hope so." She rapped on the car window with her left knuckles.
Bernie rubbed his neck. "I'm not a blackmailer."
"Tell someone who gives a damn."
The two gorillas retrieved him from the limo's floor and stood him back on the street. One guy hit him in the chest, then the other struck him in the stomach twice.
"That's enough," the female voice from the limo said as Bernie crumpled to his knees on the sidewalk.
In seconds, the car was out of sight, leaving him to wonder exactly what happened and curse Smith, again.
Nick lurched out of the chair to answer the phone. The voice of the Columbian raised such a clear image in Nick's head he could smell Lucerio's tobacco. "Surprised you called," Nick said.
"Really?"
"Well, you usually stop by."
"I'm not in town."
Nick relaxed. "Where are you?"
"LA, meeting with your business partners."
He wasn't surprised, but still Nick tensed. "So what do they say?"
"Should you acquire the coin for us, we will consider our business transaction terminated successfully."
"And, I can keep my movie?"
"That will be your business. At that point, we will be out of it."
"And, you've someone to help me?"
"Yes, we can make arrangements. Where does this auction take place?"
"In the hotel next to O'Hare Airport terminal. Who do I deliver the coin to?"
"Me, I'll be at the airport. Call me with the date and time."
"Sure."
"Nick."
"What?"
"Remember who cleans the rooms at the hotel."
"Yeah." Nick put the phone in the cradle. "Fuck you, you Colombian faggot. There's more that one clan of spics in this country."
Nana was not happy about the plan. "Why bother? Just sell both coins."
Rhonda took an umbrella from the back hall closet. "Too many partners. We can get more for one on our own. Besides, with one of the coins in the feds hands ours becomes more valuable." She stepped out the side door as lightning flashed overhead.
She closed the white Javelin's door as Nana yelled, "What about Bernie?"
Rhonda rolled the driver's window down a crack. "I'll protect him." She did before and she'd do it this time. Big drops pelted the car.
The rain slowed as Rhonda parked two blocks east of the Federal Building. The air smelled fresh washed as she walked south on Van Buren and cut through the YWCA to cross to the side entrance of the gray stone courthouse. She asked three people for agent Allen Durone before she located his office on the inner ring of the fourth floor. The door was unlocked, but the office was empty. A lit cigarette balanced uneasily on a green glass ashtray. She took a seat in a heavy wooden armchair cross from the desk. He must be around.
When Durone walked in he was still brushing water from the front of his pants and did not immediately notice Rhonda.
"Can I help you with that?" she asked. Christ, it's the same brown suit. Doesn't the government pay these guys enough to have more than one set of clothes?
The federal agent jerked upright, frowned, then grinned. "If you'd like."
Rhonda smiled. The fuzz was bent. Good to know. "Not just now. We have more important things to talk about."
He took a seat across from her, then reached for the dying cigarette, took a final drag and crushed it out. "Like what?"
Rhonda crossed her legs to show him a hint of thigh. "A gold bird, Agent Durone. A forty-one year old gold bird."
The flight from hell, the trip other people bragged about when they played "top this." Now, Bernie had his own story. An early spring snowstorm made things crazy in Denver both coming and going. The only reason he could move after the thumping in San Francisco was because of the airline's generosity with free booze. The cab from the airport dropped him off at his house just before three in the morning. He didn't feel the cold as he climbed the porch to the front door. He heard a car door close, but gave it no mind. He fumbled with his keys, unable to locate the one required.
"Need some help?" Rhonda asked.
He twisted around to get a better look at his questioner. The pain shot up his right leg where Dallas Fanning applied the cattle prod and he fell. "Hi, how ya doin'?"
"Are you drunk?"
He considered Rhonda's face. "God, I hope so."
She took the keys from his hand and opened the door. "Okay let's get you inside." She pulled on his right arm and helped him to his feet.
He stumbled through the door and found a seat on the stairs to the second floor. "Thanks, sweetie," he slurred.
She pulled on his left arm to get him up again. "Come on, Bernie. Let's get you upstairs and in bed."
With his right hand he steadied himself against the wall and made it to the midway landing where he sat down. "Say, is that little shit Smith with you? I hope so. I'd really like to pound the crap out of him."
"Would you now?" she asked.
"Yup, beat that little cock sucker into a bloody pulp. And then, then ... I'd piss on him."
"Really?"
"Yup, is he around?"
"No he's not. It's just me."
"Nuts."
"Well, thanks."
"You're welcome."
She tugged on his arm again. "Come on, just a few more steps and you're in bed."
He staggered to his feet. "My bed, that sounds good." At the top of the stairs he worked hard to focus on her face. "Hi Rhonda."
"Hello Bernie."
"Are you gonna put me to bed?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
"That's okay."
"I gotta tell you about my trip."
"Tomorrow will be fine."
He made it to the bed where he sat down hard. "Little bastard set me up."
She stripped off his shirt and shoes, then knelt to loosen his belt and pull off his pants.
He looked down at her. "Are we gonna screw, Rhonda?"
"No, Bernie, you're just going to bed."
"Oh good, cause every time we screw you leave me. I don't want you to leave me. Besides, it makes sex seem like a consolation prize. Messes up ... libido."
She pulled off his pants and he fell back on the bed. When she took his ankles to turn him around she saw the burns on his leg and the bruises on his stomach. She touched them gently and in his stupor he struggled against his pain. It was then she saw the bruises on his chest. "Oh Bernie, what happened to you?"
"Just a little payback for Smith's blackmail."
He passed out.
On the drive home Rhonda knew she would have to work hard to keep this deal on track. Bernie wouldn't be worth talking with until the afternoon.
Bernie held a quart can of tomato juice. Dressed in a tan flannel bathrobe, he answered the door. Rhonda walked right past him into the house. He shut the door and shuffled after her.
She took off her coat and tossed it on the couch. "You look pretty bad. How do you feel?"
"I need a nap."
"Do you feel like talking about the trip?"
"If we're going to do that, I'll need a couple hours sleep or a couple of stiff drinks." He burped.
She took his left hand and led him toward the stairs. "Go take a shower, and we'll talk."
He followed without complaint. Half an hour later and wet from a shower, he came down in jeans and an old University of Wisconsin sweatshirt. Rhonda sat in the darkening house reading his Penthouse magazines under a single lamp in the living room.
"Hot stuff," she said without looking up. "How you feelin'?"
"Better." He touched the copy in her hands. "But, if we're going in that direction give me a little more time."
She closed the magazine and dropped it on the maple floor. "Okay, tell me about your trip."
He sat down next to her. "That's a whole different road."
She nudged him and he spilled out all his venom and misgivings about the coin auction. Rhonda let him talk and rant until he was out of gas.
"All good stuff, but we have to do it," she said.
"Why? These are dangerous assholes."
"Because they wouldn't take kindly to us backing out." She took his hand and looked him in the eye. "And, I want the money."
"What about Smith?"
"We'll handle him after the deal is done. Stick with me on this. We'll be okay."
They walked the three blocks down to a little Italian place on Brady Street and ate spaghetti. She ordered a glass of wine. He drank several ginger ales. Just after they got their spumoni she said, "Those girls in Penthouse looked like they were having a good time. Could you help a girl out?"
When the big day came around, Bernie's bruises were not a problem for him. The smell of burnt jet fuel however, irritated him while he stood in the dank lobby of the O'Hare Airport Hotel. Across the red carpeted expanse, the elevator doors opened. Rhonda and Henry Koppelstein, the coin shop owner, stepped out.
"Hi, Bernie. You remember Henry?" she asked.
"Sure." They shook hands.
She turned to the shop owner. "You got your stuff?"
He tapped the wide brown briefcase in his left hand. "Everything I need."
"You bring your certificate?"
He nodded.
"Bernie, would you take Henry to the room? It's 619. Nick won't let him in," Rhonda said. "I'll be right along."
Henry went over to the elevator while Bernie stayed behind to have a word with Rhonda. "Did you tell him?"
"Tell who what?"
"Henry, did you tell him about the coin?"
"Sure." She brushed the lapel of Bernie's gray pin-stripped suit and adjusted his maroon tie. "You do clean up nice."
He followed her gaze while she watched an Asian woman and a Hispanic man dodge the heavy traffic as they crossed to the hotel from the terminal. Two of our customers? Maybe not.
"You better go," she said
When he and Henry stepped into the elevator and faced forward, Bernie saw the ethnic couple walk up to Rhonda.
Nick opened the door to 619 as Bernie reached for the knob.
"How's it goin', shit for brains?" Nick asked.
Bernie gave a stiff smile. "Good. How about you, dwarf?"
"Fuck you."
"You're not my type, short round."
Henry cleared his throat. Nick eyeballed the bearded man.
"You the coin expert?"
"Certified numismatist." Henry said.
"Fine, come in." Nick pointed to a table by the windows in the front of a group of chairs. "Set up over there."
While Henry unpacked, Bernie looked around the room. It was some sort of gay '90's décor with flocked red wallpaper - a smaller version of the lobby. Six people sat silently on institutional meeting chairs. One group appeared to be made up of a middle aged man in a well-tailored suit, a kid in a sport coat that was too big for him, and someone who looked like a dressed gorilla. The other three appeared to be by themselves: a heavy man in a suit with cowboy boots, the Klansman from Atlanta - a tan guy in chinos and deck shoes, the senator's kinky son, and an elderly woman in a nice dress and pearls, probably one of Rhonda's contacts. The kid pointed at Henry and whispered to the well-dressed man, who nodded.
Just as he finished, Rhonda walked in with the couple from the lobby. She pointed at Nick, who made a phone call.
"Welcome, everyone," she said. "The coin will be here in a minute."
There was a knock at the door and two security guards entered. One was an older man with a limp. The other was the immense Samoan. Bernie almost soiled himself, but Rudolph never looked in his direction.
The older guy handed a manila envelope to Rhonda. When they left the room she said, "Lady and gentlemen, here is the coin you've been waiting for." Everyone crowded around the table as she tore the envelope open. She poured the naked coin out into a glass dish on the table and stepped back. It rattled expensively for a moment then lay still.
"If you want to handle it, put on the cotton gloves you were given," Nick said.
Everyone dug for their gloves and passed the gold piece around for five minutes. No one said a word.
The chubby kid took out a jeweler's glass, screwed it into his eye socket and gave the coin a lengthy inspection. He nudged the man in the expensive suit and nodded. "Okay, now who's gonna do the specific gravity and the acid test?" the kid asked.
"That would be him." Rhonda pointed at Henry. "He's certified."
The kid nodded and placed the coin back into the glass dish with a slight scraping sound. "I've done this before. Mind if I help?"
"No problem, just be careful." Henry explained what the kid was going to do with the aqua regia, and what the specific gravity test would mean. First, he smoked a ten penny nail with the acid then he dripped it on the coin. Everybody held their breath.
It was the first time Henry got a good look at the coin and the color in his face faded. He looked at Bernie with sort of a blank stare, then mouthed something like "Mother fucker." He could have been referring to any number of things, but Rhonda probably misrepresented the situation to Henry in some significant way, like maybe the date on the coin. It was certainly the first time he knew he was dealing with a 1933 Double Eagle.
Bernie smiled and nodded. Without a doubt, that was his girl.
"What's going on?" the young guy in the deck shoes asked.
"N ... Nothing," Henry said as he licked his lips.
"That's the way it's supposed to be, if it's gold," the kid said.
"What's next?" Cowboy Boots asked.
"Now we're going to prove it's gold all the way through," the kid said.
With a slightly shaky hand Henry gave a graduated cylinder to the kid. "Get 50 milliliters of water."
When Henry was done with the specific gravity test the kid made the calculations and announced "If this isn't a genuine 1933 Double Eagle, nobody will be able to tell the difference anyway."
Bernie could hear everyone start breathing again. There were smiles all around. The little woman in the print dress asked, "Do you have any paperwork to back-up your claims on this coin?"
Rhonda took out the letters sealed in document protectors and passed them around.
Bernie leaned into her. "Who's the old gal?"
"Nick's acquaintance from Omaha."
He nodded.
Nick handed out sodas. No booze. The senator's kid was getting antsy, but the other participants were calm. There were only five bidders. But, who knew, maybe the old lady harbored a real jones for illicit treasure.
After a few minutes the man in the expensive suit spoke. "The letter mentions several coins, but we're only talking about one here. Where are the rest?"
"I don't know," Rhonda said. "This is all we have."
The Mexican asked, "Can we get going now?"
"Sure," she said. "Who'd like to open the bidding for half a million?"
Bernie held his breath. The room was dead silent. Shit!
"Okay then, quarter of a million?"
Still nothing. Aw damn.
"One-hundred thousand?"
"Sure," said the senator's child molesting son.
Whew.
"How about, one-fifty?"
The kid nudged his uncle. The mobster raised his left hand.
Okay, not great, but Rhonda got them rolling. Bernie looked at Nick in the corner casually watching the room.
"Do I have two-hundred?"
Nobody spoke.
Damn!
"One-seventy-five?"
"One-seventy-five," said the old woman.
Bernie didn't expect that, and from the expressions on the faces of the other people in the room, neither did they. That was nice.
"Two-hundred?"
"One-eighty," the Mexican said.
Oh, oh the pace was dropping. Don't let it drop Rhonda.
"One-eighty five," the Klansman from Atlanta said.
Good, another bidder.
"One-ninety," the senator's kid added.
The mobster consulted with his nephew. "Two hundred-fifty."
Not bad for starters. Bernie watched everyone else look at the man and his nephew. Okay Rhonda, keep it going.
"Lady and gentlemen I have two hundred and fifty-thousand dollars. Do I have a bid for two seventy-five?"
Silence and more silence. Don't let it slip. Keep up the pace.
"Come on folks," Rhonda said. "A quarter of a million is a fraction of what this coin is worth. I'm not going to let it go for that kind of money."
The mobster said, "You didn't put any reserve on the piece. You need to sell it for the highest bid, without regard to the amount."
No!
"Forget about it," she said.
That a girl!
"He's right," said the Mexican. "Stick to your word. On top of that this thing is hot as hell."
"Screw you."
"Two-fifty-five," said Henry Koppelstein from his chair at the table in the front of the room.
"What?" said the Senator's kid.
"Two-fifty-five. I've got that and more. Is my money good?"
Way to go Henry! Bernie almost got up and kissed him.
Rhonda smiled. "Sure, I've got two ... "
"Three hundred," the man from Atlanta said.
Better, better. Rhonda looked at Henry, who shook his head. Well, at least they got a couple more bucks.
The bidding took off, then stopped at four-hundred and thirty-five thousand. Damn, less than a quarter of its worth. Come on, Rhonda, pump it up. She remained cool.
The old woman stood, said, "I'm out," and left the room.
Well, that wasn't unexpected. Still, Bernie hated to see the competition drop. He watched her leave and thought that she looked slightly familiar. When the door closed, he turned his attention back to the auction.
The men began to move the bidding again, but it stalled out at four ninety to the Klansman from Atlanta. Still too low! The Mexican went to four ninety-five followed by five hundred grand by the senator's son.
The mobster looked at the kid who nodded, but he said, "No, I'm through."
Rhonda! Say something. Where was all this brass about ringing money from the idiots at the rail? Come on, honey! Don't let it go for this!
The three remaining men looked at each other. The Mexican shrugged. The man from Atlanta said, "It's yours."
"No, it's mine," Nick said. The metallic sound of a revolver being cocked filled the silence.
The dressed ape with the capo reached into his coat. The Mexican produced a large pistol from the Asian girl's handbag and stuck the barrel into the guy's neck. "Just relax you big guinea."
"I'm Polish."
"I don't care."
The door to the room exploded off its hinges.
"Federal agents!" came the high pitched cry from the biggest Samoan Bernie ever knocked unconscious, all be it with the assistance of a fifteen foot fall onto rocks in the Menomonee River bed. A crowd of agents poured into the room.
Bernie put his head in his hands and said, "Shit. Just shit." There went his law license.
Without warning Rhonda reached in her purse, pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Nick. "You double crossing little turd!" She fired a round in his direction which hit the wall just above his head. Nick sat on the floor as the color in his face slipped to gray while the pistol fell from his hand.
Bernie turned toward Rhonda. Another shot was fired and a bright red flower bloomed on her chest. He opened his mouth to call her name, but nothing came out. She looked at him, eyes wide with disbelief, and collapsed. The big southeast islander pounced on Bernie, knocking him cold. He came around just in time to see the ambulance team wheel Rhonda out.
The feds processed the group upstairs for three hours before they took the elevator down to the lobby. Bernie asked everyone he saw where Rhonda was, but they all ignored him. The lobby of the hotel was ablaze with television lights from every news crew in the city of Chicago. They screamed a dozen indiscernible questions. Someone threw a towel over Bernie's head and lead him away.
Sometimes being short could be a disadvantage for Nick Smith, but at this moment he was thrilled to be the size he was. The plan to steal the coin at the auction had gone completely out the window when the feds busted in. That bitch tried to kill him. Rhonda was dead now. He heard the shot and saw the blood as she fell. Two more shots sounded on the other side of the bathroom door. He'd have to think about how to get his film back, but not right now. Time to ditch Halieto and execute a variation on his escape arrangement.
The muscle Lucerio had provided him consisted of two housemaids at the hotel. Initially, Nick was unimpressed, but that changed when he slipped into the bathroom adjoining the auction room. Per the plan he pulled the panel from under the sink and crawled into the utility access way between two suites. It was a space where a thin man of normal height could move and work on the plumbing with difficulty. The area between the walls gave Nick plenty of space to maneuver.
The shouting and screaming from the other room were muted in his hideaway. He took a moment to catch his breath and adjust to his surroundings. Immediately, a light shown above him and a woman called, "Mistar Neek." in a husky whisper. He looked up and saw one of Lucerio's maids.
"Climb up the pipes," she said. "Hurry!"
He did as he was told. On the floor above, she led him out of the crawl space to another bathroom.
He stood. "What now?"
She pointed to a maid's cart in the adjoining bedroom. "In there. We'll take you down to the loading dock."
He fit comfortably in with the toilet paper and the little bottles of shampoo. It was a five minute ride to the dock in the bowels of O'Hare Airport. Nick stood and thanked his helpers.
"Cross the road to the other dock. That is the main terminal. Take the stairs to the left and go up to gate B9."
Nick nodded and thanked them again. He followed instructions until he reached the arrivals level, one floor down from the gates. From that point, he ran through the tunnels to the parking garage next to the hotel. His car was on the green level, whichever floor that might be, he didn't know or care.
At the top of the stairwell he looked over the ledge onto the road between the hotel and the central terminal at O'Hare. Cops were all over the place. A blue uniformed man and woman muscled a gurney into the back of a fire department ambulance. The body on the cart was covered in a sheet, but Nick caught a glimpse of red. It didn't look positive for the schmuck in the ambulance. Maybe Rhonda? Can't do anything about that. Time to go.
Out among the cars he tried to calm himself while he trotted up and down the aisles looking for the rented Matador. Where the hell did he leave it! There it was, four rows to his left. The car jerked abruptly backward, and then lurched forward with squealing tires. Smith could see Leon at the wheel, with Stan in the passenger seat. As they turned out of the row onto the aisle that lead to the exit ramp the rear window exploded. The car shot forward with rear tires smoking.
While the screeching echoed in the parking ramp, Nick looked back the way the car had fled. Mendez stood in the aisle with a pistol pointed at the fleeing vehicle. Little puffs of smoke rose from the silencer on the barrel of the revolver.
As much as he disliked Leon and Stan, Smith did not consider Mendez's attempt to murder them a good omen for himself. He hid behind a blue Volvo station wagon to reconsider his options. A cold wind whipped through the damp parking structure.
Nick retraced his steps to the arrival terminal. There wasn't any problem mixing in with the people picking up their baggage at the carousels. In two minutes he was in a cab headed away from the airport and total disaster. The traffic jammed to a halt.
Nick leaned forward and talked through the sliding door of the plexiglass partition that separated the back seat of the cab from the front. "What's the problem?"
"Sumin's blockin' da road up ahead," the ebony man at the wheel said.
Nick looked out the rear window at the cop cars a block and a half behind them. "I thought all the trouble was back there."
"Trouble all over today, man."
"Can we get around?"
Other cabs pulled up tightly next to theirs. "No, we stuck. Just relax. We go when we go."
Nick leaned back in the seat as he rubbed his right hand through his hair. Four cabs in front and to the left a woman was climbing between the cars. He stuck his head though the door in the plexiglass to get a clearer look. "No."
He fell onto the backseat then tried to open the cab door only to find that the vehicle beside them had his door pinned.
"Hey, jerkoff what ya bangin' up my cab for?" the hack driver next to him yelled.
Nick rolled the window down and pulled himself half way out to get a better look. The woman just made it beyond the last car in the jam. "Son-of-a-bitch." He took a deep breath to yell her name, but stopped. This was information he could use. Better she doesn't know that he knows her secret. Rhonda dashed into the shadows of the parking lot.
The lights went out for Bernie when he reached the hotel lobby. It was as if someone flipped a switch. He coughed awake in the ambulance to the smell of ammonia as they drove along the John F. Kennedy Freeway, but was out again in a flash. Later, he did a repeat performance seated in a chair in a mint green room with fogged, chicken-wire glass windows. He thought that the air tasted like three day old smoke.
"How ya doin' sport?' someone asked from behind him.
Bernie twisted right to see who it was, but was restrained by a handcuff that secured his left wrist to the arm of the institutional wood chair. He twisted the other way and saw a fat man in a rumpled brown suit leaning in a corner of the room. A sharp pain jabbed him in the right side and took his breath away. Bernie returned to his forward facing position and panted. "Ah, shit."
"Rudy can be a load," the man said.
Bernie reviewed the last few things he remembered until he reached the point where Rudolph pounced on him. "Oh yeah." He clutched his ribs as the pain attacked again. Rhonda and the red stain on her chest came to mind. "Where's Rhonda?"
The man walked up to Bernie's side. "What were you doin' at the hotel?"
Bernie remained doubled over and thought. "I'm a coin collector. Someone said there was an auction. I came."
The man smacked the back of his head with a hand. "You weren't trying to sell stolen Government property or anything like that?"
"No. Where's Rhonda?"
"Don't bullshit me. Rudy recognized you from before. You were in on the whole deal."
"Last time I saw that guy, he attacked me. We did not have much of a conversation. If you got a problem with me then book me. If not, let me go."
The guy hit him again.
Bernie smiled at brown suit. "You got nothin'."
The guy hit him once more and walked out.
"Where's Rhonda?" Bernie strained forward then slumped back in the chair and closed his eyes against the single florescent fixture hanging from the ceiling. Where was Rhonda? How was she? He replayed the scene in his mind, the shots, the red stain, the look on her face. His head throbbed. Shit, she was dead. "Fuck." He brought his free hand to his face and rubbed his eyes with the fingers. Something hurt deep inside and it wasn't his ribs. The feeling started in his gut. It wasn't pain. He gulped for air. His fingers felt hot and wet. "Ah!" He pounded the arm of the chair. Was she dead? No, couldn't be, no. Get a grip. She was gone and he couldn't do anything about that. Who was he sorry for, Rhonda or himself? Either way his emotions were wasted. Need to control yourself. This is a tight spot.
Just before dawn, an unmarked cop car dropped Henry and Bernie off at a George Webb's all night diner on the south side of Milwaukee. Bernie had asked a hundred questions for the first ten minutes of the ride from Chicago. All were variations on, "Where is Rhonda?" The two stiffs in the front seat of the squad car never responded. He never asked the question that burned in his mind, "Why did she do it?"
As he and Henry sat in the diner eating their eggs, someone dropped a copy of the Chicago Sun Times by the cash register. The headline read, "Two Million Dollar Coin Recovered."
Henry looked over from his coffee. "Nuts."
"Exactly."
Bernie had to know more about Rhonda, because right now he didn't know much. No one explained anything to him during his entire time in custody. No "You're under arrest," or "You're free to go," or "We're charging you ... " Zip. Just a couple of "Sit here," and one "Get out of the car," at Webb's.
Henry shared a cab with him to his house on the east side. On the porch Bernie asked, "Did you see her?"
"Who?"
"Rhonda. Did you see her after the cops broke in?"
"When the shooting started I kept my head down."
Bernie's hand shook as he unlocked the front door and they went in.
"You got anything to eat?" Henry asked.
"Sure." Bernie pointed toward the kitchen then followed Henry. "Did you see her after that?"
Henry opened and closed two cabinet doors. "You got any cereal?"
Bernie went into the pantry and returned with a box of frosted something or others. "Did you?" His shoulders ached.
Henry took the box and opened the refrigerator door. "Did I what?"
"Did you see Rhonda after the shooting stopped?"
With a half-gallon carton of milk in hand, Henry stood straight and bit his lower lip. "No. Where are your bowls?"
Bernie pointed at a cabinet. "You didn't see them wheel her out on the stretcher?"
"Spoons?"
Bernie opened a drawer and gave him one. "Did you?"
"I'm thinking." He took a seat and prepared a bowl of cereal.
"Henry."
"Hey, all that shooting really freaked me out." He spooned food into his mouth.
"Obviously, it didn't depress your appetite."
"Everything was moving fast. Let me sort it out." He ate some more.
Bernie took some orange juice from the refrigerator, then sat across from Henry.
"I saw them wheel out the stretcher. There was blood on the sheet."
"And ..."
"That was her, huh?"
"Yes. Was she moving?"
Henry took another spoonful of cereal. "No."
Bernie slumped in his chair. Fatigue was oozing into his muscles.
"No, I didn't see her."
Bernie sat up. "What do you mean?"
The spoon clicked on the table. "I saw the stretcher, but I didn't see Rhonda."
Bernie's head pounded. This was not helpful. His body felt like lead as he stood.
Henry took his bowl to the sink. "Go to bed."
"I am."
"Okay if I sack out on your couch?"
Henry awoke to someone leaning on the doorbell. They stopped, then began pounding on the door. As he raised himself from the couch he thought that he must have fallen asleep again in front of the tube. He started out watching Merv Griffin. At the moment, the noon news was on. Henry pulled his wrinkled suit coat tight around his pear-shaped body. "Hold on, hold on, I'm coming."
He stumbled out of the living room to the front door where the caller resumed punching the doorbell. A kid dressed in a bad suit coat stood on the front porch looking through one of the thin windows that went around the door. Henry adjusted his glasses to get a better view. Christ, it was Knickerbocker Smith! His eyes were bloodshot and bugged out. He needed a shave and Henry didn't care for the crazed look on his face.
Shoulders twitching, Nick abruptly leaned close to the door and spoke "I have a document for a Mr. Bernard Keagan."
"What the hell are you talking about Smith?"
"He needs to sign for it."
"Go sober up and come back tomorrow."
Nick pounded on the door. "Come on, this has to be taken care of today. Maybe you can sign for it." He danced from one foot to the other.
Henry backed away from the door.
Waving one arm, Nick yelled, "Open the door, you faggot." He drew a revolver out of his belt and pumped three shots into the lock. Splinters of wood and glass flew into the foyer and the door swung open.
Henry dove under the desk in the living room.
Nick stepped into the foyer and stopped to look around. He walked into the living room on the left and stood in front of the desk. "Stand up, asshole," he said in a high-pitched voice. Henry crawled out. Nick put the gun under Henry's chin.
"Where is she, dip shit?"
"Wh.. Wh.. Who?"
"Lapinski, numb nuts. Who else?"
"What? You were there. She's dead. Look, I just woke up."
Nick put his gun arm down to his side. He punched Henry in the jaw as hard as he could with his right hand. The numismatist fell to the floor in a heap.
Nick tramped upstairs screaming, "Rhonda! Rhonda! Where the hell are you?" He kicked in the first door he came to at the top of the landing and fired two shots. A closet. He kicked in the next one and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on a spent shell casing. "Fuck!" Nick reloaded and fired twice into the empty bedroom.
He kicked at the next door, but it was locked. He fired two rounds into the offending mechanism. The door flew open on a dark room. Nick roared, "I know you're in there, Rhonda. Keep your fuckin' coin I want my movie." The house was quiet. He stepped up to the enterance with his gun pointed forward. He took a step into the bedroom.
The first shots woke Bernie. Now, he sweated in his blue and white striped boxers. He stood in the dark, against the wall with the baseball bat that he kept under the bed. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose. He pushed them back in place. When the door flew open, he raised the bat over his head. He saw the hand with the gun come through and swung down. Luckily, he hit the hand and the gun dropped to the floor. A shot went off.
Nick screamed and pulled back onto the landing. He stood in the hall and held his damaged hand as he looked at it. Bernie took a step forward and lunged at him with the bat. Nick stepped aside. Bernie hit the wall and went down. Nick ran. Bernie caught him on the stairs. They rolled to the bottom where Bernie hit his head and lost his glasses along with his grip on the little man.
"Damn," Nick moaned as he rolled over and got to his knees. He stumbled to his feet and staggered toward the door.
Bernie sat up.
Nick turned back toward his attacker. "You dumb bastard." He limped to the front door. "She's alive, asshole. She scammed us."
Bernie watched the little son-of-a-bitch and concluded the guy was on something pretty strong. Not thinking too well himself, he dashed barefoot through the broken glass and splinters to tackle the asshole just as he was about to step off the porch. A pretty good hit for a guy who hadn't done anything like that since high school. He got the little bastard right in the middle of the back. He locked his arms around Nick as they flew off the front porch onto the concrete walk. Nick broke Bernie's fall with his face. After a moment, Bernie rolled over and sat down on the walkway. He looked at his scraped knees and knuckles. That last move might not have been his finest, but good enough.
Mrs. Mauer, Bernie's neighbor, yelled at the cops as they rolled up in a cruiser. "They're right there! Right there!" The two policemen approached with drawn pistols while Bernie pointed at the prone figure, breathlessly uttering, "Bad guy," then raised his hand, "Good guy." With blood running down his shins, he looked at one of the officers. "This guy is on something. I hit him with a baseball bat and he just kept goin'." As one officer cuffed the intruder and the other helped Bernie to his feet. They moved to the house where he saw Henry's crumpled body. "Somebody's down here."
As one cop went inside a yellow AMC Javelin quietly rolled to a halt before the group on the sidewalk. A shot sounded and Bernie felt as if his right leg had caught fire. Nick jumped up and ran toward the car. Bernie tried to run after the little man, but the injured leg gave out and he went to his knees. "How do you know?"
Two more shots sounded. Nick dropped on the lawn. A burning cigar butt flew out the passenger's window as the car accelerated up the block and turned left on Brady Street.
The cop on the ground next to Bernie got up on his hands and knees. "Jesus! You're hit."
Bernie looked down at his leg. A dark red stain soaked his shorts. "Well, shit." He tried to touch the leg with his right hand, but that side of his body was numb. Just before he lost consciousness on the ride to St. Mary's Hospital, he wondered why Nick would lie about Rhonda.
The smell of smoke woke Bernie from a restless sleep. Half-conscious, he realized that smoke in a hospital was a bad thing and bolted awake. In the dark he could make out the fuzzy, red glow of something burning across the room. He switched on the headboard light while fumbling for his glasses. "Who ... who the hell are you?"
The red glow moved from the head of the shadowed figure to the armrest of his chair. "Hello, Mr. Keagan. My name is Lucerio, a business associate of Mr. Smith's." The glow at the end of his cigar went to a red-orange as the visitor took a deep draw. "Sorry to disturb you, but this is an opportune time to talk."
"What do you want?" Bernie felt he should ask, but something inside him really didn't care.
"Let's go for a short walk?"
Bernie leaned forward to try and see into the darkness. "What?"
"Mr. Mendez will help you." A tall thin man in a black shirt and pants stepped out of the darkest corner of the room with a wheelchair. He tossed off the sheet covering Bernie's wrecked body and began to lift him.
"Hey, hey, what the hell ..." Bernie tried to resist until his body responded with a stabbing pain. One good thing about pain, it cleared your mind.
"Please Mr. Keagan, relax. We need your assistance. Mr. Mendez will not harm you unless he has to."
Bernie considered his options as he landed in the chair and decided to keep still. He took a close look at the man with the cigar when he opened the door onto the silent hall. From Bernie's seated position, the smoker looked to be under six feet, slicked-back black hair, clean shaven, tan suit, white shirt, no tie.
The hall was dimly lit while a strong light from the nurses' station sixty or seventy feet away. His visitors rolled him into the dark, down to another room. Inside a figure lay on the bed with the green lights of monitors bouncing on small screens. At first Bernie thought it was a kid.
Mendez pushed Bernie to the side of the bed where he could look at the face of Knickerbocker Smith. The little shit didn't look good. As a machine made rhythmic breathing sounds, Bernie said so.
Lucerio fingered the drip tube. "You're right. What is more important, Nick is not much use to me just now." He blew a benediction of fine Cuban smoke over Smith's body. "And, you are."
"Me?"
"Yes, Mr. Keagan, you're going to be a big help to me."
"How?"
"I will explain." He waved his cigar over Nick. "Friends of mine from South America backed one of Nick's recent film productions. It seems to have been stolen."
"I'm sorry, but ... "
Lucerio held up his cigar for silence. "Nick was trying to recover it or provide us with an alternative reimbursement."
Bernie puzzled for a moment then the inference became clear. "The '33 Double Eagle?"
"Very astute."
"The feds have it now. It's gone." So's Rhonda.
"I know." The tip of the cigar glowed orange. "Unfortunately so is Miss Lapinski. Now we must recover the movie."
Bernie looked at Smith comatose in the bed. "We?"
"You and I and Mr. Mendez."
"What?" Bernie came six inches out of the chair before the pain pulled him back down. "I haven't the foggiest idea what this film is or where to begin looking for it."
"Take it easy. Save your strength," Lucerio said.
While Bernie gasped for breath, his mind raced for a way out of this jam. "I can't ... I can't even get around. It'll be weeks, maybe months of rehab. What makes you think I can help you?"
Lucerio walked over and stuck the index finger of his left hand into Bernie's temple. "Your friend, Rhonda, took our property. You will think of something."
"She's dead." He didn't know if he believed it. Or, maybe he just wanted to believe Nick. Believe Nick, there was a disturbing thought. But, if that story would get this guy off his ass that was okay, too.
The Lucerio remained placid and drew on the cigar. What did he care about the puta? With Nick out of action Bernie would have to be his man. Press him. "Then she will not need it." He blew the smoke out. "But, we still have to recover our property. You are the one person who best knew how she thought."
"What about her sister and brother." Mention Nana. No, protect her. Where was Nana?
"They all said it was you. You were her soul mate." He nodded to Mendez and the pair left the room.
Bernie sat in the overheated room with Knickerbocker as his heartbeat bounced along on the monitors. What was this film? Why did Rhonda take it? More to the point, where was it? Soul mate? Was he her soul mate? Oh, man. On top of all that, no one but the greedy little twerp and he knew Rhonda's secret. "Well." Bernie rubbed his chin with his good hand. "How about that?"
Bernie was jerked back into the antiseptic silence of Smith's room. He must have dozed off. Someone spun his chair around. It came to an abrupt halt when two hands reached out of the dark and grabbed the arm rests.
"Hey, how ya doin'?" Leon leaned forward and breathed in Bernie's face.
Startled and trapped, Bernie turned his head in a vain attempt to avoid the smell of garlic, onion and cheap beer that circled his head. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, do you ever brush your teeth?"
Leon breathed on him again. Stan stood back in the shadow. His third-hand suit looked like the guy had slept in it.
"Breathe on me again and I'll puke on your shoes," Bernie said. This parade of thugs was a real pain in the ass.
Leon leaned back. "Well, ya don't have to be insultin'."
Stan turned from Nick's bed to Bernie. "Were's the dough?"
Bernie coughed. "What dough?"
Stan reached down and squeezed Bernie's injured leg. "Where's the money from the auction, shit-for-brains?"
Bernie dug his fingers into Stan's wrist with his good hand until the stinking bum loosened his grip. "There isn't any money, you idiot."
Stan poked Bernie's chest with his right index finger. "What'd ya mean, no money?"
Bernie slapped the offending hand again and noticed that Stan's left arm was in a sling. He kicked it with his good foot. The grubby thug jumped away and howled.
Leon clapped a hand over his son's mouth to keep him quiet. "Shut up!" he hissed. "You want to get the nurse down here?"
Tears glinted in Stan's eyes as he struggled to bring his pain under control. He rushed at Bernie, who kicked a leg in the attacker's general direction. Stan stopped and backed into the shadows.
When everyone caught their breath, Stan asked again, "What'd ya mean, no money?"
Bernie adjusted himself in his wheelchair. "Don't you guys read the newspapers? We were busted by the feds just as the auction was ending."
"Then where's the coin?" Leon asked.
"The feds confiscated it, numb nuts," Bernie said.
"Bullshit," Stan said as he rushed toward Bernie again.
Bernie parried with his good leg in the direction of Stan's bad arm. The injured thug danced away.
"Where's Rhonda?" Leon blocked his son's next attempt to rush Bernie.
"She's dead." It hurt him to say the words, even though he hoped it might not be true.
That stopped the father and son for a moment. "Well, who the hell is goin' ta pay us our cut?" Stan asked.
"You dummy." Bernie raised himself up in the chair. "Rhonda's dead. The feds have the coin. There isn't any money. What part of that don't you get?"
"Somebody owes us," Leon said.
These guys were just too thick. Bernie reached for the nurse's call button on Smith's bed. "Who do you think owes you something? The feds?"
The silence was refreshing to Bernie.
Stan flapped his good arm. "I don't know, but someone does."
"You are too dumb to live," Bernie said.
The door to the hospital room swung open on a large black woman in a starched nurse's uniform. "What is goin' on in here?"
Bernie kicked Leon in the arm and dropped him to the floor. "These men came in to attack Mr. Smith. I'm trying to stop them."
The nurse clamped a hand on Leon's neck and the other on Stan's injured arm then dragged them out.
As the intruders whined down the hall, Bernie considered that it was time to wheel himself back to his own room. The procession of after-hours guests was tiring, but he didn't think he'd seen the last of either pair.
The moment Rhonda saw the second coin, she recognized that there wasn't anything to be gained by revealing its existence to Bernie. The situation required that he see just one, because showing him the other would give away an edge she wanted to keep for herself. She knew it wasn't fair to him. She felt bad about that, but she knew that feeling would pass in a few days.
At the time she snapped the hidden drawer closed she didn't know what that benefit might be. Still, it was something she didn't need to blab around. She would determine how to turn it to her advantage at some point. As the idea of the auction crystallized she understood how to use that knowledge.
Because a 1933 Double Eagle was the biggest of deals to coin collectors, Rhonda knew Hiram Standish was the man to buy it. He wasn't a coin collector, but he itched to have what others couldn't. Also, he was incredibly hot to get into her pants. She could sell him anything. The question always was what price he would pay for the coin? Though Hiram might be in serious heat over her, he was one hard bargainer.
The Puerto Rican kid had cut the ambulance off perfectly so that the crash blocked all three inner lanes of the O'Hare Airport terminal drive. With the drivers and the firemen distracted, Rhonda pulled the IV out of her arm and bolted out the backdoors of the truck. Traffic was already at a standstill. In stocking feet, she climbed between cars and on the bumpers of cabs to reach the parking lot, then dashed inside. Up one floor and turn left. The van was parked within one lane of the spot she told Nana to use.
One quick look around and she was inside. Strip off the clothing soiled with the red dye. Put on the clean outfit - skin tight jeans, padded bra, low cut tank top, blonde wig that needed the roots touched-up, and running shoes. Jam the old clothing in a gym bag and go. Two spots to the right was the white Chevy for the getaway.
One of the medics from her ambulance walked past her as she paid for parking. Though he gave her a second look, he went on without recognition. As she drove toward the Tri-State tollway, Rhonda appreciated the low level of traffic merging from the airport terminal. That accident must be driving the cops nuts. Next, the seven hour drive to Minneapolis to meet Nana for the flight to Vegas. The only fly in the ointment was the headline Rhonda saw as she waited to board the plane late that night - Double Driveby in Milwaukee.
Agent Darone wasn't going to be happy. On the other hand, she couldn't work the deal with the second coin from witness protection in nowhere, Iowa. Even if she testified, the case against Pelegraso was weak. His high priced lawyers would get him off. So, screw it.
The plane ride to Vegas gave Rhonda time to mull over the meaning of the shooting. It was too bad about Bernie, but the article said he was in stable condition. There wasn't anything she could do for him at the moment. Foremost, was it possible that her plan to sell the second Double Eagle to Hiram was compromised? She didn't think so, but the first coin was the only link between Bernie and Smith. Well crap, she'd have to watch Hiram closely to see if she could pick up any signals.
"Champagne?"
Rhonda looked up from her aisle seat to see a smiling stewardess. "No thanks."
"I'll have some," Nana piped in from the window seat. Glass in hand, she eyed her granddaughter. "Never knew you to pass up this stuff before."
"I need to be sharp for Hiram. I want to get this sale concluded right away."
Nana drank the flute dry. "An impudent little wine, dry with just a hint of the sweetness of the grape." She belched and rested the glass on the tray in front of her. "Well, look, he's gonna put off the negotiation, especially if you appear too anxious. He'll hope to let your nervous energy wear you down."
The stew came by and refilled Nana's glass.
"Oh, one thing," the old girl chimed in. "Alice mentioned that the cops found a cigar butt on her front lawn." She drained half her drink. "The unusual part is that the cop said it was Cuban."
"Really?" Rhonda asked.
"You betcha."
Rhonda smiled. Lucerio. The movie, not the coin. She felt her shoulders relax.
On the third champagne pass by the stewardess Rhonda asked, "Do you have any gin?" The woman smiled and returned shortly with a tiny bottle of Beefeaters and a cup of ice.
"That's the spirit," Nana said and drained the glass. "Drink up."
"Actually, I'm going to gargle with it just before I meet with Hiram."
In Vegas they took a suite in Hiram's hotel to get some beauty sleep and prepare for the big sales pitch. With the empty gin bottle in her purse Rhonda emerged from her bathroom, winked at Nana and picked up her Chicago newspapers. "Time to see the man." The afternoon shadows were lengthening quickly as she rode the glass elevator up to the highest floor in Las Vegas.
Just before Rhonda was ushered into Hiram's office she took a moment to consider the difference in her costume from the last time. Today she wore a tailored blue business suit and Chanel. Then it had been a blue thong accentuated by the glitter and feathers glued to her body. It was a different game. When she entered, Hiram stood in front of his desk while Elizabeth, his mother, sat next to him in a client's chair.
Rhonda went up to Hiram and kissed him chastely on his left cheek, then shook his mother's hand. In each case, she made sure she let them smell the gin on her breath. She could tell she was successful by the quick look exchanged between mother and son. At that point, Rhonda dropped the newspapers with the screaming headlines about the coin's price on the coffee table and took a seat in the chair opposite them. "Well, how've you been?"
"Good," Hiram said.
"Are you still interested in the Double Eagle?" Rhonda asked.
"I thought the government took it?" Elizabeth asked.
Rhonda smiled. "There is another."
"It is illegal to have it," Hiram said.
"Only in this country."
Elizabeth pointed to the newspapers. "You can't expect us to pay that ridiculous price."
"That's what its worth."
"Not in this country," Hiram said.
"Consider it an opportunity to give added value by providing a logistical enhancement," Rhonda replied.
"Moving it is risky," Hiram said.
"Consider it a bet."
He kept silent, but twisted his mouth into a sour face.
Rhonda shook her head. "Come on. Where are we, Peoria?"
"We're not paying that amount of money for the thing," Elizabeth said.
"The thing, as you say, is a genuine, un-circulated 1933 Double Eagle." Rhonda re-crossed her legs. "If you're not willing to pay that price, then you are not interested."
Everyone was quiet for very near to a full minute.
"We would need to see it." Hiram folded his arms.
"Certainly. It will require a trip out of the country."
"Half," Elizabeth said.
Rhonda suppressed her smile. They would go back and forth a bit more because Elizabeth liked to haggle, but they would have a deal. "For a million, I'll sell it out of the country." How's that for a first volley?
Ten minutes later Elizabeth said, "If you'll throw in the hotel and airfare, then we have a deal at $1.6 million."
"We have to see it," Hiram added.
Rhonda wanted to say that for $1.6 mill he could see what ever he liked, but resisted and said, "Of course."
Later that evening Rhonda called Hiram to talk about the movie. "There's a problem with my film." She touched the cold martini to her lips.
There was silence on the other end of the phone.
"I didn't have any idea until a few weeks ago, but I may have to cut a deal with Nick and his Colombian backers."
"No."
"Why not?"
"I want it."
"Great, you'll get a cut for recovering the property."
"No."
"You can't keep it, Hiram. This is business."
"But, Rhonda, please."
"No, these people are serious. Someone can get hurt or we can get a piece of the action. Get with it."
Hiram was silent on the other end of the phone.
Rhonda rolled out the big gun. "I'll tell Elizabeth."
More silence.
"This is business, Hiram. If you hang up on me I'll call Elizabeth, tell the whole story, and we'll do it anyway." Rhonda extracted the olive from the gin, put it between her front teeth and bit into it.
"No."
"No, what?" She sipped the gin.
"Don't tell my mother."
"I won't, sweetie, but I need the original."
"I'm keeping a copy for myself."
"There isn't any time." Rhonda smiled and winked at Nana. "Well, maybe. Get two first class copies made and send me the original. Will you do that?"
"Yes."
"I need it by Friday. You got a pencil?"
"Yes."
Rhonda touched her tongue to the rim of the glass. "Send it to ..."
The wind cut between the houses on Cass Street and sliced at Bernie's neck. He pulled the collar of his trench coat across his throat with his left hand while he steadied himself against the rear fender of Sam's Cadillac. The air smelled clean as it burned in his nose. He shivered. Six weeks in the hot house climate of a hospital had reduced his tolerance for the late fall belligerence of Lake Michigan weather. He looked at the bright cold sky while a gust stabbed in his left ear.
When four car doors slammed in rapid fire succession, he whipped his head around to take in the street before him. His mother, Judy, and Sam stood in the street on the other side of the car. Half a block south, up the car lined curb, two men crossed to his side. With the sun behind them, he could not clearly make them out, but they headed his way. Maybe cops.
"Hang on. We'll be right there," Bernie's mother said.
Ignoring the wind, Bernie raised his left hand to shield his eyes. He stooped slightly on his good right leg and groped for his cane on the Caddy's backseat. Hatless and dressed in well cut overcoats, the approaching strangers weren't local cops.
His mother walked up and reached past him into the car. "Here, let me get it for you."
Cane in hand, he straightened, put his weight on his good leg then relocated the two men on the sidewalk a house up from his. He squinted - Lucerio and Mendez. Where was a cop when you wanted one? His mother pulled his right arm and he stepped up on the curb. "I can make it." The three of them were on the sidewalk when the Columbians reached them.
"Hello, Bernie, glad to see you up and around." Lucerio's condensed breath raced out at a right angle to his mouth as he rubbed his reddened hands.
"So nice of you to stop," Bernie said.
"We were driving by when we saw you and decided to say hello. Is this your mother?"
Bernie looked to his right at the woman who held his arm. "I need to get inside and you need to get on with your business." His mother gave his arm a sharp squeeze. He looked Lucerio directly in the eyes. "Goodbye."
The five stood there while the wind made the elms creak.
"You know, I am sincerely glad to see you getting around," Lucerio said as he turned.
The trio climbed onto the porch then turned and watched the Columbian pair get into their car and drive away.
"Now we can go in," Bernie said as his mother and Sam hunched against the cold.
"Who was that?" Sam asked.
"Unwanted business acquaintances," he replied while his mother opened the front door.
Inside Bernie sat heavily on his couch and fell asleep in his topcoat. When he woke at dusk, there was a light on in the kitchen and someone was singing on either the radio or the television. The front rooms smelled of cherry wood shavings from where the carpenter had worked on the broken spindles in the upstairs railing. Bernie called, "Who's there?"
"Just me, Bernie," his mother said. She appeared in the hallway from the kitchen. "How are you doing? Are you hungry?"
"A little."
"I've got soup, a ham slice, some cold cuts. Whatever you like."
"Soup's good. Say, have you seen Rhonda's grandmother, Nana?"
"No, it's been months. Why do you ask?"
"No reason in particular. Just haven't seen her around."
The smell of the chicken soup was comforting. He ate it in the kitchen, then talked his mother into going home. The quiet felt unusual. During his weeks in the hospital, he'd hardly been alone. He sat and enjoyed the solitude until Rhonda jumped back into his thoughts. He could not think of her as dead. It had happened once in the hospital and the weight in his chest had him to gulping for air.
The kitchen clock ticked up to eight-fifty when his leg started to ache and drove her from his consciousness. In a tactic to avoid taking his pain pills he got up and began a slow walk around the first floor of his house, putting on lights as he went. He felt the softness of the wood shavings as he passed the repaired stairs.
Ten minutes later, sweating heavily, he downed two of his pain pills. "Shit," he gasped. "So much for being the tough guy." The faint bitter taste of the capsule remained on this tongue. He took another drink of water to wash it away.
With the pain in his leg evaporating, he went back into the living room. The maple box that held Nana's coins was tucked behind an end table. He slumped down on the couch and dragged the empty souvenir up next to him. "I didn't expect to see you." He open the lid and looked down on the green felt where the collection had been packed - fifty-six slots.
Bernie closed the lid and turned the box to open the slide where Rhonda found the '33 Double Eagle. The box looked like a Chinese puzzle. He remembered that she snapped the compartment closed immediately after removing the envelope and told him she knew how to open it again.
How did she do it? Press on the right front corner; push down on the other side; press up on the bottom? After four tries he heard the mechanism click and he pushed the left rear panel open.
He tilted the chamber toward the lamp to get a good look inside. The hiding place held a small wooden tray. He slid it out as a reaction from his pain pills caused his vision to blur.
The tray was hollowed out. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface - one, two. And, again - one indentation and a second. The drugs slowed his mind.
He counted out loud as he did it again. "One. Two. ... Two? Two." Bernie stood abruptly without his cane. "Two, there were two!" He touched the tray again and concentrated his focus. There were two hollow spots for two coins. "Damn." What had Rhonda done? "What was she thinking?" Crap, that was just like her, half the truth. "Ha." A tight smile crossed his face as his mind raced around the painkiller to recover some of his receding confidence. He was sore, but not surprised.
As the drugs rolled his inner ear he lost his balance and sat down abruptly. It was that type of change of subject that got him thinking about sleep. Bernie lay on the couch and smiled. "What the hell is she up to?"
The morning brought a blizzard. While he made coffee, he realized that the feds would have wanted the one coin Rhonda tried to auction. They would lay claim to it from the get go. Word would get out and they would want her. He took a cup and stood in the old bay window of his house. The dusty dry smell of air heated in the furnace drifted up from the grate in the floor.
The Samoan, Rudolph, he was in on the auction. She must have cut a deal. The wind blew the snow hard and rattled the antique glass in his windows. Who better to set a price than the government. Hell, it was a headline in the newspaper. If the feds knew about the other coin they would want it also. They didn't. Nobody did. Just Rhonda.
The question was still, who would buy the second coin? Rhonda didn't want it. She wanted the money it would bring.
Were all the buyers under arrest? He drank some coffee. Think, think. All except one, the old lady from Omaha. Maybe, she did have a jones for illicit treasure. Maybe there was another buyer, or not. Given his condition, what could he do about it?
The next two weeks were dominated with rehab and boredom. Daytime TV got old after the second day. Surprise, surprise, the state didn't lift his law license. They actually reinstated it, with a warning. He called Sam to start sending work to him. At Thanksgiving Bernie put his cane in the closet, and then Lucerio stopped by.
The lean Columbian walked into the living room and cleared a seat for himself in an easy chair by tossing the day's newspaper on the floor. "Bernie, may I call you Bernie?"
Mendez stepped into the entrance of the living room.
Bernie looked up at Mendez, the muscle. "Sure, why not."
"How's your thinking going?" He took a cigar case out of his suit coat, and looked around the room. "Do you have an ashtray?"
"No."
Lucerio nodded to Mendez who went into the kitchen. "So where would your friend, Rhonda, hide my movie?"
"Why would I give a shit?"
"Let me think." Lucerio sat down in a tan corduroy chair across from Bernie. "Curiosity, intimidation, financial reward."
"So, there is something in this for me?"
He pointed his cigar at Bernie. "It is possible that we could work something out."
"To get my eager involvement that something should be substantial."
"Right now there is a minus six-hundred thousand dollars in the pot. How much of that do you want?"
Bernie was silent.
"Mr. Mendez can provide intimidation."
Bernie smiled. "I can barely get around today. Hurting me won't get me moving any faster."
"There is always your mother."
"Leave her out of this."
"It's up to you."
Bernie wanted to tell the Columbian to fuck himself, but thought better of it. That reaction would lead to more threats and shouting with some "My mobsters are tougher than your drug lords," which wouldn't mean anything. Why show that card to this ass-wipe? No, take another tack. "Why would she take it in the first place?"
"Fair question. Rhonda was the star of the movie." Mendez returned with a saucer. Lucerio removed one of the three cigars in the holder.
"Really?" Bernie's leg twitched. He shifted his weight in the chair. "She didn't like Nick. By the way, how's he doing?"
"He's still in a coma." Lucerio nodded his approval and began the ritual of lighting his cigar. "She did not like him. I was unaware of that. It makes no difference."
"How big is this film? I mean, a couple of rolls of 8mm?"
"That is good. It is a 35 mm movie with a running time just over two hours." Lucerio laughed as he removed the cigar's end with a cutter. "She took the unfinished print and all the cuttings, six reels. Fifty, sixty pounds." He dropped the cigar tip in the saucer.
"Just out of curiosity, what kind of movie is it?"
He struck a wooden match. "Art House."
"Porn."
He twirled the cigar in the end of the flame as he lightly drew on it. "Some might say so."
"Really, and Rhonda's the star?"
Lucerio took a deep drag on his cigar and let the smoke roll out over his lips. "Yes."
"Hmm, does she have a costar in this film, anyone else I might recognize?"
"I don't know your tastes." With the cigar lit he blew out the match and placed it in the saucer on the end table. "Does this information help?"
"Maybe?"
They sat in silence while his Columbian guest smoked his cigar. Neither said a word. At first, Bernie thought it was some kind of contest about who could keep quiet longer, but Lucerio appeared to be relishing his stogie. He blew out a cloud of sweet smoke. "You know that Rhonda better be dead. If I find her I will give her to Mendez." He looked at his gunman. "Would you like that?"
The corners of the thug's mouth twitched upward.
Bernie's heart jumped in his chest as he fought to maintain his breathing. This sort of bullshit had to stop. Still no point in tipping his hand.
Lucerio took another puff. "He will kill her grandmother." He stood. "One more thing, Nick put together a list of clients who might buy our film. We want you to find that, too."
Breathe slowly. "Well sure, why the hell not."
Lucerio took a La Gloria Cubana from his pocket case and placed it on the table. "That is what I like to hear, a positive attitude." Lucerio made a pistol with his fingers, pointed it at Bernie and fired. "Keep thinking."
Bernie sat in the aroma of the fine cigar as his heart hammered in his chest. He did not expect his own reaction. Sweat trickled down his back while he gulped air like a marathoner. The son-of-a-bitch had threatened him and his mother with no reaction, but a hint that Lucerio knew that Rhonda was alive and would harm her threw him over the edge. "Crap." Breath, think, plan.
The Columbian wanted his own anxiety and curiosity to wear him down. Bernie knew there wasn't much he could do to resist. For the immediate future he still had the daily routine of physical therapy, sitting in a chair, visits to the doctor, taking pain killers, and sleeping on the couch. In between he would make plans.
Bernie tossed a Playboy down on the coffee table. In two days, even reading the articles became uninteresting. He could make the time, but didn't have the physical capability to follow up on all the questions about Rhonda, the coins and the movie. Someone was going to have to start the work for him. He fished the phone out from under the pile of newspapers and old pizza boxes, then dialed Sam.
"Sure, I know some people," Sam said. "How much you willing to spend?"
"You know my situation."
"Free. Well, that narrows it down. You know what you get for free?"
"Not much, but then again I'm not picky."
"Well, you might actually like this guy."
"Tell me about him." Bernie stretched to pick up a half empty bottle of root beer and sipped the lukewarm liquid.
"He's a writer. Does freelance work for anybody who pays. Has worked for everybody who pays. Pushes himself off as a big-time reporter. Decent guy when he's sober. If you give him a hot lead, he'll do the digging for free and sell you out the first chance he gets."
"Sounds swell, what's the catch?"
"He's yellow through and through. At the first sign of trouble, he's gone like a fart in the wind."
"Has this gem got a name?"
"Camden Jones."
The next morning Bernie made the painful trip from the kitchen to answer the front door. When his visitor gave up ringing the bell and began pounding he shouted. "I'm coming! I'm coming! Hold your water!"
The glass rattled in the door as he pulled it open. A man in a stained gray overcoat and crumpled fedora danced in the cold before him. Slightly out of breath, Bernie asked, "Can I help you?"
The man stopped dancing. "You Keagan?"
"Who wants to know?"
"Camden Jones of the Chicago Sun Times. Sam said you have an angle on the shootout at the O'Hareport Hotel two months back."
Jones resumed his jig. "Can we talk inside? I'm freezing my ass off out here."
Bernie stepped to one side and waved Jones in. He left a trail of stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze as he burst into the house and planted himself on the couch among the half empty pizza boxes and last nights cartons of Chinese. "Mind if I smoke?" he asked as he drew a pack of Luckys from this suit coat pocket. He didn't wait for Bernie's nod as he struck a flame on an antique Zippo. While he lit the cigarette the reporter tried to ask his question, but fell into a fit of coughing.
Sam warned him, but still. "Can I get you something to drink?"
"Yeah." Jones coughed. "Bourbon, if you got it."
In the kitchen Bernie looked at his liquor supply and considered his visitor. The guy was a piece of work, but he was interested in the story. As a reporter he could lay his hands on resources that were unavailable to Bernie. Best, he was mobile while Bernie was not. With two tall glasses in hand and a half-filled bottle of Jim Beam stuffed under his arm, Bernie hobbled back into the living room. Jones continued to cough fitfully while flicking cigarette ashes into an old pizza box.
Bernie poured two fingers of Beam and handed Jones the glass. He downed it by the time Bernie poured some for himself.
The reporter touched the bottle with the rim of the glass. "You mind?"
"No, help yourself."
Jones did. "God damn cold out there. Thanks."
At the rate the guy was going, Bernie wondered how long Jones would be able to work at all.
Jones took a notebook out of his overcoat pocket and leafed through its pages. He pointed at a stack of old newspapers with Rhonda's picture on the top issue. "So you know Rhonda Lapinski?"
"Yes."
"Well?"
"Yeah, about as well as anyone."
"Do you know how she got involved with that stolen coin ..." The reporter flipped through his notebook. "A 1933 Double Eagle?" He drained the glass again.
How much to tell this guy? Certainly not a hint about Rhonda still being alive. If Jones kept to the booze like this, how much would he remember? "I believe she found it in the wreckage of her grandmother's house. The Federal government tore down a bunch of them in a flood abatement project."
"Why do you think she held the auction of the coin?"
"For the money the sale would bring."
"Why do you think she called all those television news crews to the hotel on the day of the auction, the day she was killed?"
"Did she?" What the hell was this? Just for that piece of info the lush was aces in Bernie's book.
Jones flipped through his notes again. "Yeah, she did. Gave her name to each station." He took another slug on the booze. "Anyway the story's gone cold or someone put a lid on it. But, Sam said you had something."
"There was another person at the auction that has never showed up in any of the reports."
"Yeah."
"An older woman, sixties, from Omaha. She made a strong bid to buy the coin about mid-way through then left. Rhonda brought her in."
"You got a name?"
"No."
"A name would help, but what else can you tell me about her?"
"Knickerbocker Smith, you know him?"
Jones nodded. "You and he took a bullet at the same time, right?"
"Right, but his list of enemies goes on for miles. I think I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Jones made a note.
"Anyway, Smith was blackmailing a string of people. She could be one of his."
"This isn't much."
"She made a strong bid. It looked like she was prepared to keep going. She acted as if she had the money to drop on an expensive piece that she could never show to anyone, like the Double Eagle."
"Rich, sixty-ish, Omaha." He puffed out his cheeks. "You gotta give me something else."
"She wanted to look dowdy. You know, old maid thing, but it didn't work. She was still a handsome woman, probably a knockout in her day. She acted a little decrepit, but she moved quickly when she left."
"Could she be younger?"
"No the hands were right. And, she held them a certain way, elegant."
"Socialite, blackmail, maybe some brushes with the law." He stood unsteadily. "Not much, but ... well, maybe, ... maybe, I'll do some digging and get back to you." Jones drained his glass and stood. "Where can I catch a cab?"
As the cab pulled away, Bernie wondered if he'd ever see the drunk again. Well, you get what you pay for. And free was free, if you didn't count the bottle of bourbon. The sour smell of the man caused Bernie to think about cleaning up his place, but it passed quickly.
Bernie was in a race against time. On the ride home from physical therapy, it occurred to him that in two hours his entire left side would cramp from the exertion and he needed a drink, now. He looked over at the cabby. "Drop me at the High Hat on Brady Street."
The short trip from the cab, over the slush puddle at the curb and the three steps to the door were a challenge, but he made it to a table by the window. "Double Rusty Nail," was his order to Celia, the lone waitress. The bar's smoky interior was refreshing to him when compared to the monotonous surroundings of his own house. She brought his drink then took a chair in the sun across from him.
Bernie raised his glass to her, said thanks, then took a slug of the scotch and Drambuie. He looked at the girl through the liquor as it ran down the inside of the glass. She was a good looking brunette with issues. If the purple hair and nose piercing along with the black t-shirt and jeans were calculated to make her look repellant, it was a failure. "What's up, kidd-o?" He set the drink on the table.
"Got a new tat," she said.
She was eleven years younger than him and he liked her brass. "Cool, mind if I ask where?" He sipped the liquor.
She pointed to her hip. "Shooting star."
"I'd like to see that."
She tapped his hand sharply. "You wish."
"Yup."
"How's your leg?"
"Terrible."
"I'll stop by later and show ya."
Bernie's eyes got big.
"With your bad wheel and a couple a Nails you'll be as safe as a kitten." She stood and winked. "See ya later."
Bernie was surprised that his leg didn't hurt after the first double which was actually six shots of booze. The bar was warm and he began to doze. He jerked back to consciousness as the chairs on either side of him scraped out. Leon and Stan joined him.
Stan punched him on his bad leg. "How's our old buddy doin'?"
Bernie tried to stand, but Leon grabbed his belt from behind and pulled him down. "Hey! Hey! Don't rush off. We just got here. We got lots to talk about."
After two deep breaths Bernie looked at them. "What the hell are you talking about? The whole thing went bust. There isn't any money for anybody. You got that?"
Stan poked him in the chest. "Somebody owes us. You're the only one around. So we figure it's you."
Bernie turned toward Leon. "What don't you guy's get about this?"
"Yeow," Stan yelled.
Celia hit him with her tray a second time. "Leave him alone, asshole."
The barman came toward them with a baseball bat in his hand. Stan and Leon bolted out the front door. On the sidewalk Leon held up a set of keys and waved it. Bernie felt his coat pocket and knew they were his. The pair of tormentors danced through the traffic on Brady and up Astor toward his house. He stood, but collapsed when he attempted to move his injured left leg. Shit, they were going to trash his place.
Celia picked him up and put him back in his chair. "C'mon, let's get you home."
Bernie leaned his head back. "That won't do much good in my shape." He could watch them break into his house from the front window of the High Hat.
She opened her purse to show him a .32 revolver, a 9mm automatic, two cans of mace and a pair of brass knuckles.
"Okay," he said. "Let's give it a try."
Ten minutes later Bernie, in a gray overcoat, and Celia, in a black down jacket, stood on his front porch and listened to the sounds of breaking furniture inside.
She opened her purse. "What ya want?"
Full of Dutch courage, he pulled the 9mm and a can of mace. She took the other can and the revolver as she dropped the purse on the porch. They stepped through the door into a scene of carnage in his living room. Leon stuck his foot into Bernie's television screen. Celia pointed her pistol at him and touched her left index finger to her lips. Bernie headed toward the kitchen where the sound of breakage gave Stan away. When Celia approached Leon, he lunged at her and she Maced him, eyes and open mouth. He squealed like a stuck pig.
The kitchen went silent. Leon continued to scream on the living room floor as he crawled toward the front hall. Bernie stepped gingerly toward the swinging door that separated the front of the house from the kitchen. Stan opened it half way and stuck his head out. Bernie took a hop and two steps to lay his shoulder and full weight into the door where he caught Stan's neck between it and the jam. Bernie lost his balance and fell to the floor.
Croaking a "Gawk," Stan fell to his knees. Leon continued to scramble away. Stan stood and staggered past Bernie who maced the home trasher's leg. Stan stumbled forward and picked Leon up by the shoulders as they went out the front door. Silence reigned for not more than three-seconds until both men screamed.
At the door, Celia saw the men sprawled on the sidewalk entangled in the shoulder strap of her huge purse. Bernie reached her side and aimed the 9mm automatic at the pair. The booze helped him pull the trigger, but nothing happened. Celia took the gun from him while Stan and Leon scrambled over a snow bank, dashed up the sidewalk and around the corner.
"You are one lucky son of a bitch," she said.
"What?"
"The safety was on. If you'd a shot either of them the cops would have put you in the can for sure."
Bernie sat down in the open door. He knew she was right. If he shot them inside, he could claim self defense. Outside it would have been manslaughter at the least. His house was trashed, but he felt lucky.
Celia sat down next to him. Their breath condensed around them as they panted from their effort.
She went to the sidewalk to retrieve her purse and its contents. "You look terrible,"
"I feel like shit."
She came back and sat. With a smile she took his chin and turned it toward her. "Want ta see my tattoo?"
Bernie began to laugh. He fell back into the house and laughed until he couldn't catch his breath. Between pants and giggles he said, "Sure, I'd be honored."
The broken contents of Bernie's living room and kitchen stood stacked on the snow drift between his sidewalk and Astor Street along with his garbage. His biggest hope was that it would not snow before the garbage collectors came past or the junk would sit on the curb until the spring thaw.
Sam called a few favors to get him some new, if ill matched, furniture. The cherry on the sundae as the television Milt, Sam's brother, provided. Still in the box from the factory, Bernie was not allowed to ask the lineage of the name brand piece.
Five days later Bernie was enjoying a bowl of Frosted Flakes while seated in his new recliner. Julia Child was making Coque a vin on public television when the door bell rang. The trip from the living room to the front door was slow, but doable. Bernie's wounds were healed and the physical therapy helped his mobility, just not as much as he wanted. He kept his breathing shallow in a vain effort to avoid the pain.
He stopped sucking at a splinter in his left ring finger long enough to take a good look at his caller. A woman in tan slacks and a long black wool coat stood at the doorway. She was about as tall as he was, with gray creeping through her brown hair. Bernie thought she looked familiar.
"Mr. Keagan?" she inquired in a rich contralto.
"Yes."
She offered him a bare hand. "I'm Virginia Costello. May we come in?"
Bernie took the hand and looked past her to see a black man of a similar age standing at the edge of the porch. Her companion was dressed in a dark blue top coat with a similarly colored suit beneath. "What is this about?" Bernie asked.
Virginia turned to the side as her companion pulled Camden Jones up the stairs to the porch. "This," she said.
Jones looked the worse for wear. His left eye was swollen shut and he held his bandaged right hand in the crook of his other arm. The light of recognition came to Bernie. "The lady from Omaha, sure come in." She showed more panache than the woman he remembered skittering out of the hotel room shortly before the shit hit the fan, but the same perfume, Chanel.
The couple marched in with their trophy in tow and made a place for themselves on the couch among his discarded potato chip and cookie bags. Bernie took a seat on the corner of the grouping. Jones dropped into the recliner.
Virginia continued to pile up the magazines as she spoke. "Mr. Mitchell, would you get me a glass of water?"
The black man stood. She handed him the pile of refuse and he went off to the kitchen.
Virginia looked at Bernie. "You're not much of a housekeeper."
"I've been laid-up. And, I don't get many callers," he lied.
She held up a Penthouse. "Not much of a deep thinker either."
"My subscriptions to US News and World Report just expired."
Mitchell came back with a tumbler of water and handed it to the woman. "Real mess in there."
She took two swallows of her drink and addressed Mitchell. "Let's see what we can do about that."
"Hey," Bernie said as the pair left him sitting in the living room. He limped after them.
Jones followed. "Wait, wait, can I get a drink?"
By the time Bernie and Camden got into the kitchen, Virginia was washing dishes and Mitchell was putting trash into grocery bags. "Hey!" Bernie reiterated.
Virginia didn't look up. "Nice comeback, Mr. Keagan. Sit down. We can talk about Mr. Jones."
Bernie took a seat on one of the folding chairs from his Aunt Gracie's hand-me-down card table which was now his kitchen set.
"Could I get a drink?" Jones repeated. Bernie pointed to a cabinet and the reporter retrieved a bottle of bourbon.
Virginia walked over and picked up four dirty glasses. "Why did you send this person to make inquiries about my business?"
"Because I couldn't. I need to know your connection to Rhonda Lapinski."
Virginia nodded at Mitchell, who grabbed Jones and dragged him into the front room with the booze.
"We'll get to that later. Are you in love with her?"
Caught off guard by the question, he was silent for a few moments. "She's dead." He hated the words. In his gut he either didn't believe them or didn't want to believe them.
"That wasn't the question, but your answer is sufficient." The woman wiped her hands on a dish towel then sat in the chair across from Bernie. "We were friends. Not the kind that took tea together. We did favors for one another when the opportunity arose. My appearance at the auction was part of such a transaction."
"Super, does the name Knickerbocker Smith come into play here?"
She tensed. "Yes."
"He was blackmailing you, and Rhonda did what?"
"She helped me out."
Bernie raised his eyebrows.
Virginia said, "When my brother was a young man he killed a clerk in a filling station robbery. Smith kept photographs of the crime. Rhonda got them for me."
"I'm so glad for you and your brother."
She stood. "He became a priest and was assassinated in Guatemala. He atoned for his crime hundreds of times. Smith would have dragged his name through the dirt for financial gain. I would have done anything to get those photos from that piece of scum." She took a breath. "Huh, I never thought of it before, but Rhonda saved that fuck's life."
"So what did you do in return?"
"I told her I would help her sell the coin."
Bernie considered her statement and listened to the kitchen clock tick. "You told her you'd buy it."
"Doesn't make any difference now. The government has it."
"If it came to it, were you willing to shell out the big money for the coin?" Bernie asked. She looked at him and kept silent. Well, 'nough said? His gut told him it wasn't. "I knew Rhonda since we were kids. We could go get a bite to eat someplace. I could tell you about her." He didn't know if that was the right thing to say, but somehow he felt it was.
She glanced at Mitchell standing in the doorway, then back to Bernie.
He saw stress in her eyes. "I've got nothing but time."
Mitchell said, "We need to get going."
She stiffened and looked at her black companion. "Yeah..., yeah, we should go." Her voice became hoarse.
Bernie watched the couple leave. There was something else about the woman, but he could not put his finger on it. He went in to check on his guest and poked the body on his couch. "How ya doin', Jones?"
The drunk looked up at him with one eye. "Ah! It's you. Where the hell am I?"
"Milwaukee, my house."
"Hm, swell, where's your john?" The grizzled reporter got to a seated position with a shaky effort. "Where's your john?"
Bernie coaxed and carried Jones up the stairs to the large bathroom. After a silent hour he found the reporter sleeping peacefully on the tile floor. The sound of water running began shortly after three that afternoon. His house guest made it down the stairs just before five.
"He lives," Bernie said.
Sweating some and shaking a lot, a bathed Jones took a seat in the nearest chair. "Got a drink?" he asked around the cigarette dangling from the left side of his mouth.
"Any preference."
"A large glass."
Bernie returned with a glass and a new bottle of bourbon. Jones downed three fingers in two gulps.
"Okay, I'm good," the reporter said as he grabbed the bottle from Bernie's hand. "Where the hell is that piece 'a work and her thug?"
"Gone to Omaha."
"She's not the worst of the bunch. John Pelegraso is plenty hot. That senator is crazy mad. Some big Colombian drug money is sniffing around."
"Sounds like a Pulitzer in the making."
"For anyone who lives long enough to write it."
"I though you were supposed to be the 'fearless reporter' type."
"But, not the 'stupid reporter' type."
"Tell me."
Jones poured himself a large drink and downed half of it. "It's all innuendo and third hand, but it's probably the truth because of the large number of threats I received."
"Who threatened you?"
"Everybody."
"The mob? The Colombians?"
Jones drank the rest of the bourbon, then looked at the empty glass. "And, all three branches of the Federal government."
Bernie got up and walked around the living room.
"Hey, you're doing pretty good," Jones said.
"Don't tell anyone. Being a crip gives me an edge. Okay, big question. Where is Rhonda Lapinski?"
"That is a big question. She seems to be at the heart of this whole thing. Right now, nobody knows or nobody's saying." Jones put the glass on the coffee table. "My guess is that if she ever surfaces again, she's dead."
Before Jones took the next Grayhound bus back to Chicago, he told Bernie never to contact him again.
"Now what?" Bernie dialed his favorite pizzeria on Brady Street.
Rhonda used him. He loved her and she hadn't trusted him enough to take him into her confidence. The thought crept into his half-conscious brain before he opened his eyes
Gray light shone through the front windows where Bernie lay in the recliner. He decided he needed a shower. Sitting in the tub, he let the water splash down on his now only slightly discolored body. The heat was not loosening his muscles, but it still felt good.
She'd kept him in the dark. To protect him? But, he still almost got killed. He'd have done it for her. He'd been willing to risk jail for her and her scheme. "God damn it, Rhonda!" The water was getting cool. He got out.
His mind continued to race over her actions. Did she love him or was he just a schmuck? He needed to get dressed and get something to eat. He looked at his wrinkled fingers. Today he would wear a suit and go to Sam's office.
The day he got shot was the last time he looked in his bedroom closet. He guessed it was close to four months since he'd opened the door to look in there, let alone thought about the contents. Half dressed in a navy suit and white shirt, he didn't notice the box tucked in the back until he reached for a pair of shoes. He could just make out the "50 cal." on the ammunition can. Yup, it was the container he and Rhonda dug up in Nana's basement. The one that held the coin collection.
Bernie pulled it out and sat on the lone chair in the bedroom while the sequence of events rushed through his mind. The top of the can was closed and latched. He rapped on a side with his right knuckles. The can gave off a hollow metallic bong. He opened it - empty. No surprise. The surprises were in the wooden box. Surprises in the wooden box, the one next to the couch. Were there any more surprises in there?
While he hobbled down the hall he pulled his maroon suspenders up over his shoulders. "Son-of-a-bitch. Son-of-a-bitch." Bernie put both hands on the railing and hopped down the stairs two at a time. With five halting strides, he sat on the couch with the wooden box in his arms.
He rapped on the bottom. Hollow. "Damn!" Press on the top and the left side. Press on the opposite corners. Nothing! "Screw it!" There was a 5 pound sledge hammer in the basement.
Bernie looked at the pile of assorted tools on the workbench until he saw the handle of the hammer he wanted. The concrete was cool on his bare feet. Seated on the floor with the box between his legs, he beat on it. The thing was well made, and he exerted more effort than he expected. His injured leg throbbed as he panted over the growing pile of splinters. His shirt began to stick to his back. A spring made a low plunk and the bottom of the box fell off.
He knelt over the mess. "Holy Shit." He sucked in a breath.
A large brown envelope bulged on the floor. It was sealed, but the glue had hardened with age. He brushed off the splinters and reached inside. There were six business envelopes each with the seal of the Philadelphia Mint in the upper left hand corner. They were accompanied by a piece of faded green stationery and another tightly folded wad of white paper. The writing on the green paper was in a familiar hand.
"To Whom It May Concern,
If you've gotten this far you know my first correspondence contained a slight fib. It's a good fib though. If you knew there were more 1933 Double Eagles you might have not found the real worth of such rare coins.
Good Luck,
Hildi"
The other letter was in pencil on a piece of lined paper from a school notebook.
June 17, 1962
This is more than I can take. The coins Hildi left me are a curse not a treasure. Last year I killed Andy Waldoch over them and buried his body in the flower garden. He beat Francy to find the box and dug it out of the basement floor. I reburied the box only deeper this time.
Maybe someone smarter than me will find it or nobody. Cancer's got me now. I don't care no more.
Sal
Who was Sal? Ah, Nana's deceased husband. Bernie found he was holding his breath and gasped for air. Months back in the hospital, he made a wild guess about how Waldoch's corpse ended up in the garden. Nana probably denied the facts for so long that it never occurred to her to pin the murder on Sal when the body turned up. Christ, what a family.
An examination of the six business envelopes revealed six letters, identical to the originals Rhonda used to sell the first gold piece. The same number of coins, each in a small wax paper envelope, lay on the concrete between his legs. Bernie peeled the coins from their wrappers and spread them out on the floor. This was all too much to take in quickly.
"Make sure," he heard himself say.
One by one he held each under the light. They were pristine, with the design sharply stamped into the yellow metal with the date 1933. If they were fakes he couldn't tell. With the first coin this was a good scam. With two this was some kind of incredible scam. With eight it became colossal, a fortune so dangerous as to be unspendable.
The treasure overwhelmed Rhonda's relatives, Hildi and Sol. They decided to ignore it and live lives they could deal with. But, each showed foresight enough to safeguard it for the family.
But, if Rhonda took the second coin, how did she miss the rest? Maybe it just didn't dawn on her that there might be more. She had opportunities. Even smart people make mistakes.
Bernie fought to keep a clear head. His decisions would have great consequences. Do something temporary right now.
The coins and documents went into a cardboard box that he addressed to himself at general delivery Miami, "Hold for claim," marked it first class and used his mother's return address. The Postal Service would hold the package for thirty days before they sent it back to his mother. Dressed for work in a navy blue suit and black wing-tipped shoes, he stood in line at the post office and thought about what he was doing. He hesitated, then gave the package to the postal clerk.
Six priceless coins stolen from the feds, a porno movie stolen from a gang of Columbian drug smugglers, and a criminal relationship with a mob boss. Bernie sat in his office and stared at the pile of papers on his desk. He knew Sam wanted him to do something with them, but his life was an incomprehensible pile of crap. The hot coffee tasted reassuring. He'd bribed a judge. And screwed his brother's wife, ... ex-wife, but he had a good excuse for that. He could go to the cops. Yeah, and tell'em what? Okay, not a good idea. The thing that bothered him the most was that Rhonda hadn't trusted him enough to confide in him about her plan for the coins. Son of a bitch.
Sam walked in. "You don't look so hot. Maybe you should go home."
Bernie pursed his lips. The man was a certified genius. "Yeah." He got up, leaned on his cane and walked out. The stick wasn't necessary, but it gave him a look with which people sympathized.
He sat in the Olds and fumbled for the keys in his suit coat pocket. The interior of the car was cold, but the sun was bright and warm. The key ring was a real pain in the ass. Too many keys. He held the collection in his hand and just looked at them: front door, back door, garage, office, desk, his mother's house, car, health club and one more. What the hell was that? He gripped it between his forefinger and thumb. It was chubby and short. He brought it up to his face. Where did he get this? Rhonda. He smiled. Why did he have this? It was for a padlock, a strong one. The type the cops used, or the feds. Ah, it was for that storage bin where the feds put Nana's stuff when they evicted her. "Oh, shit."
He knew where the infamous movie was. Well, it was more than an even chance. Think, think, gotta have a plan. He could go right over, unlock Nana's place and take it. Too simple, too obvious and a straight line that lead right to him. Rhonda did trust him. He started the Olds.
Bernie said, "I would like to rent a storage space."
"Good, that's what we do. If you'd wanted to buy a pot roast I couldn't help you." The woman behind the counter of You-Store-It office gave a hacking laugh. She was in her sixties and wore an incredible wig. It was golden blonde and set in a way Betty Grable might have worn.
"Well, good." He nodded. "How about 18G?"
"Why that one?"
"Lucky number."
She pulled a large three-ring binder from under the counter and paged through it. The ash on the cigarette that dangled from her lips dropped to the page as she looked up at him. "Nope, it's in use. Got any more lucky numbers?"
"Ah, 17 or 19?"
The proprietress tightened her lips and took a deep draw on the smoke. "Like row G do ya?"
"Sentiment."
She blew smoke out through her nose and reviewed the documents. "Lucky you, 17 is available." The smoke rushed from her nostrils.
"Fine, I'll take it." He gave a small cough.
"Name."
"Knickerbocker Smith."
After dark, Bernie stood in the empty two-car-garage size bay of unit 17G on 84th Street just across from State Fair Park. He bought what he needed - steel reinforcement rods, oxyacetylene cutting torch, Coleman lantern. His breath condensed as he prepared to get to work. With a little consideration of the situation, he pulled his goggles over his eyes and lit the gas. He began to cut through the corrugated steel sheets in the corner that separated his unit from Nana's.
The smell of the burned zinc plating on the metal walls hung heavy in the damp air. Bernie shut off the cutting torch, pushed the welder's goggles up on his forehead and wiped his eyes with the back of his gloved hand.
Lucerio told him that the movie Rhonda stole was not the sort of thing she could carry around in a handbag. She needed someplace to store it. But where? If it was important, and Rhonda thought it was, she wouldn't have left it unattended. Who would she have taken into her confidence when she stole the film? The only other person Bernie knew that might fit in that category was Nana. Time to get back to work.
He tacked reinforcing rods to corrugated steel sheets while he cut his way into the old woman's storage unit. It was a bit of a long shot, but if anybody had the movie it was Nana. The woman behind the counter would have a fit when she found what he was doing to her property. She probably had insurance. Screw her if she couldn't take a joke. On second thought, no.
The object, of course, was not to get caught going through Nana's things. Bernie had taken a slow drive through the storage yard before reaching his unit. Nobody was around. There was a slim chance that someone would open the door and catch him in the act. The only people with a key were Nana, Rhonda and himself. It would be a big bonus if either of those two showed up. Another possibility was someone would enter the adjacent cubicles and hear him rummaging around. The steady clatter of the rain on the roof would mask his movements if he didn't make any loud noise.
As he cut through the wall, Bernie thought it would be prudent to move anything he wanted to search into his cube. Still there were a large number of heavy boxes in her storage locker. He'd already moved them twice for Rudolph, the lazy bastard. Damn it, he'd take his chances. What about the overhead light? He checked the garage door. No light was going to seep under the rubber seal on the concrete floor.
Bernie knew that there weren't any film canisters lying around with Nana's furniture. Twenty-nine large cardboard boxes sat in the northeast corner of the cube stacked three high. If the movie was here, it was in those. "Shit!" He stopped to listen if anyone was around.
When he knew he was alone, he began to move the top row and search the boxes. The place smelled musty. At box ten, he rested, took off his sweatshirt, and watched his breath. Nothing of interest, just the old lady's household goods.
At box nineteen he needed to take a leak. Can't leave until the job's done. He looked around for an empty bottle. Viola, a milk jug. Just the ticket.
Twenty-nine boxes and no film of any kind, not even home movies. There were photographs in box five or maybe it was six, but no movies. "Well, nuts," he whispered. The sweat was cold on his back. He retrieved his sweatshirt from the box with Nana's family pictures.
Pictures, pictures, take another look. Old black and whites in worn albums. Fading color snaps from the '60's. A portrait photograph of Rhonda, colorized. Bernie looked at the picture in the box then pulled the sweatshirt over his head. He used the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the dust off the glass in the frame. As he looked at the portrait a second time he knew it wasn't her. Almost, but the hair style was wrong, her mouth wasn't wide enough and a half-a-dozen other details he couldn't name. But, it wasn't Rhonda. Then who was it?
He opened the back of the frame and slide the print out. "Virginia Lapinski, April, 1941" was written on the back in pencil. "Holy fuckin' ey." It was Rhonda's mother. The woman from Omaha was Rhonda's mother. And, and ... if Rhonda hadn't sent the damn film to her grandmother then maybe she sent it to ... oh yeah.
Like most of the houses on the east side of Milwaukee, Bernie's was built before the automobile. Parking was a real pain in the ass. In the winter there were rules about which side of the street you could park. It was a snow removal thing. If you screwed up, your car would get towed and the ticket was steep.
Up until five minutes before ten that morning, he never saw any real advantage to it. The restricted parking meant that there was a limited population of cars that ever appeared on his street. Just before Bernie stepped out the front door with his suitcase, he noticed the odd one. The car was conspicuous, a rusty Lincoln Continental. To get a better look at the interloper, he put the suitcase down and moved to the front room window. Had he passed that same car when he left the storage yard yesterday, or was it just similar? No, it was the same one. Think back, was it there yesterday? Yeah. "Should have picked that piece of shit out long before now. All the physical abuse must be playing with your head." Anyplace else? Outside Sam's office building. Well, well, who do you work for? Lucerio? Smith? Someone else?
Bernie took his bag upstairs, unpacked it and came back down. "Okay, smart guy let's get it on." He walked out of the house, navigated the half-melted snow drifts and got into the Olds. At the corner of Brady he saw his tail pull from the curb. Bernie slowed to let his pursuer catch-up then, headed for the Pfister Hotel parking lot where he dropped the car and his trench coat. Minutes later he was in a cab on his way to the airport. No tail.
He stopped at the Republic Airlines counter and found their next flight to Omaha was leaving just before eleven in the morning, changing in Minneapolis, arriving at three in the afternoon. He booked a round trip ticket.
Virginia Costello was in the local phone book. The house was on the west side of town, brick Tudor, big lot, built in the twenties. Old maple trees lined the street where all the houses resided on a hundred and forty foot setback.
The weather was misty and cold as Bernie rang the front doorbell and wished he'd kept his trench coat. Even in a blue wool suit, he shivered. A few more weeks and the weathermen would claim it was spring. The black man who had accompanied Virginia and Jones to his house answered. He said, "Hello Mr. Keagan," as if Bernie stopped by twice a week.
"Hi, Mitchell."
"Follow me. Virginia is in the back."
The latent aroma of tung oil hung in the oak-paneled halls leading to the restaurant-capable kitchen. Virginia stood at one of the stoves stirring something. "Why don't you have a seat? Do you like shrimp bisque?"
Bernie took a moment to take the pair in. They looked to be in their late fifties, both dressed in white shirts, dark gray pants and black shoes. They showed that familiar air that couples have after spending an intimate life together. It must be a hell of a good story, but he didn't have time to pry. There wasn't much to say so he said, "Sure," and took a seat at a high counter with four bar stools.
Mitchell set a place in front of him and Virginia ladled the bisque into three bowls. The couple said a silent prayer and began to eat. He joined them.
"What brings you here?" she asked.
"Your daughter," Bernie said. "But you knew that."
"What do you mean?"
Bernie smiled. Same perfume. "You've been expecting me. She told you I'd be around." He sipped a spoonful of hot soup. "This is good. You make it from scratch?"
"I did," Mitchell said.
"Fine, but," Virginia said. "What exactly brings you to our door?"
"I found a picture of you in a place I did not expect to find it," Bernie said.
"Interesting, where might that be?"
"In a box of stuff belonging to Frances Lapinski."
"What do you think that tells you?
"Well, considering I've known Rhonda since she was a kid, it tells me that you're Frances Lapinski's daughter. Oh, and of course, Rhonda's mother."
Virginia took two spoonfuls of her bisque. "That and a quarter gets you a cup of coffee."
"Used to be a dime," Mitchell said.
"Inflation," Virginia added.
"Regardless," Bernie said. "It makes you something besides a disinterested third party to her coin dealing. Probably a coconspirator of some sort."
"Conspirator in what? The feds have the Double Eagle."
Bernie put his spoon down. Time for the big guess. "Come on, I know there were two Double Eagles."
Virginia jumped up and knocked over her stool. "What? That, that ..."
"Double-crosser?" Mitchell asked. "I told you that apple didn't fall far from the tree."
"Oh, shut up!" she said.
The black man nodded and continued to eat his bisque.
Don't smile. That went well. Now what? Bernie said. "Don't feel too bad. She didn't tell me either."
"Yes, but I'm her mother."
"Who abandoned her thirty years ago," Mitchell added.
"Will you just shut up for the moment? You're not helping." She paced the kitchen. "What the hell was she doing?"
Bernie put his spoon on the counter. "The only way I can see it, is that she gave up one coin to the feds so that they could establish some kind of market value."
"She found a buyer for the second coin?" Virginia asked.
"Apparently."
"Hmm, not bad. Pretty good actually," Mitchell said. "I know, 'Shut up.'"
"No, you're right. Well, she's probably long gone," Virginia sighed.
"I don't think so," Bernie said.
"Why?" she asked.
"I think she expects me to find you." When he said it, he knew it wasn't such a rash assumption as far as Rhonda was concerned. "And, you have something else she wants." What the hell? It was the only play he could think of.
On his second day in the guest room, Bernie saw a white Bronco drive past the house for the third time. "Here we go." How much would he tell Rhonda? Hopefully no more than she told him.
He walked into the kitchen, started the coffeemaker and sat down on a stool at the counter. Mitchell had left blueberry muffins. While Bernie poured his first cup, a key turned in the backdoor lock. Nana and Rhonda walked in. "Morning ladies," he said.
Nana flinched, "Jesus H. Christ, you scared the crap
outa me."
Rhonda's eyes crinkled in the corners. She closed the door and faced him.
"Hi, Bernie, how've you been?"
He took a sip from the cup, enjoying the taste, the
smell and the moment. "I'm better. How are you?"
"Good." She wore a knee length camel coat over a black turtleneck sweater and pants. Her hair was dyed black and cut short.
"You look great, very stylish." Then again, he always thought she looked wonderful ever since that summer day on the playground when they were kids. That felt like yesterday to him, but ... he needed to keep his head in the game. "Seriously, I'm very glad you're not dead. On top of that, you look terrific."
"What are you doing here?" Rhonda asked.
"I like the way Mitchell cooks."
"Smart ass. You definitely are better." She took off her coat and tossed it over a stool. "How did you find them?"
"Nana has a portrait photograph of Virginia." He sipped his coffee. "It looks remarkably like you."
Nana poured coffee for herself and Rhonda. "Hey, that was packed away. What gives you the right to go rummaging through my things?"
He held up the key to her storage locker."What's a fella to do with some Columbian drug smuggler hot on his trail?"
Rhonda took a mug from Nana. "Who would that be?"
"Lucerio, Nick's buddy."
"You know him?" Rhonda blew on her drink.
He rolled the mug between his palms. "'Fraid so."
"Where are Virginia and her man friend?" Nana asked.
"Grocery shopping. You just missed them. They should be back in an hour or so."
"How'd you find them?"
Bernie told his tale.
"Where's my movie?" Rhonda asked.
"It's funny you should call it that. A number of people use the same words when referring to that property." He got up from his stool. "Other than the fact that you appear in it, some others might have a stronger claim."
"Like who, Nick?" She asked. "That dirtball didn't even pay me a dime. He used me."
With Rhonda, Bernie knew that was true up to a point, but he didn't have any idea where that point might be. "Let's go into the front room where we can be comfortable."
They followed him as he hobbled out of the kitchen with his cane. Today the place smelled of burnt out fires.
Rhonda said, "I'm sorry you got hurt."
"No need to be sorry. Unless you were involved in sending a hit man around." He turned toward her. "Or, pulled the trigger yourself."
"I didn't."
"That's good." He took a seat on the blue and yellow striped couch.
She drank from the mug as she leaned against the wall. "But, I got you involved in all of this."
That was true, but in all honesty, he never really tried to get away. He pointed to a large box sitting in front of the slate fireplace. "There it is."
"How'd you know that the film was here?" she asked.
"I've had lots of time to think the past few months, to say nothing of the intimidation from Lucerio. Once I thought about it from your point of view, it wasn't too big a stretch."
"How do you mean?"
"I remembered that Nana was very persistent about keeping that house. When the cops started hassling her, you got up there incredibly fast. There must be a reason. Finally, I thought if you wanted to hide something valuable, the only person you could trust was Nana."
"Hey, up yours, Bernie!" Rhonda's eyes flashed hot at him. "You think I wouldn't have come just for her. Fuck you very much."
"Sorry, I just needed to know." He smiled. He was glad he'd hit a nerve on that. She was mercenary, but very loyal. "Anyway I thought you might send it to Nana. Going through the things in the storage locker was easy enough."
"But, it wasn't there," Nana said.
"That's when I got lucky and found the picture," Bernie said.
"Of course you would," Lucerio said from the front hall. Mendez stepped around the corner to stand next to him.
Lucerio clapped three times as he strolled into the living room. "Very good, simplicity itself. I knew you were the only one who had the experience with this lady to think it all through. Bravo."
"Judas," Rhonda hissed.
"Oh, don't be mad at Bernie. We didn't pay him. We threatened him ... and his mother. There is always his natural curiosity. And, one more thing. What was it Mendez?"
The thug looked at his boss. "You said I could kill the women."
"Yes, that's right." Lucerio turned to Rhonda. "Did you think that for one moment we thought you were dead?"
She put her mug down and sulked on the couch.
"Do you have the movie here Bernie?" Lucerio asked.
Bernie nodded toward the box by the fireplace. "Mitchell hauled it up from the basement this morning."
Mendez walked over and struggled to pick the box up.
"Help him take it out to the car," Lucerio said.
Rhonda grabbed Bernie's right hand and held tight.
He looked at her hand then tapped his foot with the cane. "Love to, but the hole you guys put in my leg keeps me from doing that sort of thing."
Lucerio shrugged at Mendez who dragged the box toward the door. "And Nick's client list?"
Bernie rested his cane on the papers sitting on a Queen Anne coffee table.
The Columbian's smile turned into a frown. "You were expecting us?" He picked up the paper and put it into his gray Armani suit coat.
"Sure. You couldn't find Rhonda. You couldn't find the film. All you could do was watch me and hope they both turned up. Someone tailed me for days. No mystery why you're here."
"Thank you. We'll be going." Lucerio opened the front door. His way was blocked by Knickerbocker Smith pointing a large pistol.
"Suck my dick, you wetback faggot," said the diminutive pornographer.
"We're Colombian," Mendez said.
"I don't care." Nick waved the pair back into the living room.
Lucerio stared at him. "And, you are a dead man."
"How about this?" Rhonda crossed her legs and sat up straight. "Just like some old Charlie Chan movie." Her lip curled up slightly on the left side as she smiled in Bernie's direction.
He smiled back and stood without the cane. This hadn't worked quite like he'd expected. Time to play the only card he had. "Ah ... Lucerio, Nick told me that ... ah ... at one point you were willing to trade the movie for the '33 Double Eagle. Um ... Would you still be interested?"
Rhonda's mouth dropped open and she made a move to stand, but stopped.
Nick looked from Bernie to Lucerio and said, "You get the coin and I get the film. That was our deal."
"That's a screwed-up deal," Rhonda said.
Bernie looked at her. "Babe, I love you, but Lucerio and Mr. Mendez travel with some very nasty people. I've looked into it. If they leave happy, we don't get hurt. It's a bad situation, but we can walk away." It was his sincerest hope.
She sat back on the couch and crossed her arms over her chest.
"You have the coin?" Lucerio asked.
Mendez punched Nick in the face, dropping him to the floor.
Bernie smiled, reached in his shirt pocket and took out a small envelope which contained a gold coin. Perfecto!
Mendez picked up the pistol.
Rhonda lurched toward Bernie with an outstretched right arm. He blocked her with his body. "The deal is I give you the coin, you give me the film."
Lucerio took the envelope in his fingers. "Let me see it."
Kneeling, Nick bit the Columbian on the ankle and caught the packet as it dropped. Mendez belted Nick in the face with the barrel of the pistol. The little man fell on his back with his nose bleeding, but he hung tightly onto the coin in the wrapper. Bernie grabbed the gun hand of Mendez and dug his thumb into a pressure point at the wrist. They looked at each other, then Mendez swung at Bernie's head with his left hand. The pistol clanked to the wood floor as the two men wrestled for it. They rolled over Nick who dug his teeth into the neck of Mendez as they passed.
Lucerio lunged for the gun. Ronda was quicker and knelt with the automatic pointed at the four men. "Stop!"
No one stopped. She fired the pistol into the ceiling. They came to an intertwined, panting halt as plaster dust settled on them. Bernie freed a hand and twisted the envelope from Nick's grasp leaving only a corner of the packet for him.
Lucerio stood. "You wouldn't shoot us."
Nick wiped his nose. "Yes, she would."
"She would," Bernie said. "Take his word for it."
Mendez pushed himself free of the group. "You can't get us all."
Rhonda aimed the gun into the center of Lucerio's chest. "I can get two."
"Hey, hey," Nana said. "We're here to talk business not shoot each other."
Lucerio nodded. "Fine, let's talk." He backed up to a brown leather chair and sat down.
From his place on the floor Nick asked Lucerio. "What about my deal?"
The Colombian frowned. "The coin is chump change. No deal."
Rhonda took a step back and lowered the pistol to her side. "Too late Nicky, he knows what the film is worth."
Bernie put the coin in his pants pocket as Nick dropped the scrap of envelope on the floor.
"What about our arrangement, Lucerio?" Rhonda asked.
"I've got the film, so our previous conversation doesn't make much sense right now."
Rhonda raised the pistol half way. Lucerio frowned.
"Be realistic." Bernie stood. "These guys are just the front for a bigger and nastier organization."
Rhonda put the pistol on an end-table. "The movie is one thing, Lou, but distribution is something else entirely." She got the Colombian's attention.
"Go on."
"I can get the movie run in all the theaters showing skin-flicks in the country."
Lucerio stood and crossed to the door while contemplating her pitch. "How could you do that?"
"Pelegraso," she said.
"The mob boss?" Lucerio stepped back into the living room. "What's your connection to him?"
"The auction."
"And he's not angry with you?"
"Hey, money's money. If I make him money, how mad can he be?"
"You'd have to re-cut it." Nick stood. "Even with Debbie Does Dallas and The Devil In Miss Jones out there the mob theaters will only go so far."
"And, here's the kicker," she said. "After the movie runs in the theaters, we do a private release of the entire thing."
"I thought I worked the angles." Lucerio smiled.
Rhonda put her arm around Nana. "Girls have to eat."
"That could work," Nick said.
Rhonda leaned toward him. "You double, maybe triple your profit."
Lucerio rubbed his chin then nodded to Mendez. "You have a talk with Pelegraso. We'll go back to LA to finish cutting the film."
Bernie leaned over to Rhonda. "How much money are we talking here?"
"Fifty, sixty million."
Nick and Mendez took the box with the raw footage out to the white Ford Galaxy while Lucerio followed. Mendez got behind the wheel. Nick began to go through the film canisters in the car's trunk, slowly at first, and then with more excitement. He turned and walked toward the house.
"What's the matter?" Lucerio called from the front seat.
"She kept the one I need."
Bernie, Nana and Rhonda stood in the foyer of the house watching the men in the street. Nana put her hand inside her purse and pressed something.
"Push it," Rhonda said as she watched Nick continue up the walk.
Lucerio turned to Mendez. "When he gets inside go in and kill them all."
Mendez reached under the seat and pulled out two chromed .45 caliber pistols. He shoved one into the belt of his black pants and held the other in his left hand.
A rusty Lincoln Continental rounded the corner and screeched to a halt next to the Ford. Mendez and Lucerio stepped out of their car.
Nana pulled out a garage door opener, pointed at the front door and pressed frantically. "I am. I am pushing, but its not working." She shoved it back in her purse as Nick reached the front stoop.
"Where'd you get the coin?" Rhonda asked
Bernie didn't say anything because he was watching Stan step out of the Continental with a pump shotgun which he leveled at Mendez. Leon stayed at the wheel.
"Borrowed it," Bernie replied.
Nick kept his focus on Rhonda and didn't seem to notice what was happening in the street. He pushed open the front door and pointed a finger at her. "Okay, where's the blue canister?"
She stared just over his right shoulder. "What are you talking about?"
"Cut the crap. Where's the film that was in the blue canister?"
"I burned it," Rhonda said.
A large explosion roared at the curb. Everybody hit the floor as the plaster dust settled on them. A tire from a car bounced up the front walk and struck the door. Glass from the surrounding windows showered down on them.
Nick looked up at the burning hulks. "That's my movie!"
On his hands and knees Bernie looked through the broken window. "What the hell was that?" Mendez lay on the side of the street with his head at an unnatural angle. Lucerio's burning corpse was half way up the lawn. The acrid smell of the explosion filled the room. The Continental laid upside-down in the yard across the street. Stan had disappeared.
Bernie turned his head to stare at Rhonda. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was open slightly, astonished, but not completely so. She glanced at him and composed herself.
Nick knelt, sat back on his heals and sighed. "With a good distribution deal we can always re-shoot it." He stood and lightly brushed his sleeves with his hand. "Rhonda, you think you could make that kind of distribution deal for any of my movies?"
"Maybe if they're good." She stood and looked at Bernie still kneeling on the floor.
"What the hell was that?" Bernie asked.
Nick picked himself up. "I should go. Parole violation and all that, you know."
"Call me, babe," Rhonda said.
Nana stood and pulled her hand out of her purse. She held a tan garage door opener then threw it on the slate floor. "I thought that thing would never blow."
Bernie stood and pointed at the burning cars. "What the hell was that?"
The tree next to the Ford caught fire as Nana said, "Damn Korean knockoffs. Should have bought American."
Bernie picked up the halves of the door opener. "Holy shit. What was that?"
"A bomb. Had it shipped in," Nana said.
"Shipped in. You mean it was in that box with the movie?"
"Yeah," Nana said.
"It sat in this house for ... what ... about a week?"
Smoke drifted into the house.
"Sounds right."
Bernie dropped to his knees. "And I helped Mitchell drag it in here this morning."
"If you say you did, then sure," Nana said.
He leaned against the wall. "That thing could have gone off any time it was here. It could have killed me."
"Naw, it was perfectly safe" said Nana. "I'm the only one who had the button."
"It didn't seem to work real well when you finally pressed it."
Nana pursed her lips in thought.
"There are only a couple hundred frequencies available to any garage door opener. What if someone around this neighborhood had the same frequency door opener?" he asked.
Nana frowned.
"That's right. Kaboom!" Bernie threw his arms over his head.
"Hadn't thought of that." Nana shrugged.
Bernie closed his eyes. "Holy shit." The smell of burning rubber was strong.
"I hate to break up this little technical discussion, but we should go," Rhonda said. "Nana and I are still officially in the witness protection program. The Marshals' Service wouldn't be happy to find us here."
Bracing himself against the wall, Bernie stood. "Rhonda, I really want to talk with you. We've got some things to work out."
She stopped mid-stride and did a half turn toward him as the sirens started up in the distance. "Not right now. C'mon, let's get out of here." She took his hand and pulled him through the backdoor. Burning leaves fell on the grass.
While Nana, Bernie and Rhonda walked through the backyard to get to her car, Bernie asked, "Where did that story about working with Pelegraso come from?"
They rounded a hedge into the neighbor's property. "I've been rolling it around in my head and it makes sense," Rhonda said.
The wet grass soaked Bernie's shoes. "What makes you think Pelegraso would buy it?"
Rhonda looked away from him toward Nana, who was having trouble matching their pace.
"Well?" he pressed.
"I talked to him," Rhonda mumbled
Bernie stopped and she strode past him. "Say again."
Rhonda turned to him. "I talked with John and he liked the idea."
"What the hell were you thinking? He's the main reason you're in the witness protection program," Bernie said.
"Don't get your undies in a bundle. Yeah, it was a risk, but we talked through the numbers and it works out nicely." Rhonda turned and started to walk up the block. "Besides we've known each other since the three of us worked those summers at the zoo. Come on, the car is this way."
Bernie stopped on the sidewalk as Nana caught up to him. "Why kill Lucerio and what's his name, Mendez?"
"They were not good people," Nana said.
"And, Nick?"
Nana tugged at Bernie's arm. "He's not very good either, but apparently he is lucky."
"What about Stan and Leon?"
"Who are they?" Nana asked.
"Your neighbors, the guys in the other car?"
Nana started to walk after Rhonda. "I don't know them. So I can't judge, but they didn't look like innocent bystanders to me."
"Isn't it a bad idea to blow up the car in front of your daughter's house?" he yelled.
"That's not her house." Nana stopped.
"What?"
"She just lives there while the owners are in the Virgin Islands."
Bernie shook his head then limped to catch up to the women. They walked in silence until they crossed the street.
Rhonda said, "Took you long enough to get to Omaha."
"You didn't exactly give me the 'yellow brick road' to follow," he replied.
"We couldn't be too obvious," Nana said.
"And," he continued. "They didn't put a tail on me until Tuesday."
The trio reached the car, and Rhonda looked over the roof at him. "It took them another two days to get here." She nodded at the smoke rising above the trees.
"Who knew they'd be such klutzes at it." He glanced back, then opened the passenger door. "Suppose Nick and the Columbians hadn't shown?"
Sirens blared on the next block then stopped at the house.
"You worry too much, Bernie." Rhonda smiled. "Don't agonize over things that didn't happen."
Three weeks later, shortly before two in the afternoon, Bernie sat in a small Italian restaurant across from John Pelegraso. The capo was dressed casually in an open collared sport shirt as he worked on a plate of linguini with white clam sauce. "You should have some of this. It's very good."
"I believe you, but I went out with my mother for a big lunch." Bernie thought the garlic smell was stronger than he liked.
John nodded knowingly while he sipped a glass of red wine. "So Nana blew up the car with the Columbians in it? Those were bad guys. Everybody is much safer now."
"I didn't really see the necessity."
John leaned forward on the table. "Okay, but its done."
Bernie breathed out a silent whistle. "I don't have the nerve you do."
"You pull my brother out of a burning helicopter in the middle of a fire fight, and you say that?"
Bernie sipped his glass of red as they sat at the dim table in the back of the restaurant. "I guess it depends on the moment."
"And the people."
Bernie nodded his head once. "Things okay with you and Rhonda?"
"Like she said, 'Money's money'."
"Something more specific, John."
"Well, yes and no. The movie is being re-shot and she has money for another, but she's having trouble with Nick." A waiter came and gave John a scoop of spumoni. "This is great stuff." He gestured to the waiter with his left hand. "Give him some."
"What's the problem?" Bernie asked
"Who's?"
"Rhonda's."
"Nick wants to shoot some grand thing that he can sell in legit theaters. She wants to stick with the original distribution plan."
"What do you say?"
"We'll stick with Rhonda and the sure money."
The spumoni came and Bernie tried it. "Yeah, good stuff. The pistachio is excellent." They ate in silence. "I'm sure they'll work it out."
John leaned back in the spindle back chair. "You should go see her."
"Did she say that?"
"No, but she'd like it."
"I'll think it over."
John pointed at the airline tickets in Bernie's coat pocket. "You goin' somewhere?"
"Got some business in Miami. While I'm there I thought I'd run down to the Keys, lay in the sun, fish, kick back get away from all this bullshit. Maybe hop over and see the Bahamas."
John smiled.
"What?"
"They're shooting in Miami."
"Okay ... hmm. So I should look her up?"
"Go and see her."
"You can be a pain in the ass."
John lowered his eyes and smiled.
"All right, all right I'll go to see Rhonda."
"Make sure you do."
"Wow. Okay." Bernie gave John a sour look then ate some ice cream. "Are you still interested in rare coins?"
"Maybe."
Bernie took a glassine envelope out of his shirt pocket and put it on the table.
John picked it up and looked at the torn corner. "A little the worse for wear." He poured the gold coin on the table then pushed it around with a fork until it faced him. "Double Eagle, 1931."
Bernie ate another spoonful of the spumoni. "Yes, that's right."
"Not like the one Rhonda had."
"Well, if you are still interested in that sort of thing, I can get you one that's a couple of years older."
THE END
BONUS Chapters
Summer Jobs
A NEW Dan Hagerty Novel
May 24, 1974
Dark blue necktie in hand, I raced up the cast iron stairs to catch the El at Fullerton, half a block east of Sheffield and De Paul University. Late, I went up two steps at a time dodging the empty beer cans and a broken wine bottle. Thirty or so people stood on the worn wood waiting for the next train to take us into the Loop. The crowd was a combination of middle-aged blacks, younger white urban pioneers with a few college kids thrown in. They were about two-thirds men and a third women. Maybe two-thirds straight and a third "alternative lifestyle."
A few of them were reading newspapers whose headlines screamed about Nixon and Watergate. The constant drip of scandal was eroding his position. One headline read "GONE WITH THE SUMMER?"
Standing in the back, I stared north, looking for the train as I caught my breath. After eighteen months of rehab my chest felt fine and only a small prick of pain lingered in my left leg. I ran my hand over my face and was disappointed not to find my mustache. That and the collar-length hair were concessions to the summer job. A trickle of sweat ran down from my right armpit to be soaked up by my white short sleeve shirt. Well, so much for the Right Guard.
It was supposed to be in the high 70's today. With the humidity already in that neighborhood, rain was expected. In my section of the platform, the atmosphere was dominated by the smell of stale cigarettes, a touch of rotting fruit and just the hint of urine. Then I saw the light, the headlight of the approaching train.
A few people folded their papers as we felt the first rumble of the wheels. Everyone looked left and began to edge forward to the yellow safety stripe. The scream of metal on metal made half the group wince. The three-car train blew into the station. We shuffled forward. All the seats were filled. I grabbed a chromed pole as the doors slid closed and braced myself for the start.
It was my second week on the job as an intern with the United States Attorney's Office for the Northern District of Illinois. Even as a war vet, strings had to be pulled to get me this job between my first and second year of law school. I was pleased that friends in influential places thought highly enough of me to make the effort. Too bad the job was a piece of crap - scut work, fetching and carrying for anyone and everyone in the States Attorney's office.
At the next stop a girl in her early twenties, a few years younger than me, boarded the train. An older back man got up and attempted to give her his seat. She was a bit aghast as she politely refused his offer - the collision of women's lib and old cultural programming. Or, maybe, he wanted to look down the neck of her yellow summer dress. She was showing a lot of skin. Summers in Chicago were preferable to winters, especially when it came to girl watching.
After the train, it was a brisk walk to the Dirksen Federal Building while tying my tie. Across the plaza I saw Grace O'Gorman get into a cab, not all of her, just that distinctive blonde head I'd held in my arms as she bled. I'd seen her name on some papers I'd delivered to the Clerk of Courts and hoped I'd be able to find her among the vast array of Federal employees in the city. She didn't show up on any of the phone lists I'd seen, but it was a thrill to know Grace was in town.
I could smell the paper burning. Thousand and thousands of tons of paper burning in the Federal warehouse just west of the Loop. Row after row of it was stacked fifteen feet high. The acrid smell of it hit me in the face when I rolled the fire door aside.
It wasn't on fire, but it was burning. The chemicals used to make the paper were slowly oxidizing it. In a century it would all be so much grey ash. It was just the nature of modern paper. You put enough of it in a close space and the smell was undeniable.
Warehouses were my least favorite places. They made me itchy. I scrambled around on the shelving for most of that late May morning before I found the box someone insisted was vital to the rule of law in these United States. My quarry was not in the location mentioned in the records. A number had been transposed. For my efforts I got bathed in dust along with decaying bird and rodent droppings.
Sweat had soaked through my shirt by the time I dropped my prize on the desk of the secretary to a rank of lawyers who toiled as Assistant US Attorneys. She'd been in the office for twenty-two years.
Blue eyes behind tortoise shell glasses squinted at me. "Mr. Kolwakowski needed those document two hours ago. He is very put out."
"The box wasn't where I was told. He's lucky to get it at all."
She pointed at one of the open doors behind her. "Well, take it in there." As I returned and walked past her she gave me a parting shot. "Mr. Hagerty, If you intend to last the summer, you had better fix your attitude."
That was not going to be a problem. Near death experiences relieve you of that burden. Mine were never far below the surface. I smirked at her as I passed on in my search for the men's room to clean my glasses and wash some of the crud from my hands and face.
Solomon Johnson beckoned me into his cubicle as I returned to my designated area in the records room of the Dirksen Federal Building. A lean man with short, strawberry blond hair going gray, he had not spent much time in the sun during his forty odd years as a Federal employee, the last seventeen of which had been as records clerk. "Come in and close the door, Mr. Hagerty,"
I did, then brushed some warehouse residue from my black pant leg. "What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?" In a real life I would have called him Sol or Solly, but here in the records office, I'd have to work another twenty years before he'd respond to that sort of address from me. Of course, one of us would be dead before that happened.
"Miss Pulaski called about you. She was not happy." He frowned. "You need to go up there and apologize to her."
I smiled. "I don't care. This is my last day."
"What?"
"I'm quitting as of four this afternoon."
He blinked three times. "Is the work beneath you?"
"No, I see that it is necessary work. Someone has to do this job. It just isn't going to be me."
"Do you think someone with your connections should have a better job? That you should be paid more?"
"Solly, may I call you Solly, connections and pay have nothing to do with it." I could always get money and this summer I was living free in Chicago with my great uncle Dominic. Actually, more of a second or third cousin, but the family referred to him as Uncle Dominic. I continued my monologue. "I'm just not going to spend my time doing dull, undemanding work for people who don't appreciate it. I'm sure someone else will be much better at it than I am." I opened his door and went back to my battered, single-pedestal desk.
As I got off the elevator in the lobby for what I thought was my last time in this Federal building, a woman about my age approached me. She was attractive in a simple way - short blonde hair, Peter Pan collared pink blouse, black skirt, no makeup. "Mr. Hagerty, please accompany me."
I stared at her. "Who are you and why would I do that?"
"It doesn't matter." She flicked me a smile. "And, it will be to your benefit."
I considered her. "Close enough. Lead on."
The actual office that the United States Attorney for the Northern District of Illinois occupied was large and paneled in dark wood. It might have been the office of a senior partner of a white glove operation except it was crowded with filing cabinets covered with stacks of papers and folios. There was just the hint of cigar smoke oozing from the worn leather furniture.
The man himself, in his ice cream suit, sat behind his desk talking on the phone. He gestured for me to take a seat while he listened to whomever was on the other end of the line. Placing the receiver in its cradle, he looked at me. "So, you are the famous Dan Hagerty."
"Well, I'm a Dan Hagerty. I personally have never met another."
"Not happy with our little intern program, are you?"
"Well, ah, let me just say that what I have been doing for the past two weeks is not an appropriate use of my time."
"Really, why's that?"
"Time's all you have. I almost ran out of it. I won't spend mine doing something I don't think is worthwhile."
He stood and walked over to the windows that looked out on other office buildings in the Loop. "Grace said you would have that sort of attitude."
"Grace?"
"Major Grace O'Connor, you remember her?"
I remembered holding a pressure bandage over a gunshot wound to her chest in a dark Seattle alley. "Difficult to forget." I also remembered wanting to sleep with her. She was only seven years older than me, at most, maybe.
"Agreed."
"Do you know how I can get in touch with her?"
He twitched a grin and gave me his business card. "Something may turn up more to your liking."
Well, how many options did I have? "Sure, no problem."
When I arrived at Dominic's place and told him about quitting, he said, "I will get you 'nother job for summer." When he told me it was driving limousines, I said, "I don't have a chauffeur's license." He smiled, "You can use mine." That arrangement turned out to be not that unusual. Monday morning I started work officially as Dominic Sovic, but my name tag read "Dan."
There are outright menial jobs and then there are menial jobs that got you outside meeting people. So, here I was three weeks into summer wearing a chauffeur's suit behind the wheel of a stretch Lincoln Continental waiting for the sun to come up over Lake Michigan.
Why this particular bride and groom weren't up in their hotel suite bonking each others brains out was beyond me. She had just graduated from Loyola and he from Notre Dame. They were so shiny new and, well, Catholic. They wanted to watch the sunrise on the first day of the rest of their lives together. Six years ago, was I that naive, optimistic, whatever? Probably just my own sleep deprivation. I shifted as the wound in my leg pinched. Well, it was double time for me, the limo driver, with the potential for a big tip.
I sat slumped back in the driver's seat with my chauffeur's cap tipped down over my eyes. They stood in the car's open sun roof. The breeze off the lake was slight and clean, lacking the stench of rotting algae which would show up in the next sixty days or so.
"Wo Hoo," she whooped as he popped the champagne cork while the sun pushed over the eastern horizon.
"Hey, Dan," he yelled. "Come toast to our new life."
I'd been up nearly twenty hours and did not want to drink lukewarm wine, or be there on Lake Shore Drive. "I really can't drink while I'm working, Mr. Gallagher."
"Aw, come on, Danny, one little sip," begged the bride.
It was the polite thing to do. Even dead tired I could be polite. And, no sense blowing a big tip. I took my glasses out of my shirt pocket and put them back on.
The sun blazed on the water as I hauled my frame out of the car and walked around to the passenger's side. "I'm happy to toast, but I can't drink."
The willowy red head frowned at me.
"It could cost me my license and this fantastic job."
Mister handed me a cheap glass flute of the bubbly. "Fair enough." He set the green bottle on the roof of the black car, placed his hand on the bride's cheek and kissed her.
Holding his gaze Misses touched his glass with hers. "To you, Tommy."
"To you," Mister said.
To the south, I saw that the sunrise turned the year old Sears Tower into a hundred and ten story orange flame. I should take a ride to the top of the world's tallest building sometime this summer.
They kissed again and turned to me with extended glasses. "To us."
I touched my glass to theirs. "To you, health and happiness." What else was there? Not getting shot flashed in my mind.
They drank. I handed him my glass when they'd finished.
"Let's head for the barn, Dan. There's chores to be done," Mister said.
Thank god. I slid behind the wheel to complete my assignment as the chauffeur for the Shanahann-Gallagher bridal party. Forty-five minutes later I turned the Lincoln over to a crew of illegal Haitian immigrants who would clean it for the next gig. I clocked out and jumped on my great uncle Dominic's motorcycle, a Norton Atlas, for the quick ride to his residential renovation project on the west side of Chicago's Lincoln Park neighborhood, because that's where I bunked.
"Get up!"
Someone or something lifted me from the bed by the back of my T-shirt.
"What?" I muttered.
"Get up. Go to Mass," Dominic said with a biblical intonation.
"What?"
"Get up, you lazy drunk. We go church. Now."
"Dominic, what time is it?"
"Almost nine o'clock. You need to go to church."
"Let me alone." I yanked on my shirt to free it from his hand. "Not today, Dom. I just got in bed two hours ago."
He kept the grip he'd developed from twenty-nine years of lifting garbage cans as if I wasn't even there. "If you do not drink all night then you can get more sleep."
"I was working all night. You know that."
"It was wedding. They went back to room for fucking. You went out drinking."
"No, they wanted to see the sunrise."
He let go and I flopped back on my bunk.
"Stupid, but get up. We go church, now." He grabbed me by an arm and a leg and threw me on the floor of my partially renovated room. "Show respect. Wear suit."
Short and barrel chested, Dominic was still a physically powerful man for someone in his fifties. Since '45 he'd worked as a garbage man in Chicago though he was now a union steward. So, I was living with him, allegedly assisting him in the renovation of an 1880's house on the near north side of the city. What I did was live rent free in a front room on the third floor, do what Dominic asked me to do and drive limo.
This morning I sat in his Oldsmobile '88 as we drove north to Saint Acacius on Wilson Avenue for a Serbian Orthodox mass. The car was showroom clean. Driving this lead sled Dominic didn't notice the gas lines around town or mention the increase in prices to over ninety cents a gallon. It didn't affect him. He got all his gas at the city garage, making scrupulously sure to pay the twenty-five cents they charged him. During the trip and the service, I was either asleep or in pain from exhaustion. There was one sneezing fit from the incense.
As we left, the bearded priest who had celebrated the Mass greeted me at the door. "Good morning, I'm Father Stephan. Are you with Dominic?"
Blinking to try to rouse my thoughts I said, "Yes, he's my great uncle on my mother's side."
"Are you staying with him?"
"Yes, for the summer."
The priest pulled me close to him. "I must talk with you. Come and see me tomorrow anytime. I'll be here all day." He squeezed my hand so hard the pain pulled me away from my lust for sleep.
The incense on his gold brocaded vestments brought tears to my eyes. "Ah."
"It is important."
I extracted my hand from his. "Yeah, sure. What time?" I rubbed the fingers to relieve the pain.
He gripped my shoulder. "I'll be here all day, but come."
I shuffled up to the car where Dominic waited for me. "Have nice talk with Father Stephan?"
I used my weight to swing the wide passenger door open. "Seems a little intense."
Dominic frowned at me. "The war. You be intense if you do what he did."
I took a beat to catch his meaning. The war to me was Vietnam, Can Tho and the Mekong River. Dominic meant World War II, the resistance, Yugoslavia. Either way, I was too tired to care just then. "Let's get back. I need some sleep if I'm going to work tonight."
Tonight driving was supposed to be a cake walk. I picked up some young buck at a high-rise on the Gold Coast. We drove out to an art deco apartment building just north of Lincoln Park. Thirty minutes later he came out with a swanky young woman. It was a pleasure opening the rear door for her. He was having dinner with his fiancee and his family downtown. I waited then took the young couple around for some clubbing.
Individually good looking in their own way, but a bit of a odd couple to look at. Bernardo Armeli was Mediterranean with olive skin and slicked back black hair. Mathilda Colessar was light complected with auburn hair cut severely at her jaw line. Both were dressed fashionably - he in dark bellbottom pants and a tight fitting orange shirt. She in a tan skirt that just covered her ass, a white blouse with a plunging neckline and ruffles down the front, several long necklaces and platform sandals.
A bit before two in the morning the couple slid into the back of my car. He was well oiled. She was not. From the sour look on her face she did not like hanging around with drunks.
"Take me home." She gave me the address between Belden and Webster. As I pulled onto Fullerton to go south on Lincoln Park Bernardo decided he wanted a little something extra from Miss Colessar before closing out the evening.
"Come on, Maddy," he said.
"Ben, no, you're drunk," she said.
I glanced in the rearview mirror. He had her pinned in the passenger's corner with one hand on her chest.
"You know you want it."
Something ripped. Hitting the brakes, I looked in the rearview mirror. He had torn her blouse open exposing a bare breast. She put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him.
"Mr. Armeli ..."
"Shut the fuck up," he said.
"Look what you did. Get away from me, jerk," she said.
"Looks good to me."
She slapped him. He giggled, turned away then spun back with a a roundhouse open hand, smacking her hard across the face. She screamed.
I slammed the car into park and jumped out. We were almost in front of Maddy's building. She opened the limo door and tumbled out onto the sidewalk. I ran to her. He lunged at her grabbing an ankle. I kicked him in the face. He dropped, releasing his grip.
"Let's get you inside." I held her up and navigated toward the building's main entrance. A liveried doorman stepped out as we reached the canopy. Armeli's roar came from behind us as I passed Maddy to the doorman and turned to engage my passenger.
Drunks are easy and he had been way over served. My gag reflex kicked in as he breathed on me which allowed him to grab me from behind. Dropping down to break his grip, I pivoted, took hold of him by one arm and ran him head first into the pink granite trim on the buildings east entrance. There was the sound of a melon smacking the wall. He went slack in my hands and fell unconscious. Flecks of blood stained the shine on the toe of my left shoe or maybe they were on my glasses.
I looked at Maddy and the doorman behind the glass in the vestibule of the apartment building. She stood wide-eyed with running mascara as she held her torn garment up to her throat. The doorman stared at me quizzically.
"He slipped," I said. "Take her up to her place. I'll take him to a hospital."
Maddy nodded.
I dragged Armeli to the car and tossed him in the back. "Cocksucking son of a bitch." The Haitians were going to give me a double ration of shit for getting blood on the backseat of their limousine.
My legs began to turn to rubber as I navigated my way back to the diver's seat. I opened my door and fell inside. Feeling very warm, I stripped off my uniform coat and tossed it on the seat. My breath came in ragged gulps. I swung myself behind the wheel and managed to close the door. Now, my hands shook and my arms felt like lead. It was five minutes before I felt safe enough to pull the limo out from the curb. Man, I loved this job.

