It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 10
When Tommy grabbed the bag of stolen goods, his son was curious. "What you got there, Pop?"
"Nothing. Just some stuff I gotta take to a guy in Woodbine."
Tommy Junior sensed an impending adventure. "Can I come along?"
"You'll just be bored, Tommy. There's nothing for you to do in Woodbine."
"C'mon, Pop. We never spend any time together. Whaddya say? Please?" Like most kids his age, Tommy Junior had a smile he saved for special occasions, for when he needed to get one over on a reluctant parent. He trotted out the special smile now.
"Oh, what the hell. You're old enough. And you're mother's always on me to spend more time with you."
"You mean it, Pop? Thanks. I'll just be a minute."
Tommy Junior disappeared into his bedroom, reappearing with his iPod plugged into his ear. "I'm ready."
His dad said something, but Tommy Junior had the volume turned up too high to care.
They rode in silence to Woodbine, Tommy listening to the car radio, his son listening to his personal library of tunes.
As they neared Woodbine, Tommy's teenage son turned off the iPod and looked at his father. "So what's the plan?"
Tommy was surprised by the question. "What do you mean?"
"I mean we're in the middle of nowhere with a bag full of jewelry and electronics I'm pretty sure you didn't pay for. I figure we came down here to sell the stuff. So what's the plan?"
Tommy was secretly pleased, but he was not going to confirm his son's suspicions. "Nah. It's nothing like that. I'm just making a delivery for a guy I know's got a store in town." Tommy pulled the car to a stop in front of Louie's.
"It's a pawnshop, Pop. Really, Pop, I wanna know how this stuff works."
Tommy swelled with paternal pride. "I go inside and sell the stuff while you wait here in the car."
"How am I gonna learn anything sitting in the car?" Tommy Junior doled out another special smile and watched his father's resolve crumble.
"What do you think your mother would do if she found out?"
Tommy Junior laughed. "I think she'd burn the rest of your clothes . . . this time with you still wearing them."
Tommy's laugh was more nervous than his son's. "Here. You carry the bag."
Tommy and Tommy Junior entered Louie's pawnshop. Louie's laugh was more nervous than Tommy's. "Hey Tommy. Good to see you. That your boy?"
Tommy grunted, "Yeah."
"He's a looker, that's for sure." Louie turned to face Tommy Junior "You got a girlfriend?"
Tommy Junior grunted like his dad. "Yeah."
The pleasantries out of the way, Louie turned to business. "So what's in the bag?"
Tommy signaled to his son, who dumped the contents of the bag on Louie's counter.
"I can give you six hundred for the lot of it."
Tommy snorted at the number. "The bracelet alone's worth two large."
Louie took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead. "Do we really have to do this every time, Tommy? Six hundred dollars is a fair offer."
"I need a grand, Louie."
"I'm sorry, Tommy. Really. As it is, I'm gonna take a loss at six hundred."
Tommy pulled Louie aside and whispered. "Listen, Louie. You're making me look like a real loser in front of my kid. You gotta give me somethin' . . . I'll make it up to you next time." Tommy backed away and waited to see what Louie was willing to do.
"Tell you what, Tommy. I shouldn't do this, but we're friends. Right? I'll go for eight hundred. Do we have a deal?"
Tommy nodded, pleased. "Yeah, we have a deal." He looked at his son to see if Tommy Junior was impressed.
Louie took eight one-hundred dollar bills from the cash box and handed them to Tommy. "Sure was a shame about Big Mack."
Tommy nodded.
"What happened?" asked Louie.
"How should I know? I saw it on TV, same as you did."
"It's just, well, you know how it looks. You were playing the Macks and now, well, now Big Mack's dead."
"It doesn't look like nothin', Louie," said Tommy. "The security cop did it. Ain't you been payin' attention."
"Easy, Tommy. I didn't mean anything. I was just thinking out loud, is all."
"Well, don't be. And don't be thinkin' I was cheating the Macks either. 'Cause I wasn't."
Louie retreated farther behind the counter. "Okay, Tommy. I believe you. Even if Little Mack says otherwise."
Tommy nearly came across the counter at Louie. He was screaming now. "What did you say to Little Mack?"
"Nothing, Tommy. Really, nothing."
"If you told the Macks you were fencing stuff for me . . ." Tommy glared at Louie and sputtered to a stop.
"Relax, Tommy. When you run a pawnshop, you hear all kinds of stories. But I treat my customers like a doctor treats a patient, like a lawyer treats a client. What's the word, you know?"
Tommy Junior piped up from the corner. "Confidential."
"That's right, Junior. Confidential. Your dad's business here is all strictly confidential."
"For your sake, Louie, I hope so," said Tommy Junior.
In the car, driving home from Woodbine, Tommy could feel his son's eyes locked on him. "What?"
"Nothing, Pop."
"Spill it, kiddo. What's on your mind?"
Tommy Junior didn't know how to ask. "Nothing, Pop. Really." And he retreated behind a sullen teenage face.
They drove the rest of the way home in silence. When they pulled up in front of Greta's house, Tommy took the bills from his shirt pocket and peeled one of the hundred dollar bills from the wad. "Here Tommy. This is for you."
"Wow, Pop. Thanks."
"When you share in the risks, kiddo, you share in the reward. Don't ever forget that."
"I won't, Pop."
"See ya round, kiddo."
"Yeah, Pop." Tommy Junior stepped out of Tommy's Plymouth and let himself into the house.
Brown Uniforms
Little Mack slept poorly on the cheap motel mattress, too small for his extra-large frame and with an exposed bedspring poking at his side. He was still tired when he awoke, and he was cranky after the bad night's sleep. Little Mack stumbled into the bathroom, stubbing his toe on the doorjamb.
"Dammit." Little Mack felt the throbbing in his foot and the growing anger in his gut. Suddenly he laughed. If he was getting angry, he knew the crying shit was finally passing. If he could just get good and angry, he was certain this bout of depression would pass. He took a shower and shaved and retrieved a fresh suit from the back of his car. He had no proof, but a very strong sense, that someone had been messing with the Town Car. He hated when someone messed with his wheels. Little Mack smiled. He was going to be okay after all.
Little Mack drove into town for breakfast. He found a small diner and ordered eggs over easy and a cup of coffee. The eggs were over hard and the coffee was weak. Little Mack felt his anger building and smiled. He lingered over a second bad cup of coffee and flirted with the waitress.
Late in the morning, Little Mack returned to cabin twelve at the Bhait's Motel. He flipped on the radio.
"Okay, boys and girls. We're comin' at ya today from the Mall of New Jersey. It's a party down here. So drop whatever you're doing and come down to the mall for Dick Joakes and Lou Spowels. We're gonna be here until two p.m. What've you got there, Lou?"
Lou Spowels leaned into his microphone. "Hey, Dick. Someone just handed me this." Lou waved a piece of paper for his radio listeners. "We're supposed to let everyone know that it's Oliver Berryhill Day here at the Mall of New Jersey. Come meet a local hero."
Local hero Oliver Berryhill, famous for killing Teddy Maciborski. Little Mack put his fist through the bathroom door and then smiled.
Little Mack stopped in the lobby to settle up his bill. It bugged him that Beejit Bhait was nowhere to be found. Little Mack left the key to cabin twelve and two twenty-dollar bills on the counter. Making a mental note never to return to this dump, he climbed into the Lincoln Town Car, his right foot heavy on the accelerator, Woodbine receding rapidly in the rearview mirror.
Everything on the return trip angered Little Mack. It bugged him when there were other cars on the road. It bugged him when his was the only car on the road. The weather bugged him. The road signs bugged him. The radio bugged him. WWEX. Dick Joakes and Lou Spowels. Oliver Berryhill Day especially bugged him.
It was nearly two o'clock when Little Mack pulled his Town Car into the mall's parking lot. He walked inside and surveyed the festivities. Little Mack joined the line of shoppers waiting to meet the local hero. The line moved slowly. By the time he reached the head of the line, Little Mack was seething.
Oliver Berryhill was startled by the heat that emanated off this very large shopper with a grim smile and an uncanny resemblance to Teddy Maciborski. Little Mack shook Oliver's hand and leaned in close, whispering into Oliver's ear.
"My name is Augie Maciborski. I believe you knew my father."
Oliver tried to pull away, but Augie's enormous right hand held the smaller man in its firm grip. "You can't live the rest of your life surrounded by crowds in public places."
Little Mack wondered if his message was clear enough. "I will see you again, Mr. Local Hero." Little Mack stepped back, released Oliver's hand and smiled broadly.
Oliver felt a sudden onrush of gastrointestinal distress. Waving at the event supervisor, he duck-walked off to the men's room, grateful that security officers at the Mall of New Jersey wore brown uniforms.
"This is Lou Spowels thanking all you boys and girls for joining us here at the Mall of New Jersey."
From her customary spot on the edge of the food court, Cassie O'Malley watched the progress of Oliver Berryhill Day, taking notes and snapping digital pictures. It was time for her to respond to Jack Cambrian's phone messages.
Clean Lines and Technology Upgrades
Oliver Berryhill Day was a feel-good story about a local hero. Cassie was certain it would appeal to Jack Cambrian. But on another level, it was a story populated with odd characters, both dead and alive, which made it just bizarre enough to appeal to her own slightly off-kilter sensibilities. Cassie realized that this was the story to get her writing again. Perhaps it was also the story to mend fences with her editor. She called the magazine and left a message, suggesting a meeting in the office on the morrow.
Cassie looked forward to a story meeting with Jack Cambrian. It felt good to stop hiding from the magazine's new owner. She poured herself a Tullamore Dew. As she sipped the whiskey, Cassie remembered there was also the matter of the magazine's former owner. She had been ducking phone calls from both the current and former owners of the Jersey Knews. It was time for Cassie to find out why Morris was freaking out in Woodbine. She placed a second phone call.
"Morris."
"Cassie. What took you so long?' Morris hated himself for whining.
"What's going on, Morris?"
"They know I'm down here, Cassie."
"Who knows?"
"You know, Cassie. The guys that are looking for me. The Macks. Somehow they followed me."
Cassie was familiar with Morris's over-active imagination. "Are you sure, Morris?"
"One of them spent the night at the motel."
"Did he see you?"
"I don't think so," said Morris.
"Then you're probably okay," Cassie said, although she was beginning to think otherwise. "What's he been doing all day?"
"I don't know, Cassie. I've been hiding in my room. But his car's not around anymore."
Cassie thought Morris was probably over-reacting, but then again, she wondered if there was more to the story. "Look, Morris, if you think maybe it's not safe at the motel, get in your car and leave already."
Morris coughed. "That's a problem, Cassie."
"Don't tell me your car's still in the shop Morris?"
"It's a long story. Look, I hate to ask, but I really need you to come get me."
Cassie wanted to be annoyed, but after all, this was Morris. Fifteen years of friendship had to mean something.
"Okay, Morris. Here's the thing. I'm stopping at the office in the morning. I'll come get you when I finish up."
"You're going to the office?" Morris forgot about his troubles in Woodbine. "You never go into the office."
Cassie knew that was true. "Don't exaggerate, Morris. I went to the office sometimes when you owned the magazine."
"Four times, Cassie." Morris knew he sounded pitiful, but he could not stop. "Four times in fifteen years."
Cassie didn't want to get drawn into an argument with Morris. They both understood that Morris had always wanted more from their relationship than Cassie was willing to give.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Morris. Around noon. Be ready."
Morris looked around the empty motel room. "I'll be here."
The state capitol held no appeal for Cassie, but it was home to the offices of the Jersey Knews Magazine and it was, on a Sunday, deserted, state officials and bureaucrats alike having retreated to their suburban homes. Cassie easily found a parking space in front of the converted row house that served as the magazine's office.
The office was empty on a Sunday, but Jack had come in for the meeting. Cassie looked around the office. Jack had redecorated, or perhaps Morris. It had been so long between visits, the improvements could date back to Morris, but Cassie decided the clean lines and technology upgrades were a reflection of the new owner.
"Good morning, O'Malley. This is a pleasant surprise."
"Thanks for coming in on a Sunday," Cassie said.
Jack Cambrian was tempted to point out the obvious, that he often worked on Sunday, that Cassie should know that after a year. "No problem, O'Malley. So what've you got?"
Cassie described Oliver Berryhill Day.
"It's a good story, O'Malley, the local hero angle and all. How soon can you have it ready?"
"I need a few days. I haven't actually interviewed the security guard yet. Let me reach out to Mr. Berryhill, and then we'll see where we are with the story. Okay?"
"Okay." Jack Cambrian smiled. "You'll keep me in the loop?"
"Yeah, boss," said Cassie. "In the loop."
"And you'll start coming to staff meetings?"
Cassie thought about it before answering. "One step at a time, boss. One step at a time."
Jack Cambrian laughed. "But you'll think about it?"
Cassie smiled. "Yeah. I'll think about it."
Fifteen Minutes of Fame
Oliver was twelve minutes into his fifteen minutes of fame. He was the center of attention and thoroughly enjoying every minute of the experience. Oliver had always wondered about the celebrities he read about in the tabloids, the ones who complained about all the attention. There was, he decided, no downside to fame. Twelve minutes into his fifteen minutes of fame, Oliver's only concern was how to extend his time in the spotlight. And then Little Mack whispered in his ear.
Oliver had told the story so many times that he began to believe he really had fought off the dangerous felon. And then, twelve minutes into his fifteen minutes of fame, Little Mack reminded him that he was not so tough after all. When Oliver Berryhill Day ended at the mall, Oliver Berryhill was afraid to leave. He had arrived with an entourage, but when the media cameras had left, so had the entourage. When the event supervisor thanked him and said goodbye, when his shift supervisor reminded him it was back to a regular work day tomorrow and then departed, Oliver Berryhill found himself dangerously alone.
As he walked to the exit, Oliver was panning three hundred sixty degrees, on full alert for the possible appearance of Little Mack. Walking toward the exit, looking back over his shoulder, Oliver tripped over a large potted plant, ripping his brown Mall of New Jersey pants and cutting his Mall of New Jersey leg just below the knee. Mall of New Jersey blood trickled down his left leg as he walked.
When Oliver reached the exit, he stopped, afraid to venture outside. He stared at the exit, considering his options, failing to generate any options to consider. Slowly he opened the door, feeling the cold December air on his face and on his exposed leg. He had been fashionably late arriving that morning, his car parked at a remote end of the lot. He now faced a long walk across a deserted parking lot alone in the dark of evening, accompanied only by Little Mack's earlier threat, which still echoed in his ears. "I will see you again, Mr. Local Hero."
Oliver started to run for the car, only to stop some twenty feet later, out of breath and embarrassed. He looked around, but, of course, no one had seen. The parking lot was deserted. Slowly he walked to his car, reminding himself as he walked to take deep, even breaths.
He made it to the far end of the lot undisturbed, and as he took his keys out to unlock his Ford Taurus, Oliver had a most disturbing thought. Little Mack didn't need to be there to do him harm. What if he rigged the car to explode? He stood in the parking lot, wondering if it was safe to unlock the door. After fifteen minutes, he unlocked the door and climbed in, panting. He wondered if it was safe to turn the ignition. Ten minutes later, he started up the car, gasping for air. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the access road. As he approached the highway entrance, preparing to merge into heavy highway traffic, Oliver wondered if Little Mack had cut his brake line. He held his breathe, tapped the brakes, and squeezed between a panel truck and a tour bus. The panel truck swerved, nearly forcing Oliver off the road, clipping Oliver's fender. Was the driver simply distracted inside his panel truck, or had Little Mack arranged for this automotive encounter?
Oliver cautiously climbed out of the Taurus, the driver of the panel truck already out of the truck, examining the damage and screaming. "Where the hell did you learn to drive?"
"I'm sorry," Oliver mumbled. "A problem with my brakes."
"Look at this," the other driver said, pointing to the damage to his truck.
Oliver didn't think the damage to either vehicle was significant. "Maybe we're better off if we just call it a wash and take care of our own repairs. If you report it to the insurance company, you know what's gonna happen to our rates."
