It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Murder, page 8
Cassie was surprised to find that the downstairs room at White Sands Blues was open. No live music, of course, and no customers either, but there was mellow jazz playing on the sound system, and a youthful bartender relaxing behind the bar, watching television with the sound muted.
"Come on in, ma'am. We're open."
Cassie took a seat at the bar. "I'd like an Irish whiskey and water."
The bartender went off in search of whiskey, returning with a bottle of Jameson's. "Is this okay?"
Cassie nodded.
The bartender extended his hand. "I'm Glenn."
"Cassie," she answered, and sipped the Jameson's and water. "Thanks."
"What brings you to the beach this time of year?" Glenn wondered.
"What keeps you open this time of year?"
Glenn smiled. "Touché."
"Can I get something to eat?"
"Well," Glenn explained, "the kitchen's not really open, but let me see what I can find."
Glenn disappeared in back and returned ten minutes later with a tin of crabmeat. "I think it's still good. How about I make a crab salad?"
"That would be wonderful!"
Glenn again disappeared, returning shortly with two small plates of crab salad, on Boston lettuce, with a light mustard-wasabi dressing. "I hope this will be okay." He topped up Cassie's whiskey and poured himself a glass of Pinot Grigio.
Jimmy Heath was playing saxophone on the sound system. On the muted TV behind the bar, a news story came onscreen from the Mall of New Jersey. The reporter was interviewing a security guard.
"Holy crap, Glenn. Turn the sound up."
Glenn increased the volume on the sound system.
"Not the music. The TV."
Glen fixed the sound just in time for Cassie to hear Oliver Berryhill explain. "I thought about all the shoppers, especially the moms with their young children waiting to meet Santa Claus. I couldn't let the madman get past me. I couldn't let any of the children be put in danger."
"What the hell was that all about?" She had spent weeks at the mall, day after boring day, and nothing ever happened. What a piece of bad luck, she thought. For the dead guy, too.
Cassie checked her cell phone. Jack Cambrian had already left a message.
"O'Malley. My gut told me there was a story at the mall. And my star writer is on scene when the whole thing goes down. What a piece of good luck. Call me as soon as you can."
Cassie gulped down the rest of her Jameson's and threw a twenty on the bar. "Sorry, Glenn. I gotta run."
The Code
Driving to Woodbine, Little Mack could picture his upcoming visit to Louie's pawnshop. At first, Louie would deny any knowledge of Tommy V. Little would get up in his face, and still Louie would resist giving Tommy up. The code.
Probably Little would have to threaten violence. He might even have to hit the guy. Little Mack shook his head in the car on the way down to Woodbine, imagining the violence. It was all so tedious.
And it was also unnecessary. Even as Little Mack was driving to Woodbine, Big Mack was on his way to the mall. The Macks already knew that Tommy was playing them, running some kind of scam. The details really didn't matter. But still, there he was, driving the Lincoln Town Car to Woodbine. The code.
Little Mack thought about the code. Every business has its own peculiar set of rules. In that regard, the enforcement business was no different. It was a matter of honor. After all, it was the business he chose. It was the business his father chose for him. After his brothers died, Big Mack informed his only living son that he was going into the family business. Most of the time, Little Mack enjoyed a day "at the office." But recently, all he felt about work was tired.
When he parked the Town Car in front of Louie's pawnshop, he said a quick prayer that Louie might allow him to bypass the ritual confrontation, but the patron saint of enforcers must not have been listening.
Louie denied knowing Tommy V. Little Mack got in his face, and he could tell that Louie was scared silly, but he was stubborn and he played by the rules. Louie was not going to give Tommy up. Little Mack would have to play the scene out.
He threatened violence, and Louie started to cry, but still he refused to talk until Little Mack hit him one time, not too hard, but enough that Louie cowered in the corner, his glasses flying across the pawnshop. Louie told Little Mack how Tommy had come in almost every night for a week, to unload stolen goods. It was all so tedious.
Little Mack walked out of the pawnshop and started up the Town Car. He pointed the car north, leaving Woodbine in his rearview window. What the fuck is wrong with me?
Little Mack was halfway home when he heard the report on his car radio. During an attempted robbery, career criminal, Teddy Maciborski was killed at the Mall of New Jersey. There was a brief audio clip of Oliver Berryhill explaining how he had to protect the women and children.
Little Mack pulled the Town Car onto the shoulder. He wanted to feel anger. He tried really hard to locate the anger in the pit of his stomach, but he could not find anger. What he found there surprised him. Little Mack sat in the Town Car on the side of the road and cried.
Jesus, it's a good thing no one's here to see this.
Little Mack cried like a baby. Like a pawnshop owner about to get hit.
Events Unfolding like a Movie
Word spread through the mall like a fungus. There was a dead body in the men's room, or was it the food court or the bath shop? No one was quite sure what was going on, but everyone knew there was a dead body. Was there a killer on the loose? No one knew, but that didn't stop everyone from expressing an expert opinion. The mall was about to be locked down. The police were setting up checkpoints all along the mall's perimeter. SWAT teams were already sweeping through the mall, store by store. It made no difference that there were neither SWAT teams nor checkpoints because there was gossip. And gossip fueled rumor. And rumor fueled hysteria. And amidst the commotion, no one noticed when Santa failed to return from his break.
Tommy grabbed his bag of purloined presents and ran for his car. Life really can change completely, he thought, in an instant. He drove poorly, distracted by the events of the day, nearly hitting two cars in the parking lot and one more on the road. He thought about his confrontation with Big Mack, the ugly words that were exchanged, the ultimatum. He drove recklessly, weaving in and out of traffic, uncertain as to his final destination even as he pulled to a stop in front of Greta's house. He jumped out of the car, grabbing the bag of stolen goods, banging at Greta's front door.
When Greta opened the door, she found Tommy still dressed as Santa, with a bag of gifts slung over his shoulder, muttering to himself, pacing in front of the door.
"Tommy! Aren't you—grr—supposed . . . ?"
Tommy pushed past her into the house, dropping his bag on the floor in the family room. "Can I leave this here for a couple of days?"
"Shit, Tommy. Don't get me involved in one of your schemes." When they were married, Greta often had the chance to observe Tommy in the midst of a scheme gone bad. She recognized the herky-jerky motion in his arms and legs, the odd angle of his head, the look of desperation in his eyes. This one was bad. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing . . . really, Greta. Look, I'm just gonna stash this bag in the basement for a coupla three days. Okay?" Tommy carried the bag down the stairs without waiting for an answer.
He looked around the unfinished basement, left the bag in the utility closet and ran back up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.
"You know, Greta, I really had fun at dinner."
Greta was still angry about dinner. "I—grr—did too, Tommy. Until you left me the damn check."
"I'm gonna pay you back, Greta."
"Sure you are, Tommy."
"Really." Tommy's hand was on the doorknob. "I gotta go."
"If you don't—grr—mind one question, Tommy, how come you're wearing your Santa suit?"
Tommy stopped half-way out the door and smacked himself in the head. "Holy shit, Greta. You're right. Do you have any of my old clothes packed away in the attic?"
Greta laughed. "I burned whatever you didn't take."
"I gotta go, Greta." Santa sprinted for his car.
Tommy wondered if it was safe to stop at his apartment, but he didn't really have a choice. He had to change out of the Santa suit. He drove past his apartment three times before pulling into a parking place. He saw no evidence that anyone was sitting on his apartment. He moved cautiously as he entered. The tiny apartment was quiet and dark. Tommy threw the Santa suit on the floor, climbing into an old pair of jeans and a grey hooded sweatshirt.
Tommy still hadn't figured out where he was going or how long he would be gone. As he rifled through his bureau, trying to decide what he might need, he flipped on the TV. On TV, Oliver Berryhill was explaining to the reporter how he subdued the enraged criminal.
"Say what?" Tommy stopped what he was doing to watch the special news bulletin.
Oliver Berryhill told quite a story. Tommy pictured the events unfolding like a movie. Oliver walking into the bathroom, checking for cigarette smokers and finding instead the very large and very dangerous Teddy Maciborski. Teddy examining the stolen jewelry, startled by Oliver's appearance, trying to hide the stolen goods before his illegal activity might be uncovered. Oliver, always on the alert, recognizing the telltale signs of a criminal mind, confronting the man, cool and relaxed in the face of danger. "I approached the man carefully and said, 'Hey Mac. How ya doin'?' " Oliver looked at the reporter and smiled, a grim smile, the smile of a man who had looked at danger and danger blinked. "I remember exactly because it seems funny now, ironic, that I called him Mac and then I learned that was the guy's name, Mack."
Oliver explained how Mack tried to double-talk his way out of trouble, and when he realized Oliver was not going to be fooled, he pulled a knife. Sitting in his apartment, watching the interview on TV, Tommy tried to imagine the ensuing struggle, Oliver pushing the armed and dangerous Big Mack off of him, Mack losing his balance, tripping, his arms reaching out as he tried to catch himself, falling backwards into the stall, accidentally slitting his own throat as he fell.
"It was horrible," Oliver admitted to the reporter. "The blood spurting from the man's neck. It's a picture I won't ever forget."
Oliver told the story so well that Tommy, sitting in his apartment, could picture the blood spurting from Big Mack's neck wound nearly as clearly as Oliver.
Tommy stared at the television. "Maybe things will work out after all."
Her Mother's Logic
Rae Harbrough dialed her daughter's phone number. "Have you been watching the news, dear?"
"Hello, mother. What are they reporting on the news today?"
"You mean you don't know?"
"No, mother. I'm very busy today." Cheyenne had spent the day reviewing departmental proposals for the township budget plan.
"Mayor busy?"
"Yes mother, mayor busy."
Rae Harbrough frowned. "Don't you worry that being mayor is taking up too much of your time?"
"Mother!"
"I'm sorry, dear. It's just that I worry about you sometimes. You look tired."
"I'm fine, Mother. Now why is it that you called?"
"There was an incident at the mall today. A security officer had to kill a dangerous criminal."
"What?" Cheyenne turned on her TV.
"Turn on you television dear."
"I just did, Mother." Cheyenne flipped channels, quickly finding a report on the incident at the mall. "Wow."
Rae got to the purpose of her call. "I think you should give that nice young officer a proclamation."
"The rent-a-cop? Why on earth should I do that?" Cheyenne never could quite follow her mother's logic.
"He did a brave thing, Cheyenne, protecting the women at the mall. Imagine if you and I had been there."
Cheyenne felt guilty, but for just the briefest moment she did imagine her mother at the mall. "But why should I give the man a proclamation? You realize the mall isn't in Doah, don't you?"
"I'm not going senile yet, dear. I think a proclamation is just a nice way to say thank you. After all, people from towns all over south Jersey, including many voters in Doah, shop at the mall."
Cheyenne knew that her mother was not thinking about how Cheyenne might enhance her appeal to Doah's voters. She waited for the real reason, and her mother did not disappoint.
"Do you realize that the man who died today, the dangerous criminal, was the same man that tried to steal my cashmere scarf last week?"
Audrey Hepburn
Cassie did not return Jack Cambrian's first phone message, and she ducked two more after that. She didn't want to talk to Jack until she learned more about what really happened at the mall. She watched the news reports, watched as Oliver Berryhill refined the story with each retelling. He was remarkably adept for a security guard. By the time the mall re-opened in the morning, his story would be too rehearsed to be of much interest. It was, Cassie decided, probably too late already.
She needed to talk to someone who was there. It didn't have to be someone with direct knowledge of the killing. After all, there were no eye witnesses to the fatal encounter between Teddy Maciborski and Oliver Berryhill. When she spoke to Jack Cambrian, she needed to sound like she had been there. She needed to get a feel for the chaos in the mall. She needed a source at the mall. She needed, Cassie decided, to bum an early morning cigarette from Santa Claus.
Santa would know what it felt like in the mall. He would have seen the children crying and the mothers yelling. He would know who'd been bad and who'd been good.
She might have writer's block, but Cassie still had a writer's instinct. She had stumbled upon an angle for her story—the killing at the Mall of New Jersey as seen through the eyes of Santa Claus. She still had to do her research and write the damn thing, but she could already picture the finished piece. Cassie O'Malley was back. She would have a story for Jack Cambrian, and not just any story. She would have a damn fine story for the magazine.
Cassie turned off the news reports and switched on a Dave Brubeck CD, the tune "Audrey," an homage to Audrey Hepburn, floating like Ms. Hepburn herself through the condo. Cassie poured herself an inch of Tullamore Dew and logged onto the computer. "Go ahead," she urged, "you can do this."
But she was wrong. She stared at the computer screen, her fingers poised above the keyboard, but the idea would not gel, the words would not flow. Cassie freshened her Tullamore Dew.
That night Cassie dreamt of Christmases past. She dreamt of her freshman year in college, spending Christmas in the dorm with her roommate, Cheyenne. The random room assignments of freshman year had thrown Cassie and Cheyenne together. It was a pairing that would never work, Cassie told herself. They were The Odd Couple, Cassie's Felix to Cheyenne's Oscar. When they decided to throw a tree-trimming party for the dormitory, Cassie fretted over every detail. Cheyenne popped a beer and announced that it was all good.
The dorm was nearly empty, most of the girls having gone home for the holidays. And so, in the dormitory, in her freshman year at Princeton, the tree-trimming party had been poorly attended. But in her dream, nearly twenty years later, the dorm room was filled with guests. Cassie's parents were there, as was her husband. Morris was there, and Jack too. Oliver Berryhill was a guest at the party, explaining once again how he fought off Big Mack's attack. And Big Mack himself made a brief appearance at the tree-trimming party. Cassie awoke in the morning, Christmas carols still ringing in her ears. It was time to pay a visit to Santa Claus.
Cassie parked her car at the front of the lot, some twenty minutes before the Mall of New Jersey was scheduled to open for business. As she expected, Santa Claus was standing out front, puffing on a Newport. She took a deep breath and walked over.
"You are looking powerful sexy this morning, Santa Claus." Actually, Cassie thought that Santa looked anxious, nearly nauseous, but the situation did not call for such candor.
Tommy blushed behind his white whiskers. "I haven't seen you in a couple of days. Need a cig?"
Tommy held out the pack of Newports, and Cassie took one. She waited until Santa pulled out a lighter. "Let me light that for you."
"Thank you." Cassie giggled. She was disgusted with herself for giggling, but she was pleased as well. A quick peek told her Santa was enjoying the attention.
They stood in front of the entrance and smoked their cigarettes, sharing an intimate nicotine moment. As shoppers moved around them and entered the mall, Cassie turned to Santa Claus, asking, "Aren't you going to be late?"
Santa stubbed out his cigarette. "Yeah. I gotta go."
Cassie smiled up at Santa. "I'm working on a Christmas story. How about I buy you a cup of coffee on your morning break? You can tell me what it's like to be Santa Claus."
Tommy sipped his hot coffee, careful not to burn the inside of his mouth, and looked across the table at Cassie taking notes. "Don't get me wrong. Most days it's just a job. Kids screaming. Moms bitching. The elves can be a royal pain in the ass. And Mrs. Claus . . . Let me tell you, when it's her time of the month, Mrs. Claus can be a bitch. But for all that, I think I'm beginning to like being Santa Claus." Tommy took a bite of corn muffin and another sip of coffee, black, two sugars. How about you? Do you like being a writer?"
"I love being a writer." Cassie thought about her answer. "At least I used to. Lately I'm not so sure."
"What's changed?" Tommy wondered.
"I don't know. Anyway, I'm the one who's supposed to be asking the questions. So tell me about yesterday. I hear it got pretty crazy here."
Tommy laughed. "Yeah, that's what I hear too."
Cassie was surprised by Tommy's answer. "On TV, they've been reporting that the mall was in a state of panic yesterday. Are you saying it's being exaggerated?"
"I'm sure some folks panicked, but a lot of people probably didn't know that anything happened yesterday until they got home and saw the reports on television."
