A Scourge of Vipers (31 page)

“Ask Whoosh to get you one.”

Joseph flopped his head back against the booth cushion, stunned by his sudden good fortune. Then he bent over the table, finished his burger, and ordered another.

“I just thought of somethin' else,” he said. “Whoosh ain't gonna be around forever. What happens when he croaks?”

“We keep sending his share to the Caymans account as long as Maggie's alive. That's probably going to be a long time, Joseph. She's in good health, and she's ten years younger than he is.”

*   *   *

After Yolanda transferred the first twenty-five thousand from the settlement to my bank account, it had twenty-five thousand three hundred and sixteen dollars in it. But it didn't stay there long.

The day dawned hot and humid, the temperature soaring to eighty-six degrees, by the time Joseph pulled Secretariat into a customer parking space at Tasca Automotive Group in Cranston. I climbed out, glanced across the vast lot of used cars, and burst out laughing. About a quarter of them were Honda Civics. And a lot of them were gray.

We'd just turned toward the showroom when a slim blond woman in a crisp tan business suit and a fat man in a white dress shirt with sweat stains at the armpits both broke into a run. The woman was faster but the fat man was closer, so he beat her to the new mark.

“Burt Silva,” he said. “Welcome to Tasca.”

He stuck out his hand, and I shook it. Then he bent over, grabbed his knees, and took a moment to catch his breath.

“Thinkin' of tradin' this old gal in?” he asked.

“It's a he,” I said, “and his name's Secretariat.”

“Ha! Great name for a Bronco.”

“I think so.”

He took in my jeans and my faded Red Sox T-shirt, sizing me up.

“In the market for somethin' used?”

“No,” I said. “We're heading for the showroom. Stay the fuck out of our way, okay? When I need you, I'll let you know.”

“Okay, okay. Just remember to ask for Burt.”

Stepping into the air-conditioned showroom felt like getting trapped inside a refrigerator. As we walked by the Fusion, the Focus, the Escape, and the Explorer, Burt kept an eye on us and tried not to hover. Joseph stopped dead beside a black F-150 pickup and tried not to drool. I left him there and headed for the Mustangs.

I gave the V6 coupes a quick once-over and then popped the hood of a red Mustang GT convertible. Aluminum block, 420 horsepower, five-liter V8 engine. Six-way power drivers. Stainless steel dual exhausts. Six-gear automatic transmission. I opened the door, slid the seat back, sank into the saddle-leather upholstery, and admired the eight-speaker Shaker sound system. Sticker price, $42,640.

After five minutes or so, I climbed out and gave Burt a wave.

“Wanna take this baby for a spin?” he asked.

“'S'what I'm here for.”

“Got one just like it in Ingot Silver out back,” he said.

Five minutes later, I was behind the wheel at the edge of the street, Burt squeezed into the passenger seat at my side. I pushed a button and powered the roof down.

“Zero to sixty in four-point-eight seconds,” he said.

“Let's see,” I said.

Burt squealed like a girl when I floored it out of the lot. A moment later, he regained his composure and launched into his canned spiel about the car's features.

“Burt?”

“Sir?”

“Do us both a favor and shut up.”

He did, but a couple of minutes later he started in again.

I punched on the sound system, flipped through the radio channels, caught the first few bars of Stevie Ray Vaughan's “Crossfire,” and cranked the volume. Try talking over that.

A half hour later, I pulled back into the lot and parked beside the showroom doors.

“So, whaddaya think?” Burt said. “Is that a sweet ride or what?”

“Only two things I don't like,” I said.

“What?”

“The sticker price and the color.”

“You want the red one in the showroom?”

“Does it come in a dark blue?”

“Deep Impact Metallic Blue,” he said, as if that was supposed to mean something to me.

“Show me.”

He pointed out a Taurus in that color. I liked it fine.

When we stepped back into the showroom, Joseph was still lingering by the F-150.

“Ought to test-drive the Toyota Tundra before you decide,” I said.

“The Dodge Ram and the Chevy Silverado, too,” he said. “But I ain't in no hurry. Gotta wait till I get title to the store first so I can write it off as a business expense.”

“Good thinking.”

A moment later I sat across Burt's desk for the negotiation.

“Are you trading the Bronco?” he asked. “Cuz I can only give you scrap value for it.”

“No.”

“Well, I can give you a small break off the sticker price,” he said. “But you gotta understand, the new Mustangs are really moving.”

“Bull,” I said. “The local economy sucks, and your sales are in the crapper. I want an out-the-door price of thirty-nine five including dealer costs and registration fees. And Burt? Say one more word about the price and I'm out the door to another dealer.”

He leaned back and looked me over again.

“How much are you thinking of putting down?”

“Fifteen grand,” I said.

“We can arrange financing for you.”

“I might have a problem with that.”

“What?”

“When dealers arrange financing, they like to tack on a thousand-dollar fee for themselves. I'm not paying that.”

“Okay. Let me have a word with my supervisor, and I'll see what we can do.”

Ten minutes later, he waddled back with his boss, a Cheshire cat named Edwin who tried to squeeze another grand out of me, gave it up as a lost cause, and slinked off to do the paperwork.

If the homicide twins were going to arrest me now, I thought, they'd have a devil of a time catching me.

 

49

The plunging neckline of the sleeveless, lime–green dress Yolanda wore on Saturday night made it difficult to keep my eyes on the road.

“I love your car,” she said. “Is this what the twenty-five grand was for?”

“You betcha.”

“Going to miss Secretariat?”

“Not really. I gave him to Joseph, but I retained visiting privileges.”

“Decided on a name for the new one yet?”

“Mr. Ed, after the talking horse on that old TV show.”

“Ha! Why not something noble like Citation or Seabiscuit?”

“I named my first car Citation after the three moving violations I got the first week I owned him. He was a used Yugo. When I named the Bronco, I was still in my ironic period. I decided to give the Mustang a name that actually suits him.”

“Mister Ed suits him? I don't get it.”

“This baby talks to me.”

“He does? What's he say?”

“Whenever I obey the speed limit, as I am now, he gets pissed off,” I said. “Listen to the engine. He keeps growling ‘Chicken!'”

I was searching for a rare parking space within walking distance of Andino's when blue flashers lit us up. There was no place to pull over, so I stopped in front of the restaurant, blocking traffic. In the rearview, I watched Wargart and Freitas climb out of an unmarked Crown Vic. He swaggered toward us on the driver's side, and Freitas approached the passenger side. Their right hands rested on the butts of their Beretta .40 semi-automatics.

I waited until they rapped their knuckles on the side windows before I powered them down and let the evening heat in.

“Sweet ride,” Wargart said.

“It is.”

“Must've set you back more than forty grand.”

“Not quite.”

“Where'd you get the money?” Freitas said.

“None of your business.”

“Bet I know,” she said.

“Bet you don't.”

“That's one hot-looking broad sitting next to you, too,” Wargart said.

“I think you meant to say hot-looking lady.”

“This what you're blowing Alfano's cash on, Mulligan? Fast cars and high-class hookers?”

Beside me, I felt Yolanda's whole body stiffen as she prepared to tear the officer a new one. I squeezed her hand, signaling her to let me handle it.

“Fuck you, Wargart. Want to take that badge off so I can teach you some manners?”

“Maybe some other time. For now, why don't you two lovebirds join us at the station so we can discuss your newfound affluence?”

“Affluence?” I said. “Who bought you a dictionary?”

This had been fun, but I decided it was time to put an end to it.

“I just collected a six-figure wrongful termination settlement from
The Dispatch,
” I said.

“Oh, really?” Wargart said.

“Ask my attorney.”

“And who would that be?”

“You're looking at her.”

He'd met Yolanda several weeks ago when she burst into the interrogation room to rescue me. Maybe he didn't recognize her in her party duds. Or maybe he was just being an asshole.

After a little more bluster, Wargart wrote me a ticket for blocking traffic and let us go on our way. Ten minutes later, the maître d' seated us at a table by the front window. Andino's was becoming our place.

“Detective Wargart is a goddamned bigot,” Yolanda said as we waited for the waitress to take our drink orders. I was surprised her language wasn't stronger.

“He's got his faults,” I said, “but I don't think that's one of them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He's married to a nurse who works at Rhode Island Hospital.”

“So?”

“She's half Dominican.”

“Oh.”

“The prick was just trying to get a rise out of me, Yolanda.”

After my Killian's and her carafe of white wine were delivered, Yolanda started looking uncomfortable.

“People are staring at us again.”

“They're just curious,” I said. “You mind if I give you a word of advice?”

“What?”

“I know I'm not you. I know I'll never feel what you feel. But if you keep looking this hard for signs of racism, you're always going to find them. Whether or not they're actually there.”

“So I should let my guard down?”

“No. But you shouldn't jump to conclusions either. It'll drive you nuts.”

She sat silently for a moment, trying to decide whether to get angry. She chose against it.

“Why are the cops still pestering you about Alfano's money?” she asked. “Don't they think Mario Zerilli took it?”

“They haven't found it yet,” I said, “so they're keeping their options open.”

“If they bring you in for questioning again, you'll call me, right?”

“Of course.”

When the appetizers were served, she turned the conversation to business.

“What am I supposed to do with the seventy-five grand I'm holding for you?”

“Seventy-six thousand two hundred and fifty, to be precise,” I said.

She smiled. “That's correct. What did you think? That I was skimming?”

I reached into my blazer, extracted an unsealed business envelope, and passed it to her. The address on it read:
Keenan Jefferson, 17 Willard Ave., Providence, RI.
She opened it and found a business letter I'd created on my laptop. The letterhead said:
Tuukka & Associates Insurance Underwriters of North America.

I watched her face as she read the text.

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

We are pleased to inform you that we have approved payment on a policy the Providence Vipers Basketball Club purchased on your behalf. The policy insured you against any physical injury incurred during the team's recent open tryouts. Enclosed you will find our check in the amount of $76,250.

If you have questions regarding this policy, or if we may be of future service, do not hesitate to contact our legal representative, Yolanda Mosley-Jones, at McDougall, Young, & Limone in Providence, Rhode Island.

Yours truly,

Joseph DeLucca/Vice President and Director of Benefits

Yolanda laid the letter on the table and slowly shook her head.

“Does this company actually exist?” she asked.

“On paper, it does. I filed incorporation papers last week.”

“You really want to do this?”

“I do.”

“It wasn't your fault.”

“So everybody keeps telling me. But I feel responsible, Yolanda. I destroyed his dream. This is the least I can do for him and his family.”

“What will you do for money?”

“The work I'm doing for McCracken and the stories I'm writing for
The Ocean State Rag
will pay more than I was making at
The Dispatch.
It's enough to keep the sheriff from my door.” Of course, I was also in business with Whoosh and Joseph. I hated keeping secrets from Yolanda, but I decided she didn't need to hear about that.

“You're really sure?”

“I am.”

“Maybe you're not really this much of an angel. I'm going to give you another week to think about it. If you haven't changed your mind by then, I'll send the check by registered mail.”

“Okay, then.”

So far, this wasn't the romantic evening I'd envisioned, but by the time the entrees arrived, things took a turn for the better.

“I downloaded Brian McKnight's old
Back at One
album yesterday,” she said.

“Love songs?”

“Yes. I love that man's voice.”

“Does he put you in the mood?”

“Wanna find out?”

“Let's skip dessert,” I said.

And this time, she let me stay the night.

*   *   *

In the morning, I awoke to an empty bed. Norah Jones's “Come Away with Me” floated in from the next room. Beneath the music, I heard Yolanda rattling pans in the kitchen. I rose, stepped over the clothes we'd hurriedly shed the night before, and stepped into the shower. I was lathering up when she opened the shower door and stepped inside. I grinned and wrapped my arms around her.