Marked Man (19 page)

The sound of the
calliope puffing away, the smell of the popcorn popping, the crush of the crowd moving thick and slow in the narrow gap between two kiddie rides. We tried to force our way through but were swallowed whole and carried leisurely along by the viscous mass. Kids wiped their noses, grandfathers rubbed their backs. To our left was a balloon race. To our right a mini-NASCAR raceway.

“They’ll come after us in here,” said Charlie.

“It won’t be so easy to find us in the crowd.”

“Which way?” said Charlie.

“Down there,” I said, pointing to a ramp that led toward the rear of the park.

We made our way, bobbing and weaving through the family groups, grandparents and grandkids, teenagers looking flushed and bored at the same time. We didn’t even glance back until we reached a fence at the entrance to Canyon River log flume. We took a moment to survey the whole of the crowd.

“You see them?” said Charlie.

“Not yet.”

“Maybe they went the other way.”

“Sure,” I said, “and maybe cigarettes are good exercise for the lungs.” I stopped jabbering for a moment and thought. “How do you think they found us?”

“They didn’t follow me,” he said, and he was right about that. And being as this had been a two-man meeting, that left one dope to take the blame.

“I didn’t spot them,” I said.

“How long you think they been following you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and then I thought about Ralph Ciulla and I felt a great gaping dread.

They had been following me from the start, the sons of bitches, waiting for me to lead them to their targets. And like the stupid pisspot I was, I did exactly that. When Ralph and Joey found me, they found them, and, putting it together, Fred probably took a picture and sent it to Allentown so that the killer would know exactly whom to ask his bloody questions and with whom to leave his bloody message. Son of a bitch. So first I had led them to Ralph, and now I had led them to Charlie.

“We have to get out of here,” I said.

“No kidding.”

For a second I looked at Charlie, short and heavy, sweating with effort and fear, still haunted by his mother, as threatening as a koala bear. Charlie was as unlikely a hood as ever I saw, and it got me to wondering.

“Joey Pride was telling me about that time in the bar that Teddy Pravitz first brought up the idea of hitting the Randolph Trust.”

“Yeah, I remember it. Teddy promised the whole thing would make men of us, change our lives forever.”

“Did it?”

“Sure,” he said. “Look at me now.”

“But here’s my question. Teddy obviously had the plan to do the Randolph heist before he ever walked into that bar. So why did he need you guys?”

“Manpower.”

“He could have latched onto professional hoods if he wanted.”

“He didn’t want hoods, he wanted guys he could trust. And besides, it wasn’t like the four of us, we didn’t have skills.”

“Skills, huh? Like what?”

“Well, Joey Pride was a genius with engines and electricity. Whatever alarm system the place had, he could disarm it, and take care of the lights and the phones, too. And Ralphie Meat, besides being huge and strong, was a metal guy. Could bend anything, solder anything, melt anything.”

“Like the golden chains and statues?”

“Sure.”

“And Hugo?”

“Hugo had his own little skill. He used to sit in the back of the room and imitate all the teachers to a tee, crack us all the hell up. He did my mother better than she did.
‘Charles, I need you now. You come here this instant.’
He could become anyone he wanted.”

“And what about you, Charlie?”

“Well, you know I worked with my dad at the time.”

“And what did he do?”

“Dad was a locksmith,” said Charlie. “Wasn’t a lock made that he couldn’t open in a heartbeat. And he taught me what he knew.”

“Locks, huh?”

“And safes. Later, with the Warricks, safes became my specialty.”

“Must have come in handy up in Newport. Let me show you the picture of that little girl again now that the light’s better.”

“I don’t want to see the picture.”

“Sure you do.” I took the photograph of Chantal Adair out of my pocket, showed it to him again. “You recognize her?”

He glanced at it and pulled back. It was a small movement, as quick as an inhale, but there it was.

“Never seen her before,” he said.

“You’re lying to me.”

“You don’t trust me?”

“I have to represent you, Charlie, but I don’t have to trust you. Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“They’re here, or at least one of them.”

Just at the edge of the arcade, with his white baseball cap and a retro Celtics jersey, chains glistening, stood Fred, the older, pear-shaped hood who had roughed me up outside my office. He had a phone to his ear. He stepped forward, peered into the crowd, scanned our direction without registering our presence.

“What do we do?”

“Let’s get to the rear exit,” I said. “But slowly. You see the little guy?”

“What little guy?”

“He’ll be in the same outfit, just a different jersey. He’s shorter than you, wider than a Buick. My guess is he’s on the phone, too.”

“You mean that guy?” said Charlie.

“Yikes.”

Louie was standing right at the exit. He was also on the phone, standing on tiptoe, trying to see over the shoulders of a pack of tweens. It didn’t look like he had spotted us yet.

“This way,” I said, pulling Charlie away from Louie toward a narrow ramp that led up and to the right. As we ascended, I glanced back at the entrance. Fred was staring right at us, talking into his phone.

There were younger kids now on the ramp, strollers, grandparents moving slowly, mothers shouting. We pushed our way past as many as we could until we reached the upper level, and then we made a beeline as far from the ramp as possible, past the tykes’ jungle gym and the Glass House, past the little roller coaster and the Safari Adventure. At the far end was a set of stairs that led right back to the lower level, where Louie waited.

I spun around in frustration. The rides on the deck were all for toddlers, there was no place for us to hide. I could see the head of Fred bobbing up the ramp. Louie was coming for us from the other direction. There was no place to go. Except maybe…

“We need three tickets,” I said.

“I don’t got no tickets,” said Charlie.

I ran up to a father with a big block of tickets. He was watching his kids on the spinning teacups. I grabbed my wallet, took out a ten. “Ten dollars for three tickets,” I said.

He looked up at me, down at the waving ten-dollar bill, back up at me. “They’re only seventy-five cents a ticket.”

“I don’t care.”

“There’s a booth right at the bottom of the ramp.”

“I don’t care. Ten bucks for three tickets. Now.”

“I could give you change.”

“No change, no nothing. Please.”

He looked at me strangely, took three tickets off his block. “Just take them,” he said.

I wasn’t going to argue. I grabbed the tickets, grabbed Charlie,
headed back to the middle of the Fun Deck where stood the Glass House, a strange maze of smudged glass panels. I gave the tickets to the lady, pushed Charlie inside.

“Go to the back, turn away from the crowd, and wait,” I said.

“But—”

“Just go, and keep your hands in front of you.”

Charlie swiveled his head, spotted something that spooked him, and charged inside. He banged into one of the panels, turned and banged into another, and then, with his hands in front of him, made his way through to the rear of the maze.

I ran toward the ramp until Fred spotted me. I did a little pump with my elbows and then charged away from him, past the Glass House without a glance, toward the rear stairs and down, right smack into Louie, who grabbed me by the belt and held me close.

“Hello, boysy,” he said.

I
WON’T GO
into a blow-by-blow description of our encounter after the two hoods dragged me outside the park. Fred asked the questions. I made snarky, nonresponsive comments. Louie drilled me in the stomach with his fists. I fell to my knees and dry-heaved. All rather unpleasant. And it might have gone far worse if a cop hadn’t turned the corner just as I was struggling back up to my feet for the second time. The cop was young, his hat was tilted low over his eyes.

“Oh, look,” I said, standing a little straighter. “A nice policeman. Why don’t you boys ask him to help you find Charlie?”

“Don’t even try,” said Fred.

Louie grabbed the collar of my shirt and pulled me down to his level. “Don’t even try, boysy.”

“Should I call the nice policeman over?”

Fred looked behind him, did a double take, then tapped Louie on the shoulder. Louie turned, went wide-eyed. Without taking his eyes off the cop, he let go of my collar and started smoothing it out with his hand.

As the cop approached, giving us a nod, Fred injected a false heartiness into his voice. “It was nice talking to you, Victor. What about your friend Charlie? We’d like to say hello to him, too.”

I thought about grabbing the cop as he passed by, but if I did, I’d have to tell him the story, and that meant telling him about Charlie, which might be as much trouble for Charlie as were these goons. So I let him pass with a nod and a smile and then said, “Really, guys, it was nice chatting, but I have to go.”

Yet even as I said it, I glanced at the giant Ferris wheel turning slowly in the middle of the park.

Fred caught my glance, followed its line to the high, spinning ride.

“We’re not finished with you yet,” he said, looking once more at the cop’s back before starting toward the Ferris wheel, nodding at Louie to follow. Fred took a few steps and then stopped, came back, leaned close so he was whispering in my ear.

“If we don’t find him, you should give Charlie this advice. Tell your pal to take the cash and run, or both of you are dead, understand?”

“What do you mean, take the cash?”

“You heard me,” he said. “Remember, our friend from Allentown has your picture too.” And then he was gone, along with Louie, headed for a ride on the Ferris wheel.

I waited a bit until they were out of my sight, and then I hurried back into the park, back to the right, and up the stairs to the Fun Deck. I expected to see a toddler-shaped figure shaking with fear in the rear of the Glass House, but there were only a couple of kids and a father comforting his daughter who had banged her head.

I looked around for Charlie: nothing. I went to the rear of the deck. There was a low fence surrounding the whole of the upper level and, on the ground below, a number of small spruce trees. One of the trees was strangely bent, its tip hanging limp. I looked at it for a moment and then turned my gaze to the street, following it south. In the distance I could see a squat figure in plaid shorts running, not moving very fast, but running, running away, running for his life.

He had been running for fifteen years. It was time for me to bring him home. But first I had to learn exactly what he was running from, and then I had to figure out why figures as disparate as the high-priced lawyer for the Randolph Trust and the two knuckleheads of Up with Hoods all seemed ever so determined to make sure that I failed.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Carl,
but you’re not on the list.”

“What do you mean, I’m not on the list?” I said, my voice filled with a false indignation, false because in the whole of my life I have never been on the list. “Of course I’m on the list.”

“No, I’ve looked twice, and you’re not,” said the large, bald-headed guard at the reception desk. “As a general rule, we don’t allow visitors who are not on the list.”

And as a general rule, I thought, I don’t feel bound by general rules. “But he’s my Uncle Max. Of course he’ll want to see me. My sister’s in town for only a few days and she was always his favorite niece.”

The guard turned his stare toward Monica, standing behind me with her gas-station bouquet of flowers. His gaze swooned at the sight of her loose white shirt and tight black leather pants.

“I haven’t seen my dear Uncle Max in years,” said Monica in her little girl’s voice. “I doubt he’d even recognize me anymore.”

“But I’m sure she’d cheer him up, don’t you think?” I said.

Monica smiled, the guard’s eye twitched.

“Please,” she mouthed, without a sound coming through her lips.

“Well, seeing that there are no special restrictions on his sheet,” said the guard, “and seeing that you all are related—”

“On our mother’s side, twice removed,” I said.

“I don’t suppose there’d be any harm.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Monica. “What’s your name?”

“Pete.”

“Thank you, Pete,” she said.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Let me see some ID, sign in, and I’ll take you guys to him personally.”

The Sheldon Himmelfarb Convalescent Home for the Aged was a cheerful little warehouse in the northern suburbs, not far from where I went to junior high school, so I was familiar with the landscape of its despair. There was a small lawn, a big parking lot, and a host of bright, processed smiles to go along with the processed hospital smell that was pumped out of the vents. We had never before actually met Uncle Max, who wasn’t actually our uncle, but word was that Uncle Max’s visitors weren’t strictly restricted, that he didn’t quite remember as much as he used to, and that he sure would appreciate the visit.

Pete stood in the doorway watching as I entered the room and spread my arms wide. “Uncle Max,” I said in a loud voice with a great deal of enthusiasm. The unshaven old man in the bed sat upright at my entrance, a puzzled expression on his long, grizzled face. “It’s me, Victor.”

“Victor?”

“I’m your second cousin Sandra’s son. You remember Sandra, don’t you?”

“Sandra?” he said, with a sadness that indicated there were many people now whom he was forgetting.

“Of course you remember Sandra. Big hips, small hands, and she made that great three-bean salad.”

“Three-bean salad?”

“Oh, Mom made the best three-bean salad. It was the waxed beans. She always used fresh, boiled in salt water. It made all the difference. And then a good wine vinegar and basil from our garden. Don’t you just love a good three-bean salad?”

“I don’t think I know a Sandra,” said Max.

“And, Uncle Max, you must remember my younger sister, Monica. You were always so close. She came, too.” I yanked Monica so that she stumbled forward until she regained her balance right in front of Max. “Say hello, Monica.”

“Hello, Uncle Max,” she cooed, leaning over the old man, flowers held out before her. “These are for you.”

Max’s jaw trembled for a moment at the sight of her. “Oh, yeah,” he said finally. “That Sandra. How is she?”

“Dead,” I said.

“It happens,” said Max with a shrug of resignation. Then he patted the side of his bed. “Monica, tell me how goes life with you?”

“Fine, Uncle Max,” she said, sitting down beside him. From that position she waved her fingers at Pete, who smiled back before heading down the hall to return to his desk.

“Where are you now, Monica?” said Uncle Max.

“San Francisco.”

“And you have a boyfriend?”

“Oh, yes. He’s an accountant.”

“Good for you,” said Uncle Max, growing livelier by the second, leaning toward Monica in the bed. “You know, I was an accountant, too.”

“Really?” said Monica. “I find numbers so alluring.”

“You mind if I turn up the music?” I said, indicating the small clock radio on the little table beside Max’s bed.

“Go ahead,” said Max.

A somber big-band ballad was wrenching its way out of the tiny speaker. I found a station playing good old-fashioned rock ’n’ roll, pumped up the volume, started strumming a little air guitar.

“Is that Bob Seger?” I said.

“Who?” said Max.

“No, but a good guess.”

Monica laughed. Max raised his eyebrows and opened a drawer beside his bed, pulled out a pint of rum and a small stack of plastic cups.

“You won’t tell?” said Max.

“Cheers,” said Monica.

And so we had a nice visit with Uncle Max, with the music and the rum, talking about our fake mother, our fake family, about Monica’s fake life and fake boyfriend in San Francisco. It wasn’t too hard to figure out that Monica was much happier in her fake life than in the real thing. And I must say, with the way he was laughing and patting Monica’s arm, with the way his eyes rolled when he sipped the rum, Max seemed pretty happy with his fake relatives, too.

It was small, the room Uncle Max shared with his roommate, just enough space for the two beds, a door to the bathroom, a couple bureaus and chairs, a pair of televisions bolted to the wall, and a drawn
curtain that divided the space in two. We weren’t hearing a peep from the other side, just the low murmur of the television on some insipid talk show flitting over the music. Even so, while Max was telling Monica one of his more interesting accounting stories, I took the opportunity to slip around the loose white fabric and visit the man behind the curtain.

He had once been fearsome, you could tell, big jaw, big hands, his feet reached from under the blanket and over the far edge of the bed, but age takes its bitter toll on us all. Now he lay slack, his jaw shaking, his watery eyes open but unfocused. He turned his head slowly toward me as I stepped close to his bed, registered my presence, and then turned away again. I took the chair, pulled it close to him, sat down, leaned my arms on the edge of his bed.

“Detective Hathaway,” I said. “My name is Victor Carl. I’m a lawyer, and I have a few questions to ask you.”

W
HEN
I
STEPPED
out from behind the curtain, I was in for a second nasty surprise. Jenna Hathaway and Pete the guard were standing in the doorway of the room, glowering. And Pete had his hand on his gun.

“Hello, Jenna,” I said as calmly as I could. “It is so nice to see you.”

“What the hell are you doing, you son of a bitch?” she said.

“Just paying a sick call.”

“I’m going to put you in jail for this.”

“For visiting my Uncle Max?”

“For trespassing, for fraudulent misrepresentation, for harassment.” She stared angrily at me for a long moment, and then, without taking her hard gaze from me, she said, “Could you turn off the music, Mr. Myerson?”

Max shut off the radio and, without much guile, slipped the bottle of rum back into the drawer and closed it.

“I’m sorry these people have been bothering you,” said Jenna.

“These aren’t people, and there is no bother,” said Max as he patted Monica’s forearm. “They were just checking in with their old Uncle Max. They’re my cousin Sandra’s children.”

“Your cousin?”

“Second cousin, twice removed,” I said.

“What does that mean, exactly?” said Jenna.

“I don’t know,” I said, “but it sounds about right.”

Jenna sighed wearily. “You don’t have a cousin Sandra, Mr. Myerson.”

“Of course I do,” said Max. “Or did. She died. Which is sad for all of us, since she made a very nice three-bean salad.”

“I need to stop you there, Max,” I said. “Mom made a fabulous three-bean salad. And who among us doesn’t love a three-bean salad?”

“I want you out of here, Victor,” said Jenna Hathaway.

“We’re still visiting.”

“Now,” she said, and there was something in her eyes, both angry and fearful, that stopped me from prevaricating further.

“I’m sorry, Uncle Max,” I said, “but I suppose we have to go.”

“It was so nice seeing you,” said Monica.

“You’ll come again?” said Max.

“When I’m in town,” said Monica.

“Good luck, then, in San Francisco and with your boyfriend. Tell him I give my regards, one numbers man to another.”

“I will,” she said, standing now.

“And next time you come,” said Max, “bring a
bissel
of that three-bean salad.”

When we were out in the hallway, Jenna stared at us both as she clasped and unclasped her fists. “We’ll go to the office now and call the police.”

“Are you sure that’s necessary?” I said.

“Oh, yes, I am. I’m going to pull your ticket for this.” She turned her head toward Monica. “And who the hell are you?”

“Now, where are my manners?” I said. “Let me introduce you to each other. Monica, this is Jenna Hathaway. Her father, the former Detective Hathaway, is Uncle Max’s roommate. And Jenna Hathaway, please say hello to Monica Adair.”

Jenna stared at Monica for a moment with an expression of awe mixed with disbelief, before surprising the hell out of us all by grasping hold of Monica like a long-lost sister and bursting into tears.