Myth Man (5 page)

CHAPTER TEN

B
ACK AT THE APARTMENT, Presto went about breaking the law. He was corrupt, his mother joked. Technically, a police officer’s job is not to make laws, or question them, but rather the enforcement of them.

A prior mayor passed a NYC law making ownership of any snake illegal. Presto could understand if the snake was poisonous or a powerful constrictor, such as an anaconda. But a harmless milk snake? What damage could the two-foot, skinny as pen, nonpoisonous reptile do? After twenty years on the force in a tough city, he’d never heard of a homicide from a snake, let alone one as harmless as the pretty Aphrodite. And she was a biter. Skittish, she was the only snake he’d ever owned that did so. But her bite was less painful than a green horse fly.

People didn’t know better. He’d always fancied pets. There’d been birds, cats, dogs, fish, lizards, newts, rabbits, tarantulas, and turtles. When he was eight, he asked his mom if he could have a snake. She countered with a dog but promised him that when he was old enough to grow a mustache, he could have a snake. At that age, a child’s time of reference is off. Elated, he thought that day was just around the corner.

When he turned sixteen, he’d stare at the mirror, looking for some dark stubble over his lip. A few classmates already had signs of growth, but he was not so fortunate. Several months later, although it looked mostly like a dirt smudge, an immature mustache was evident. He ran to his mom. She was shocked he remembered her bargain, but she never broke a promise.

There was something about all of God’s creatures that fascinated him. Banning all snakes was ignorant. There was no danger, only fear. Presto knew. Many times he’d watched movies where a snake or spider was used to convey a threat. Often the props they used were not dangerous. He’d seen movies where nonvenomous snakes and spiders were used, and thus, there was zero chance of injury, let alone fatality.

Presto played on that fear in playing a trick on the pledges of his college fraternity. He dropped their pledge pins in the snake tank and told them to retrieve them. Prior to the day, he told them it was a coral snake, which, in fact, was venomous. All but one of them declined. That one pledge comfortably put his hand in. The snake, more scared than the humans, darted into his cave. Presto asked if he was brave or smart. The boy answered, “Smart. I grew up on a farm down south. That snake is not a coral snake or poisonous. Red next to black is a friendly Jack. Red against yellow is a dangerous fellow. That is the rule on snakes.”

The pledge was right, but he was one of eighteen. Most people did not know better.

He removed the screen top from a twenty-gallon glass tank. From a Styrofoam cup, he jiggled three fuzzy mice downward. They fell to white sand and rolled, their limbs jostling. The mice were only weeks old, their eyes still closed. They would never see the light of day.

A small spade-shaped head appeared from a rock cave. A forked ebony tongue flicked from a yellow snout that gradually grew black. The rest of the body appeared—long red bands bordered by black, with a yellow stripe in between.

“Good afternoon, Aphrodite,” Presto greeted. “Bet you’re hungry. I know I am.”

The Sinaloan milk snake located the scent and slowly weaved toward the three blind mice. Her head coiled back, and then, almost faster than the eye, she struck. Her shiny, scaled body coiled over her prey, and an unhinged jaw worked over the mouse’s maw.

He went to the kitchen to fix a snack. Back at the rectory, the police boys had ransacked the lunch platter. By the time he arrived, there were only two soggy tuna sandwiches and plenty of salad. Danko had passed and pulled a protein bar from his jacket. He had never planned on indulging. “On a strict gym diet,” he had said and shrugged his cold shoulders.

Presto procured two burger patties from the fridge and fired up the gas-top stove. While the meat sizzled, he peeled two pieces of American deli cheese, forked two pickle slices, and grabbed the squeeze bottle of ketchup. He grabbed only one bun, but not out of desire to avoid the carbohydrates. He liked his burger beefy.

Presto tramped to his mother’s room. Her injury had started an addiction. It was not the painkillers that had hooked many others, but instead the culprit was trashy daytime TV. She was watching a talk show. Today’s episode, she gleefully reported, had been,
Geriatric Genital Piercing
. She told him that she contemplated an ornament of her own. “You’re gross, Mom,” had been his reply.

He saw a commercial with kids rolling in mud, a Labrador retriever running through an open field, a steaming crumb apple pie on a lily white plate, and two senior citizens laughing on a mountain landscaped park bench. Then an insurance company logo appeared at the bottom of the screen, and the voice-over said they have enthusiastically served Americans concerns for over fifty years.

He asked, “Is your smut show over yet?”

“Just about. I’ve decided that a new hair style is about as radical as I am likely to get at this age.”

“Good choice, Mom,” Dominick ratified.

She looked up at him and giggled before she said, “Now tell me about the case.”

Another breach of protocol; he told his mother everything. More than a soundboard, her advice was practical. He summarized the day’s events.

“Danko’s using you,’ she rendered when he finished speaking.

“I know that,” Presto affirmed. “This is for the victims.”

Her head lifted from the pillow. “And for the mayor,” she reminded.

“Yeah, yeah. Danko’s the mayor’s boy, but I don’t want to argue with you.”

The small rebuke made her look away. She fidgeted with the remote, and the volume rose. The distraction made him follow her gaze to the television. An all female audience clapped wildly as a man in a dark pinstriped suit and fashionable cobalt blue shirt came out with hearty wave and smile. He informed his rabid fans that today he’d introduce agencies guaranteed to catch a cheating hubby plus a few women clients who were fortunate to learn they’d been living with a louse.

“Mom,” look at me.

She peeked up at him. Her brow was creased like a pair of his slacks, lost to the bottom of his closet. “Yes.”

“What’s really bothering you?”

She looked away, but he summoned her attention back. “What is it?”

“It’s stupid. A motherly thing.”

“Go on.”

Lying on her back, she gazed up at him like only a mother knows how. “You care about everyone but yourself. I just fear that when I am one day unable, there will be no one to look after you.” She drawled to a long pause. “You better find someone who will.”

He did not immediately reply. His mother never pestered him about his nonexistent love life or reclusive nature. He smiled at her. “Mom, stop the drama. I’ll buy another dog.”

His response did not have the desired effect. She seemed to consider something, the way her face plied in different directions like a mobile amoeba.

In the silence, Dominick heard the guy on the television introduce the president of
Cheater Beaters
. He turned to see a husky, shorthaired woman, dressed in a dark-gray pantsuit saunter out from a velvet, maroon curtain. Hearing his mother’s voice, he looked back.

“Just think about what I’m saying. You, more than anyone else, should know the world is a cruel place. The ordeal’s easier when you have someone. We have each other, but I’m not going to be here forever.”

Presto grew concerned. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Mom?”

“No,” she declared vigorously.

Her voice more convincing then her expression.

He was ready to challenge her, but like déjà vu, his phone rang from yonder. Once again, he knew he had to answer.

Duty called.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“W
HAT’S UP, JACK?” PRESTO queried.

“This is the mayor,” a badly disguised voice began. “Are you trying to start trouble? Looking to pad that resume?”

Jack Burton was almost six and a half feet tall and two hundred and forty pounds of solid muscle. He played offensive line in college, and was drafted in the sixth round by the New Orleans Saints, but a severe anterior crucial ligament tear early in training camp derailed that dream.

Mayor Golden, by contrast, was about one hundred and thirty pounds, wet. Diminutive. People were shocked when they met him in person. Commercials did much to augment his stature.

Their tones were diametric opposites—one deep and hoarse; the other high and tinny.

“Jack? What’s up? I know you love me, but twice in one day?”

Burton gagged like he swallowed something distasteful. “Got another call. This time the mayor sent his attack dog, Spencer Hoole. Hoole’s never heard of foreplay. He doesn’t waste time lubing you up. He just undresses and fucks you.”

“The name sounds vaguely familiar. What’s his problem?”

“You, Dom. I don’t get it. The mayor calls asking for your help, and then his top aide calls saying that maybe it’s best you finish your vacation. Says the city doesn’t need trouble.”

“What trouble? What’s he talking about?”

Jack wheezed. “Danko made a report to City Hall. He mentioned the murder of the cleric and a possible connection to events at St. Patrick’s. Apparently, that made people unhappy. Danko credited you for the theory.”

Presto took a deep breath as he processed the information. He’d make his report to Malcolm Bailey and let the buffalo chips fall where they may.

“I only follow orders, Jack,” he said impassively. “Level with me.”

“My guess is you’re history,” Burton said with derisive disappointment. “Hoole was clear that his personal sentiments have been adequately expressed to Danko. Apparently everyone was in agreement including our spineless police commissioner. The only reason I cannot say for certain is that Danko said it was only right to talk to you first. Get this; he said he owed you that much.” Burton stopped to emit a sarcastic whistle. “But you know what that means. He’ll get his rocks off rolling you under the bus. I wanted to tell you first so you were prepared.”

“Thanks, I guess,” said Presto with a soft laugh.

“Oh, and one other thing,” Jack said with a serious tone. “This call never happened.”

Presto remained even. Malnourished millions worried over their next meal. This unfortunate revelation was nothing compared to the worries of an empty fridge. Starvation panicked him.

True, he wanted the case. No doubt about it. Right now, though, he was more troubled by his mom’s behavior. “When am I supposed to hear from Frank?”

“Tomorrow. Sleep tight, big buddy. You’ll always be my ace. It’s their loss, frankly.” There was an added spice of cheer in his voice, but it was sprinkled too zestfully. Burton’s discourse tasted better without the added sauce, even if intended tastefully.

It was a bitter pill, but Presto swallowed it whole and without a grimace. “Hey, Jack. Thanks for the call.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

P
RESTO LEANED BACK FROM his pride and joy, his desk, and reflected on question thirty-six down in today’s,
New York Times
crossword puzzle.
What is the largest mountain in Switzerland
?
Monte
blank. Four spaces. The third was a definite
s
.

Despite the large settlement, or payoff from the company that killed his father, the Prestos lived frugally. These were not cheap people, but they chose not to live excessively. They did not cruise the ubiquitous bar circuits; indulge in costly, unnecessary hobbies; or follow the latest fashion of technological fads. Charitable, they generously donated to the poor, various afflictions like Autism, as well as several animal-related causes.

They preferred to live as if the blood money never existed. Except for his prize.

Most folks, Presto imagined, would have splurged on a yacht, sports car, and vacations. He desired only one exorbitant item—a desk.

He spent more time at his desk than he ever would in a hot car or sailing the seven seas. The apartment study was his haven from the cruel outside world. Here, his mind was clear from distraction. No music. No television. The only sound was a fan that offered white noise.

The walls were decorated in bookbinding’s. All together, the four walls contained more than a thousand books, most of which were secondhand pickups from street vendors. He had the essential criminology classics, but most were pleasure reads.

Besides the chair he sat on and the fan that oscillated in the corner, the only other thing in the room was his desk and what rested on it. He purchased it at an antique auction. He felt bad outbidding an elderly woman with a genuine gold-knobbed cane, but he was not about to let the desk slip away.

Made of a rare satinwood, the eighteenth-century, all original Carlton House–styled desk had cost a bundle. Originally a Welsh prince had commissioned the assignment. However, his royal hiney never sat before his request. Beheaded by his son, the desk was later sold to a wealthy (by the very definition, stiff upper lip) English family. It had been stored with a drape cloth in an attic for hundreds of years until it had been found and sold to an auction house.

Here he sat, with his eyes closed, resting. He did not sleep well. Danko’s looming sharp axe was not the culprit. Rather, he was lactose intolerant, and a late night ice cream binge, heavy on the hot fudge, left him unsettled.

This time he was ready for his phone to ring.

“Hello?”

“Hey, yeah. It’s me. Frank.”

Presto raised his inflection and feigned surprise. “Oh,” he stammered. “Hi, Frank. Everything okay? Anything I can do?”

Payback time. Presto heard Danko breath deeply. He pictured his giddy smile and sensed the anticipation.

“I’m not sure how to break it to you, Dom,” Danko said, like he was delivering last rites. “I’ll just spit it out. Man to man. Cop to cop. I trust you will keep this between us.”

“Sure thing,” Presto replied amiably.

“Let me put it this way. You’re not wanted on this case. The recommendation comes from above, way above.”

“Alright.” Presto leaned forward with a pen and wrote in the open crossword boxes.
Monte Rosa
.

“They put the pressure on me to drop you, but I told them I owed you a talk first.”

“Gee. Thanks, Frank. But you don’t owe me a thing.”

Danko snorted slightly. “You got that right. But on a professional level, I do.”

Presto did not know how to reply, so he didn’t.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m calling.”

Presto jumped in. Time to get it over with. “I appreciate the courtesy. I’m okay. I really was enjoying the time off.”

“Well, don’t get too relaxed,” countered Danko.

“What?”

“You heard me. I may be tight with City Hall, but I don’t let politicians tell me what to do. I do follow orders, but the commissioner never issued one—only a recommendation, albeit a strong one.”

Presto was stunned. There had to be some trick.
I may be a fool
,
but this isn’t April
.

Danko continued. “I may harbor some resentment, but I’m not an idiot. I’d rather deal with you than the Feds. If you’re removed, there’s a better chance they’ll move in. I want you to keep them at bay. This is our case.”

“Thanks, I guess,” Presto replied evenly.

“Don’t take it the wrong way. There’s more. I didn’t like being told what to do, but it’s not exactly like we’re buddies. Then I thought I’d use a test to decide your fate. I looked into a few things. First, I spoke to a Detective Halloway. He
was
handling the case of that murdered Muslim cleric you mentioned. It’s now been reassigned to us. There’s a definite connection. Sure, we would have later connected the dots, but you gave us a head start. How can I remove you from the case after that?”

Presto was momentarily bereft of voice. He had been waiting for his death sentence and Danko, of all people, provided the pardon and clemency. “Frank, I don’t know what to say. Thank you, I suppose, is a good start. It truly means a lot.”

“Alright. Don’t get all chummy. There’s more to tell, and I’m waiting on a few things. They’ll be a briefing late this afternoon. Call in later for the details.”

“Will do, Frank. Thanks again.”

“Get ready, Dom. Whatever this is, I know one thing now. We have a major situation on our hands.”