Stiffed (19 page)

‘And what about Annabelle?’

‘Annabelle should have been released by now
,’ I concede.  ‘We did a swap with Kate.  Pirelli traded me for her.’

‘Why the hell did he do that?  And what the heck did
Psycho-Bitch want with you?’

‘For the love of
God, will you please turn off this road?  We need to get back to your house.’

‘Why were you swapped, Tiger?’

‘Annabelle signed over half of Annabelle’s Delights to Pirelli; Psycho-Bitch thought I had the million dollars.’

‘Annabelle did what?’

‘She signed over half of Annabelle’s Delights.  That’s another reason we can’t go to the cops; it’ll have been for nothing.’

‘Any decent lawyer will overturn that.  It was done under duress.
’

‘Once someone like Pirelli has his claws in you they don’t let go,’ I reason.  ‘
He’ll wait a while then come back.  Intimidation, coercion, threats, a little arson, whatever it takes.’

‘She can fight hi
m.  The authorities will have to help her.  The Feds will sort him out.’

I can tell she isn’t convinced.  Pirelli has become rich and powerful running various rackets and nobody yet has managed to stand up to him.

I say nothing, leaving her to her own thoughts and the roar of the engine.

‘And do you have the million dollars?’ she asks eventually.

‘No.  You do.  It’s in your house.’

She slows at the next junction and turns.

‘Once we get to my house,’ she says, ‘we’re picking up the million dollars, phoning Annabelle and then we’re going to the police.’

I don’t reply, staring out the window.  I wonder if the newspaper’s health cover
– assuming I still have a job – is going to pay for all the treatment and physiotherapy I’m likely to need once this is all over.  And will it extend to a prison hospital?

9

L
ife is never so bad that it can't get worse
– Calvin and Hobbes

Sally is still sour when we turn into her cul-de-sac.  You’d think she’d be just a tincy-wincy bit pleased that I’ve just rescued her.  Instead she’s treating me like some kind of pariah.  I guess I got her in the situation in the first place and she’s a long way from forgiveness.  Still, it’ll be something to tell the grandkids when she gets out of prison.

Suddenly I feel a mushroom cloud of panic rise
up inside.  I’m not holding my bat.  Where’s my Goddamn bat?  I’m not expecting trouble at Sally’s house, but I can’t help feeling anxious.  I’d feel much more comfortable with a bat than bare hands. 

I glance back on the back seat, but it isn’t there either
– just a neck scarf and a handbag. Damn!  It cost forty bucks and I’d become quite attached to it for the short period it was in my possession.  It felt like it had dozens of home runs and a couple of cracked elbows and knees running through its grain. 

‘What are you looking for?’
Sally asks, annoyance in her voice.

‘My bat.’

‘You dropped it when the car hit you.’

‘That was
quickly becoming my lucky bat.’

‘Try and get some perspective will you
, Tiger.  We can buy you a new freaking bat with the million dollars.’

She’s right.
I’m losing perspective, conflating large and small issues.  I guess when life is this chaotic every little thing seems like a major event.  Nevertheless, I’d feel more comfortable if I was still armed with my lucky bat.  Strange how the brain works.  Or at least, this brain.

S
ally parks the stolen car on the driveway and the jet engine cuts to silence.  Thank heavens for that.  A least I now know what it would be like to be strapped to a rocket.  We clamber out; the car is some kind of small Japanese run around.  Clearly there’s no need for a high speed getaway in the Far East.  It must have done zero to sixty miles an hour in about a minute and a half.

Sally
opens the front door and I hold her back, poking my head into the hallway, listening for intruders.

‘What the hell are you doing, Tiger?’

‘Making sure the coast is clear.  I’ve had enough surprises for today.’

We creep into the hallway, but the house feels empty.  I
move to the coat stand.

The cap is missing.

The Goddamn cap is MISSING!

I start to throw coats and hats to the floor.

‘Hey!  HEY!’ Sally shouts.

I turn to face her, my face flush with frustration.

‘Are you going to put all that back?’

‘The Crusaders’ cap is missing!’

‘You can have mine.’

I clutch at my hair. 
Damn, I lost my cap as well.  I’ve lost the bat, my cap and Kate’s cap.  It’s like a Crusaders’ giveaway.  At least I still have the t-shirt, even if the sleeve is punctured with a bullet hole.

‘I don’t want yours,
’ I explain. ‘I want the one that was here.’  I tap the coat stand.

‘We don’t have any Crusaders caps.  Joel and the kids support the Red Sox.’

‘Kate’s cap, not theirs!  The cap contains the million dollars.’

‘The cap …’
Her face is creased in a puzzled frown.  ‘Have you been taking drugs?’

‘
Come on Sally, get with the plot.  Why do you think that you and the Memphis mobsters turned up at the mall wearing Crusaders caps?  Because Kate hid the location of the money in the cap.  I’d picked her cap up off my front porch this morning and put it on.  She must have lost it when she was kidnapped.  I left it here.  But I told her that you had it.’

‘You did what?’

‘It was true, you did have it.  Here.  I was trying to find a way of rescuing you.’

‘By putting me in the middle of a gun fight!’

‘I was rescuing you!’

‘And I’m meant to be grateful, am I?’

‘Well, yes!’

‘You don’t have a great record on rescuing me.’

‘I don’t have a great record on rescuing you?’ 

What the hell is she going on about?  I’ve never tried to rescue her before.  Am I meant to be rescuing
her on a regular basis?  From what: an idiot husband and two brat kids?

‘No.’  She
starts to head through to the kitchen.  ‘I’m going to ring Annabelle.’

I follow after her.  ‘If the cap
is not here, where the hell is it?’

‘How am I supposed
to know?’ she says, lifting an extension phone near to the refrigerator.

‘Well, who could have taken it?’

She glances at the clock on the wall.  ‘Oh my God!’ she cries, darting back into the hall.  ‘Boys!  Hey, boys!  Storm?  Cyclone?’  She runs up the stairs.

Realization dawns like the sun creeping up over the horizon.

One of her brat step-kids has taken the cap.

Oh
God!  It’s one thing to put your friends on the line; it’s a completely different thing to add their kids to the mix, including brat kids with stupid names.  There’s edging over the line, then there’s taking a running jump into the abyss.  I’ve driven at speed over the lip of a cliff into a bottomless crevasse with a coachful of passengers.

* * *

Sally has worked herself up into a hell of a state.  After dashing around the house she’s now working her way round the neighbors searching for the two brats.  They’ve probably just taken the cap to the local baseball diamond.  I’ve tried suggesting as much to her, but she’s convinced they’ve been snatched.  And if they haven’t, there are four sets of gangsters out there hunting for that cap.

I’d go out and help her, but with the state of my face, with its cuts
, bruises, and guilty expression, I suspect I’d be run off the neighbors’ properties with pitchforks.  Instead, I’ve taken the opportunity to change back into my old jeans and sneakers before ringing Annabelle.  It’s a heck of a relief to step out of her idiot husband’s shoes; to let my feet spread to their natural shape.

‘Sally?’ Annabelle answers
after two rings.

‘Annabelle
, it’s Tadhg.’

‘Tadhg! 
Where the hell are you?  Are you okay?  Did you give that bitch the blood money?’

‘I’m at Sally’s
.  I feel like shit warmed up and stamped under foot.  And no, I didn’t give that bitch the money.’

‘Well, that’s something I suppose.’

‘Look, I need you to get over here before the police decide to pay the place another visit.  It’s about that money.  One of Sally’s brat kids has disappeared with it.’

‘Tadhg!
’ she yells, as if it is my fault - which, of course, it is.  ‘How the …’

‘I didn’t give the
little brat the damn cap!  He stole it,’ I say, trying to defend myself against the indefensible.  ‘Just get over here, will you.  She’s lost the plot.’

‘
She’s
lost the plot?  Do you have a vendetta against her or something?’

A vendetta?
  What the heck is she going on about?  I have a bunch of vendettas running at the minute – Pirelli and The Rock, Redneck and Cowboy, Kate and Juan, Barry White – but Sally isn’t one of them.  Sure, we manage to get under each other’s skin, but that’s hardly a vendetta.

‘Just get here!’  I
thump down the phone.  Yeah, I’m to blame for all this crap, but there’s no need to keep reminding me about it.  I’ve been doing that to myself all day.  I’m the King of Crappola. 

The front door opens and slams. 

Sally storms into the kitchen.  ‘Nobody’s seen them.’

‘Sally, look, calm down.
  They’re probably at a friend’s house.  Or they’re at the park.  Where do they usually go after school?’

‘This is your fault,’ she jabs me hard in the chest with a finger.  ‘You b
rought that damn cap here.’

‘
I know, but I didn’t know the cap was the thing everyone was after.  Do you think I’d have left it here if I did?’

‘I’m ringing the police.’

‘They’re probably on their way here as we speak after the incident in the mall.  We’ve been here too long.’

‘Incident!
  The news channels probably think it was a terrorist attack!  They’re ten and eight, Tadhg.  Kids!  And you’ve put them at the heart of the biggest … disaster in this town’s history.’

‘We’ll find them.’

‘
I’ll
find them.  You’re going nowhere near them.’

‘Sally, look I …’

‘
No
, you look.  You’re like the kiss of death.  Everything you touch withers and dies.’

‘I haven’t killed anybody!’

‘You … pffffff.’ She heads back out of the kitchen.

‘Annabelle’s on her way,’ I call after her.

‘Good.  You better not be here when I get back.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out to look for those little brats!’  She slams the door shut.

At least she didn’t ring the police.  And we agree that her step-kids are brats. 
However, whilst I’m a lot of things, the kiss of death isn’t one of them.  I’m not the one running around with guns and kidnapping people.  Shooting at people.  I’m more the kiss of mayhem.

The rational
part of my brain is telling me to leave.  Sally doesn’t want me here and the police are almost certainly on their way. 

My conscience is telling me to stay, to wait for Annabelle, and to try and help as best I can. 

My gut instinct is telling me to find the kids and get the damn cap back and go and rescue Jason and Paavo.

* * *

After due consideration – the time it takes to down a glass of water – my gut instinct wins out.  I head into the garage to get a bike; it’ll be a heck of a lot faster than walking.

The two kid’s bikes are gone.

I stare at the one remaining adult bike. 

The two kid’s bikes are gone.

They’ve headed off on their bikes!

They should give me a detective’s badge.
  I’d give Kojak a run for his money.

I grab Sally’s bike and wheel it through the house and out the front door.  Sally is talking to a neighbor
at the end of the driveway. 

‘Where do they go on their bikes?’ I ask.

‘Are you still here?’ Sally asks.  Her face is streaked with tears.

‘Where do they go on their bikes?’ I repeat.

‘All over the place,’ she says facetiously.  ‘They’re always riding their bikes.’

I mount the bike and set off towards the exit of the
cul-de-sac.  In the distance I can hear multiple sirens.  It’s becoming the town’s new signature tune.  And a good proportion of its playing is to do with my stupidity.  As I near the t-junction I try to think of the most likely place to find young kids playing.  Somewhere a little bit further than walking distance.  I still think the local baseball diamond is worth checking out and I have to start somewhere.

I turn right, cycle one block and turn right again
.  Who in their right mind lets eight and ten year old kids roam free?  I mean, I know I knew every nook and cranny of my neighborhood by aged eight, but who lets an eight year do that these days?  Aren’t kids supposed to be on a permanent leash?  Tied to a games console or taking part in supervised activities? 

I hang a left.  I can see
the baseball diamond a couple of blocks up on the right, surrounded by mature trees and floodlight poles. 

By the time I reach it sweat is pouring off me once again.  The parkland is about five or six acres in size, the diamond wedged in one corner, surrounded on two sides by low bleachers.  There are a dozen or so
young teenagers playing a game, all too old to be Cyclone and Storm.  I make my way across the grass to a gawky looking kid placed out in center field.

‘Hey, kid,
you haven’t seen two little boys on bikes, have you?’

He looks over at me, eyeing me up and down.

‘What are you a pedo?’

‘A what?’

‘You like little boys, you sicko.’

‘What the …’ I can feel my face flush red with anger. 
The other kids have halted the game and are staring over at us.  I hold my wrath.  ‘They’re missing.  We’re trying to find them.’

‘Run away from you, did they?’

‘Listen, half pint, I’m searching for two missing kids.  They’re mother is distraught.  I just want to know if you’ve seen them.  If I have to get off this bike, you’ll regret it.’

‘And where’s your army?’

Where’s my army? For a gawky kid he’s got a lot of nerve.  All he’s got to do is tell me if he’s seen the damn brats.

The other kids
have started to walk towards us.  Great.  Now I’m about to be set upon by a bunch of thirteen year olds.