Myth Man (37 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

R
IDGEWOOD SCREAMED. “YOU CAN’T do this.” She reached for her own gun.

Donavan winked at her. “Yeah? Watch me.” He turned his attention back to Presto.

Instinctively, Presto fell in one direction, to his right. He heard the gun discharge. His butt hurt from the fall, but he felt fortunate that he did not land on his left front side and crush his beloved Aphrodite, and also that he was still alive.

He heard a commotion. Danko and Donavan were on the ground, battling like wrestlers—the real kind. Danko must have tackled Donavan split seconds before he fired the gun. Presto went to get up. He had to help the man who just saved his life.

Then came the sound of another gunshot.

Danko groaned in anguish. “Shit,” he screamed, followed by rapid breaths. Donavan shoved Danko off him. From the ground, he aimed his gun at Presto again. “This time I won’t miss. Like harpooning a whale at Sea World.”

There was no escape this time. His last stealth move was saved by Danko’s heroics. This time, he was not set squarely on his feet. He made no attempt to move.

Instead, in a final death flash, he thought of his mother and best friend. Now she’d be alone. Next came an image of Camille and how much he enjoyed the way he felt around her. He wondered if they had a future. Then, he went to look at Ridgewood.

Presto heard gunfire for the third time and fell to the floor.

His eyes closed.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

H
IS EYES OPENED. AT first, he wasn’t sure where he was. Was this heaven? No. He saw the same floor, the same chairs. Was his spirit surveying his final resting place?

He heard Ridgewood’s voice, and then other voices came in frantic unison. The door opened. “Oh my God,” came a voice.

Presto looked around. Donavan was motionless on the ground. Blood seeped from his head to the tiled floor. Next to him lay Danko who was also bloody, but alive. His hand pressed against his shoulder in a fruitless attempt to dam the blood flow. A man came into view and eased Danko to his back. Danko’s shirt was ripped open, and the man pressed gauze against the wound.

Ridgewood kneeled next to Presto. “You okay?”

His coccyx bone throbbed, but he was hardly in position to complain. Two people were shot. One was dead.

“I’m fine. Thanks. You saved my life.”

Ridgewood smiled, but the look was grim. Presto wondered if this was the first person she’d ever killed.

“You’d do the same for me,” she said. “Anyway, Danko took a bullet for you. I had the easy job.” The grim, tortured grin returned. “I knew Donavan was a bad seed, but not this bad. I still don’t get it.”

Presto wanted to explain, but first he needed to check on Danko. He gingerly got off the floor.

Danko was on his back. Tape held a thick wad of reddening gauze to his chest. His eyes looked up as he called Presto closer.

Presto went down to one knee and listened.

“I’m okay. It’s a bitch, but I think I got lucky.”

“Frank, you saved my life.”

Danko grinned. “Least I could do. You bailed me out. I was after the wrong man again. Thanks for the note this time. How did I do?”

“You were perfect,” Presto said and meant it. Danko was as smooth as his shaved head. “In fact, it was your work at the scene that clinched it.”

“You’re too nice.” Danko’s calloused hand reached for Presto’s, which had never toiled hardships.

“Call my wife. She needs to know. Tell my matador that her Iron Bull is just fine,” he said with a crooked grin. “They’re taking me to Beth Israel.”

“Sure thing, Frank,” Presto sensed that Danko genuinely loved his wife. Beneath the hard exterior was a vibrant heart. “I’ll be there, too. First, I need to clean up the details.”

The paramedics arrived. Presto waddled away and gave them space. Ridgewood came over.

“How’s Frank?”

“He’ll live. He’s tough, but he’s also lucky.”

Ridgewood crossed herself. “Thank God.” Then she poked Presto. “Are you going to tell me what just happened?”

Presto explained what he knew, but there were still unanswered questions. Presumably, Donavan set the night up at the bar under the pretext of getting Bailey drunk. Presto noticed how Bailey held his arm the next day. Was it a punch or something more? When Donavan turned on Bailey, there had to be a cause. Maybe these murders were not Myth Man’s doing.

He suspected the toxicology would show no tetrodotoxin was used on the deceased. He suspected Donavan framed Bailey and left the clues. The bloody shoe print was easy to do, and so was the scratched face from the fingernail. He could have also shot the rabbis with Bailey’s sport jacket on or over his unconscious, propped up body. Donavan needed the blood, or why would he risk killing the two Sweet Virginia’s workers?

Despite the reason, there was “the why” again. Was the mysterious crate the aim? And, if so, how was he going to steal it, even if the keys were here? Did he plan on being a fugitive? Now those answers may never come.

Ridgewood absorbed Presto’s thoughts. “Again, you did a great job.” Then her face cringed. “As much as I despised Donavan, I didn’t just shoot him; I killed him. It happened so fast,” she said and trailed off. Her lip curled in grief, and her voice cracked. “It’s hitting home. What about his wife? I know her.”

A few suited agents arrived. They wanted information, and they wanted it fast. They talked to Presto and Ridgewood together and then alone.

When they were through, Ridgewood and Presto reunited with Jack Burton, who had finally arrived.

“When Frank called me and told me about the note you left him and to get here as soon as possible, I never expected this,” Burton said in awe. “What’s next?”

“The truck keys should be here soon,” explained Ridgewood. “I’m being directed to bring the truck to another, yet undisclosed location.”

Presto told them he was leaving. “I’ve had my snake cooped up all day, and then I want to check on Frank.”

“Bye, buddy,” Burton said with a sly wink.

“I’ll call you later,” Ridgewood said and gave him a hug.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

Y
OU CAN NEVER GET a cab when you need one.

Presto desperately looked for a taxi with a vacant yellow light on. He didn’t see any, but he did see other people with the same plan. “Damn.”

He took out his phone and dialed.

“Mom,” I need you to listen to me. “It’s probably nothing, but I want you to leave the apartment.”

“Am I in some danger?”

Presto was not sure. “No, I don’t think so, but I can’t be too cautious. Please leave now and go to the Stagnuts’. I’ll be home soon, if I can get a cab. I’ll come for you.”

“It’s this case, isn’t it? I saw the news. Mayor Golden was brilliant, as usual.”

“Brilliant, Mom,” appeased Presto. He would not lie to his mother. “Yes, it has to do with the case. It’s probably nothing. I’ll explain later. But a bad man died today, and I don’t think he acted alone.”

“Why would anyone come here?”

“Because a man died. I didn’t kill him, but I accused him. And there’s one other thing, but now is not the time. Leave,” he commanded.

“I will,” she promised. “I love you, Son.”

Presto hung up and revisited his need to get home immediately. Still no open cabs, but he did see a police car parked at the end of the block. With cumbersome agility, he managed to slowly navigate around an elderly woman with a prosthetic leg and dashed with the speed of a motivated tortoise.

“Darn.” The police car was empty. He scanned the street and surrounding stores. No officer was visible.

Desperate, he did something he’d seen countless TV cops do but never witnessed in all the years on the force: he pulled his police shield out with a fifty-dollar bill. He tapped the window of a beat up, but carefully polished eighties Cadillac.

Presto yelled, “Police emergency. I need you to take me across town.”

Two startled youths gaped at him and shook their heads. They kept the window down. Presto surmised they were Dominican from the air-freshener flag that hung from the rearview mirror. Probably afraid they’re being hassled by the
man
again. The driver put his hands in the air like he was being arrested.

Presto needed to clear the confusion. He reached for the back door of the Caddy and opened it. It was not the cheetah patterned upholstery that shocked his senses but rather the cumulus cloud of cannabis that wafted through the car like a colliding storm front. If not for the pungent odor, Presto would have guessed the hipsters installed a fog machine for the complete nightclub feel.

The driver turned his head. Like a white zinfandel, his eyes were tinged a watery red. The youth looked scared but offered a crooked smile. “We just borrowed this car like five minutes ago from a friend.”

Presto thrust the fifty-dollar bill in his hand. “Take this and buy some more pot. I don’t give a shit. I need you to get me somewhere, fast.”

The driver’s smile mended. “Really? You got it, Big Papi.” He slammed the gas.

Presto coughed. “Please roll down the windows before it rains in here.”

They made good time as they hurled up Third Avenue. Presto urged the driver, when safety permitted, to blow traffic lights, which the youth successfully performed with an overzealous commitment to duty.

Presto had been worried the youth was too stoned to drive, but thus far he’d done well. He was quite adept at getting cars to move with either a close tailgate, an urgent fist out the window, or a heavy use of the horn. Sometimes all three were employed.

The Cadillac turned a corner and was met by a wall of gridlock. Presto peered ahead. He couldn’t make out the exact problem but saw the flashing lights of an ambulance. He looked back. A car moved in behind them. They were stuck.

“Not good, boss,” the driver said, reporting the obvious.

Presto dialed Burton. He listened. The news was not good.

“I’m stuck in traffic only a few blocks away. Get someone to my place. Now.” He hung up.

The two youths turned to him. The passenger, who sported an askew Yankee hat and large expressive eyes that twinkled with humor, asked, “Is it your wife?”

“My mom,” Presto answered.

“You still live with you mom? I thought I was bad,” the youth said.

“Long story,” Presto replied.

The driver cast him a look of solidarity. “My mamma is way more important to me than any ho. Get out of the car. I’m going to help you out, bro.”

The traffic was still at a standstill. They walked around and opened the trunk. Out came a shiny silver, stand-up, gas-powered motor scooter.

“Top of the line, bro,” the driver said. “Not meant to hold your weight, but she’ll make it for where you got to go.”

Presto looked at the scooter with equal parts of appreciation and apprehension. “Thanks, guys.”

“Leave it in front of your building. It’s a good area. We may get it back.”

“I can bring it inside, and you can ring me,” Presto assured.

The driver laughed. “Don’t trouble yourself, boss.” A sly grin emerged. “Let’s just say she didn’t cost me much.”

The driver put out his hand. Presto took it.

“Get going, Big Papi.”

They turned the scooter on for him and showed him the basics.

Presto took out his wallet. He handed his detective’s card to the driver. “Call me if you ever need me.”

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

P
RESTO WAS CONSCIOUS OF the spectacle he created as he zipped down the sidewalk in the stand-up scooter. Any adult would have looked silly on one of these things. A three hundred plus–pound man was a whole different sideshow. He ignored the turned heads, pointed fingers, and pointier jibes. Fear has a way of whitewashing trivial concerns.

To some, the sight of a police car in front of their residence was a concern. Presto was relieved. Presto eased off the gas and coasted to a stop. The police car was double-parked and vacant. He didn’t see any other cars around, so far, so good. He took a deep breath, waved the security pass over the scanner, and entered his building.

Presto was inclined to first stop at the Stagnuts’ place to check on his mother, but since the police had already arrived, he went straight to his apartment.

Just as he was ready to work his key into the lock, a thought occurred to him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the ignition key to the armored truck that held the mysterious crate. He untied the cloth sack in his inner pocket and dropped the key. “Sorry, Aphrodite.” He retied the knot.

Then he thought if the police were here, he should ring the buzzer. He would not want to startle them.

He rang the buzzer. A minute passed. No one answered. He rang it again. Nothing. He felt something was wrong but then dismissed it. Everyone was probably downstairs at the Stagnuts’ wondering what the big fuss was.

He descended a floor and looped back to a door that was exactly below his apartment. He rang the buzzer and heard Skippy bark. The door opened.

“Oh, hello, Dominick.”

“Hi, Mrs. Stagnuts.”

“How many times do I tell you that we are all adults, and you can call me Gina?” she scolded.

Presto was not up for banter, but he replied, “All the time. What can I say? I’m old-fashioned.”

She smiled. “That’s why you’re a good man. Our Camille raved about you.”

Presto was happy to hear that, but now was not the time. He didn’t see or hear anyone. Where were the cops? Why had his mother not appeared at the sound of his voice?

“Mrs. Stagnuts,” he said, “is my mother here?”

She looked puzzled. “Your mother?”

“Any police?” Presto stammered.

“Police? What is going on?” She let him inside and called out, “Arthur?” Then she whispered, “He’s been on that computer all day. I bet he’s looking at porn.”

Presto was exasperated, so he said nothing.

Mr. Stagnuts appeared in a large checkered, flannel robe. “Hello, Dom. What’s the hubbub?”

Presto tried to speak, but a lack of saliva made his mouth stick. He finally managed. “Have you heard from my mother in the past half hour?”

“No,” he said with a sympathetic shake of his head. “Let’s go upstairs.”

“No,” Presto said firmly. “Do me a favor. Call upstairs.”

While Mr. Stagnuts retrieved the phone and dialed, Presto took out his own phone. He watched and waited. He could see each unanswered ring etch a line of worry into Mr. Stagnuts’s face.

“Hang up,” Presto said after too much time had passed. He pressed the send button on his cell.

Mr. Stagnuts reluctantly hung up. “What’s going on?”

Presto did not hear the question. Burton was already on the line. He turned to the Stagnuts. “I have to go.”

Once outside, Presto updated Burton. When he finished, Burton said. “I hope we’re wrong, but if so, wait for backup. I’ll have someone there in minutes.”

“Do that,” Presto said, “But I’m going.”

With each step up the stairs, Presto sensed dread. He was not courageous, and he wasn’t particularly heroic. The days as a boy, when he stood and photographed the men on the dock who were responsible for his father’s death had passed with puberty. He was a man that liked to think, not one to act.

He never imagined he would face actual danger. Yet, here it was, delivered to his doorstep. Anger boiled.

He pulled out the gun he never thought he’d use. With his other hand he turned the key and entered his apartment.