Authors: J. M. Griffin
“You really know how to spoil the fun, Esposito,” he said with a grin.
The lieutenant stepped forward. “Walk the streets and question those who are hanging out. Don’t be obvious about what you’re looking for. Just ask for someone who might want a car you need to get rid of.” He gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. “That Mercedes down the street . . . it belongs to my wife, so don’t screw this up, understand?”
“Does your wife know her car is being used for illegal purposes?” I asked as the crew laughed.
“No, so don’t do anything stupid or she’ll kill me. Make sure you lock the doors before you leave it unattended. Now get going. These guys will be watching you, along with some others who are already in place. We want this to go down easy with no shooting or violence at all—got that?”
“Got it. Give me the keys to the car. Where do you want me to start?”
“The Ready Mart on the corner near the bank is a place where she’s frequently seen. I know you saw her coming from a store near there as well, so work the neighborhood. You should know the drill by now, since you teach it.”
Teaching and doing are two different things. I would do this, though, for a multitude of reasons. One of those reasons concerned family—my family. Yikes, the things we do for family.
I drove the car through Olneyville’s shopping district. It didn’t take long, the rows of open shops were limited and the bars were abundant. I parked the car in front of the bank to keep it in full view. I wouldn’t want the lieutenant’s wife to go through the same thing I had when my car was stolen. Rental cars are just not the same as your own.
Tired-looking families shopped the stores in search of bargains. I passed a few drunks littering the sidewalks. I leaned down to ask if they knew of anyone who dealt in stolen cars for a living. One threw up on my sneaker before I could step back and another swore at me and told me to do some rather indecent and impossible things to myself. Trying not to take offense, I moved away and found an old newspaper that I used to clean my sneaker. I knew the cops were enjoying my discomfort. They have a rank sense of humor.
Sharp winds blew through the mean streets. I trekked from store to store and person to person. I neared the storefront where I had seen the old crone before. I hovered around outside, checking the alley before peering through the filthy windows covered with steel grids. A few people milled around inside.
I glanced over my shoulder to see if I had company. Two undercover cops lingered outside the bar across the street while another stood on the sidewalk about ten feet away smoking a cigarette. With a slight nod, I entered the building.
The goods offered were of the hot variety—I was sure of it. The items were not boxed or priced by a manufacturer. Instead, the merchandise was loose and consisted of car parts such as radios, disc players, and navigation equipment. I picked up a couple of items, looked them over with feigned interest, and then walked toward the person nearest me.
His tall, thin, seedy form slouched against a rack of car paraphernalia. A nose ring and several stud earrings adorned various parts of his features. Thin, greasy hair covered his head and straggled over his collar. Scruffy chin hair passed for a goatee. He wasn’t clean, but wasn’t filthy either. I wondered about lice for a mere instant before I did a mental head slap and moved forward to question him.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” I asked.
“Good. You?” His eyes never left my chest except to travel the length of my torso.
A slight shiver ran over me at the thought of this man admiring my attributes.
Blech.
“I have some cars I need to move. Would you know anyone who can help me out?” Acting nervous, I glanced around furtively. Well, maybe it wasn’t an act.
“Don’t know anybody who could do such a vile thing.” He pushed away from the shelf with an innocent look on his face.
“You sure?”
“You a cop?”
I put a hand to my chest and said in a shocked tone, “Good God, no. Are you?”
“No way, no how.”
With a false sigh, I said, “Thank God for that. I don’t need those bastards poking their nose into my business.”
“Just what business is that?”
“I move cars by transferring them state to state, out of New York. Things are pretty hot there right now. I’m looking for an alternative.”
“Your goods are only cars?”
“Only cars.”
“Wait here. I might be able to help you.” His skeletal body shuffled down the aisle toward another man who was hefty, broad-shouldered, and covered with a variety of tattoos spiraling up his neck and onto his shaved head. A huge gold hoop hung from one ear and a heavy gold braid chain slunk down over his sloping chest. Gold rings covered tattooed fingers that reminded me of fat sausages. He glared at me while the stupid, seedy guy whispered to him. After all, it hadn’t taken much to convince Seedy I wasn’t a cop.
They moved toward me. It was all I could do not to run out the door as fast as my feet would carry me. Holding my ground, I waited until they stood before me.
Seedy introduced Baldy. I had the unwanted privilege of shaking his hand. My skin crawled at the touch of his sweaty palm. The urge to wipe my hand on my jacket was strong, but I refrained from doing so. Instead, I smiled my most brilliant, and hopefully, beguiling smile. It wasn’t the Julia Roberts smile and didn’t have that same affect, but he smiled just a little in return.
“You need some merchandise moved?”
“Yeah, I have to get it out of New York. Can you help me with that?”
“Maybe. What brands do you have?”
“Mercedes, Range Rovers, Escalades, and other cars like Hondas and Altimas that do well on the market.”
Baldy nodded and rolled his bottom lip outward as he peered into the distance. It must have meant he was deep in thought because he didn’t say anything for a while.
His eyes finally came back to me. “I got someone for ya to meet. She can help you with your transportation needs.” He glanced at Seedy and nodded. The man strode toward the back room and disappeared. A moment later, he returned with Mrs. Jabroni walking behind him. He barked orders to the other guys hanging about. Her usual cigarette hung from lipstick-lacquered lips while the ash sloped toward the floor.
Seedy moved to the side, so Mrs. J. could step forward. Dark, mean eyes peered at me. Recognition was instant and the nasty gleam froze like ice on a pond. She removed the cigarette with long, thin fingers tipped with nails covered in blood red nail polish. A chuckle started deep down inside her chest, turned into a witch’s cackle, and became louder and louder. She rushed forward, quickly ripped open my unbuttoned jacket, and yanked my sweater up before I could react. Grasping the wire attached to the small box attached at my waist, she pulled hard until the entire unit came apart. She stamped on it when it hit the floor. Then Mrs. J. glanced past me, turned, and ran like hell out the back door.
“Hey, wait a minute. Where do you think you’re going?” I yelled. Though I was hot on her tail, she still gave me the slip. I glanced back when the front door crashed open and cops swarmed into the store. I heard them yell, “Stop!” “Hands up.” “Assume the position.” I raced toward the back of the store instead.
I reached the back door of the building after a couple of wrong turns, just in time to see car taillights leave the end of the alley. I cut through the alley to the bank and started the Mercedes as Mrs. J.’s car raced past. In a few seconds, I was on the road not far behind her. I knew I could very well get stopped by a cop, and that this chase was foolish on my part. I was angry, Italian, and stubborn as hell: so many reasons for my foolishness.
Mrs. J.’s car sped toward Cranston, taking a turn and skidding a bit as she made the sharp curve on the on-ramp to the highway connector. I slowed the pace of the Mercedes, knowing Mrs. J. was headed toward her house. It didn’t make sense to me, but by this time there were sirens in the background. We had company.
At the off-ramp, Mrs. J. was nowhere to be found. I drove toward her neighborhood, taking the time to check driveways and parking lots where she might have stopped to hide. She was gone. I stayed on course, arriving at her house within minutes.
The neighborhood was quiet, the houses looked empty—all but the one directly across from the Jabroni’s. The FBI had the house staked out. I could feel it in my bones that they were still there, and besides that, a nondescript delivery van sat out front.
I left the car parked on the street at the end of the Jabroni driveway. Sauntering up the paved drive, I saw Mrs. J’s car parked at an angle. I checked the house for lights and activity. There wasn’t any action to be seen . . . until I found the inside door of the house ajar. Opening the storm door, I entered on silent feet, listening for sounds.
Two muffled voices came from the den. Either the television was on or somebody was having a conversation. I opted for the second since the first option didn’t make sense. I edged closer and closer in the direction of the room where the good doctor had made his untimely departure. When I was close enough, I peered into the room.
The crone and Tony Jabroni stood face to face, neither paying attention to anything around them. I turned to stare through the front windows of the dining room where I was still standing. Men with guns were approaching the house. Officers, dressed in State Police and FBI uniforms, scrambled around the outside of the house, their guns out and ready, along with the SWAT team dressed in full regalia. I started to shake and realized I was in a bad position. A position that was getting worse by the second. If I tried to leave, I might put myself in more danger since the group would be high on adrenaline at this juncture, which meant there might be someone who was trigger happy. God help me, I couldn’t mind my own business and now I was in big trouble.
Their conversation had taken a negative turn. Raised voices replaced the mumbling. I held my breath, peered around the corner of the door frame, into the room . . . and froze in place. Jabroni held a gun and Mrs. J. held a knife. Good God, a standoff. How do I get into these situations?
A hand closed over my mouth. Startled, I jumped as Aaron drew me away in one motion. I didn’t utter a sound or struggle, but followed his lead instead.
With his gun drawn, his face cold and calculating, Aaron put me behind him. He edged toward the door.
The yelling had stopped, a shot rang out, and I heard two bodies fall to the floor, one after the other. My eyes squeezed tight. I froze in place, unwilling to look at the devastation in the room.
Officers swarmed through the house and over the grounds. A battalion of uniformed people had arrived to save my sorry ass or to arrest the two criminals that lived here. I wasn’t sure which reason had drawn them in, but didn’t really care. I was simply relieved that the cavalry had arrived.
As with all adrenalin rushes, once it was over, my body felt suddenly depleted of energy. I slid to the floor and sat there until I heard Aaron’s voice from above.
“You’re not hurt, are you?”
I stared up into his cool eyes and shook my head. He leaned down and pulled me to my feet.
“Let’s get out of here. They’re both wounded, but neither is dead.”
“Don’t let me see the blood. I don’t want to be sick,” I pleaded. We hustled outside where I drew in gulps of air.
We marched across the street into a parked van. Aaron sat opposite me on the bench seats. His face still held a cool look and his attitude was all business. I waited until he was settled before I uttered a sound.
“I was part of a sting operation with the PPD. When Mrs. J. ran from the scene, I just started chasing her.” I shrugged and hoped that explanation would satisfy him. It’s sad to be wrong so often.
“You should never have agreed to take part in such a dangerous operation. They had a lot of nerve asking you to be involved in apprehending her. You could be the one heading to the hospital, you know. What were you thinking?”
I opened my mouth to answer him, but he kept talking.
“I know, I know . . . you wanted your car back. Geez, Vin, you drive me crazy.”
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. I drove one man crazy and the other one nuts . . . not bad for a day’s work. Aaron glared at me for a moment. Without warning, the door swung open and there was Marcus, staring in.
“Do you want to explain your actions?” His matter-of-fact tone brooked no lies as he folded his arms over his protective vest.
“The PPD asked me to help out, and I said I would.” I turned to Aaron. “I couldn’t tell anyone about Jabroni ’cause he was at my parents’ house. Marcus knew, but I asked if he would keep the news to himself.” I ran a hand through my hair, tossing it off my shoulders. “You guys need to cut me some slack here, you know. I was only doing what was right for my family.”
“Oh, right. This had nothing to do with getting your car back, or putting the old bat in jail by means of payback for your separation from the Vuitton handbag?” Marcus waited for me to answer him.
“Yeah, that about covers it,” I said. “I mean . . . I want my car back and for Jabroni to stop sponging off my parents. The handbag, well, that’s probably never going to be found.”
The two men glanced at one another and shook their heads in unison. Apparently, they didn’t understand, but then they weren’t Italian either. An Italian would have understood that I did what I had to do for my family. The fact that I was angry with the Jabronis, and looking to get even with them both . . . yes, that might also have encouraged my participation.
Classes at the downtown Providence campus of the university started on schedule. The students had backgrounds ranging from police officers to an author in search of fodder for a novel. It made me smile when he asked questions and the cops looked at him as though he was from Mars. I knew that look only too well.
After I dismissed the students, I left the campus and drove to the hospital. Both of the Jabronis had been arrested and were under guard there. The doctor who had aided Tony had gotten into serious trouble with the police and the hospital for taking a bribe to pronounce him dead after he’d been stabbed at the gallery.