Authors: Mark Arsenault
Loot the Moon (23 page)
T
he restaurant on the first floor of a triple-decker house in a remote corner of Providence was smaller than the kitchens being installed in the new McMansions all over the southern half of the state. The diner mostly fed people who smelled like hard work and cigarettes. With just a lunch counter and two tables, no more than eight or ten could eat here at one time, yet over his years of sneaking here for long home-cooked lunches, Martin never had to wait for a table. The place sent him back in time to his grandmother's kitchen: he loved the faint odor of cooking gas, the clang of indestructible iron pans seasoned black by a million meals, the lack of any printed menuâyou ate what was on the stove; the choice was take it, or leave itâand the fawning service that reminded a nostalgic middle-aged lawyer of love.
he restaurant on the first floor of a triple-decker house in a remote corner of Providence was smaller than the kitchens being installed in the new McMansions all over the southern half of the state. The diner mostly fed people who smelled like hard work and cigarettes. With just a lunch counter and two tables, no more than eight or ten could eat here at one time, yet over his years of sneaking here for long home-cooked lunches, Martin never had to wait for a table. The place sent him back in time to his grandmother's kitchen: he loved the faint odor of cooking gas, the clang of indestructible iron pans seasoned black by a million meals, the lack of any printed menuâyou ate what was on the stove; the choice was take it, or leave itâand the fawning service that reminded a nostalgic middle-aged lawyer of love.
“I'm meeting somebody today, Phyllis,” Martin told the cook. “He'll probably want coffee.”
“I'll make a fresh pot,” she said. “Something while you wait?”
“I'll grab myself a soda. There's nothing like sugar-free root beer and the obituaries on a sunny day.”
“Help yourself, young man.”
Martin smiled. This was the only restaurant in town where Martin could still be called young, though Phyllis was probably no more than ten years older than he. He grabbed a root beer from the cooler and settled into a chrome and vinyl kitchen chair near the window. Billy Povich had sounded distraught on the phone, and it would be up to Martin to absolve him.
Povich arrived ten minutes late, after Martin had already eaten his fried eggplant.
Billy dropped into the chair. “Sorry,” he said. “I walked and got lost. Been doing a lot of that lately.”
Martin forgave him with a smile and called to Phyllis. “Can my friend have some coffee and some of this terrific eggplant?”
“Mm-hm!”
Phyllis set Billy up with the day's first course. They watched her step back behind the counter and then dip chicken breast in egg batter and bread crumbs. “Thank God,” Martin whispered. “She's making meat today. My secret inner carnivore is hungry.”
“Nice to see that the vegan Mrs. Smothers doesn't have you as whipped as you seem,” Billy joked. “Maybe she should use a
leather
whip, not a substitute made of soybeans and seaweed.”
leather
whip, not a substitute made of soybeans and seaweed.”
“What she don't know won't kill me.”
Billy watched traffic pass slowly outside the window. “I'm dead-ended,” he confessed.
“I know that.”
“I was sure the trail would lead to Rhubarb Glanz, but he didn't contract for the hit on the judge. Glanz is dying. He's not interested in revenge. He wasn't even put out with me when the ambulance took his kid to the hospital as a precaution.”
Martin covered his ears. “I don't want to know any more. I feel guilty enough for bamboozling you into investigating this case. For
me, it was personal. And my obsession got you beaten up, and nearly buried alive. Now I learn you sent the son of a mob boss to the hospital?”
me, it was personal. And my obsession got you beaten up, and nearly buried alive. Now I learn you sent the son of a mob boss to the hospital?”
“Just for observation.”
“You did far more for me than you should have. You still have that reporter's instinct for the truth ⦠.” His cell phone buzzed in his coat pocket. He checked the caller ID and said, “It's Carol. Don't you despise people who answer their phones in restaurants?”
“Yes.”
Martin answered: “Carol? I'm with Billy Povich, in a meeting, with the scent of sautéed chicken wafting over us.”
“I'll keep it short,” she said in his ear. “A kayaker scratched his expensive carbon surf ski on the roof of Gary Gleason's car early this morning.”
Martin pulled his fountain pen from his pocket, checked for leaks on his shirt, and then jotted notes on the paper placemat, repeating as he wrote: “On the roof of Gary Gleason's car? How'd he pull that trick?”
“You talking about Scratch?” Billy asked.
Martin nodded and held up the pen to ask for patience.
“The car was off the coast of Portsmouth, underwater at the end of an old industrial pier,” she continued.
“Wow. Did he drive into the bay?”
“Excuse me?” Povich said.
“Not unless he steered it from the trunk,” said Carol.
“Holy mother of ⦠when did they find him?”
“Damn it, Marty, what's going on?” Povich demanded.
Carol reported, “Twenty minutes ago. It's on the news now, with no details, just video of the winch pulling out the car. My source on the police dive team says he was strangled. I'll call when I get more.”
“Do it.”
They hung up.
Martin paused a second, downed a sip of root beer without tasting it, then summed up for Povich: “Scratch is dead. Murdered. Fuck.”
Billy banged a fist on the table and splashed coffee from his mug. Through gritted teeth he growled, “He was our last connection to Adam Rackers.”
“Whoever paid Rackers to kill the judge is cutting the links to him,” Martin agreed. He thought for a second and added, “Or to her.”
A feverish sweat gathered on Billy's forehead. “This means I was close,” he said. “I was going the wrong goddamn way, but I passed close to the truth.” He rubbed two days' worth of whiskers on his chin and gazed out the window again. “Why didn't I recognize it? What did I miss?”
“I think you were thorough,” Martin said, but Povich wasn't listening.
Billy stared at a column of traffic at a standstill. His expressive brown eyes slowly shrank; his thumb turned absentminded little circles in the stubble on his neck. Only at the very point of his chin did Billy's whiskers show any gray. His lips parted, and then shaped silent words, like the physical echo of his thoughts. Martin followed Billy's eyes. What was he staring at? Outside the window, a blue-eyed man with spiked hair, stuck in traffic in a gray Saab convertible, spoke into a cell phone.
Billy's silent thoughts had become a whisper;
“Challenge your assumptions ⦠.”
His head cocked and he looked away a moment. He gestured at the man in the Saab. “His lips move but we can't hear what he says.”
“Challenge your assumptions ⦠.”
His head cocked and he looked away a moment. He gestured at the man in the Saab. “His lips move but we can't hear what he says.”
“Right ⦠the window is closed.”
Then Billy's eyes passed over the table with a look of detached terror, and a creepy smile broke across his face. He clamped his hand over his mouth. “What was our biggest assumption? So fucking big it could not be challenged?”
“Whaâ?”
“That Rackers shot the judge, right?”
Billy slipped from his chair and nearly fell to the floor. He caught himself on the rickety table. His mug toppled and cast a wave of coffee over the place mats. Martin jumped from his chair to grab Billy by the arm. “Are you taking a heart?”
“I'm not having a coronary, Marty. Jesus Christ, he never said a word ⦠.”
“Who? Billy!”
“In the hospital, we never heard him speak! Holy shit, Martin,
nobody
paid Rackers to shoot the judge. He just took the fall!”
nobody
paid Rackers to shoot the judge. He just took the fall!”
T
he hospital reminded him of a submarine, with its narrow, windowless halls cluttered with exposed pipes that carried steam to the ancient heating system ringing with clangs and pings.
he hospital reminded him of a submarine, with its narrow, windowless halls cluttered with exposed pipes that carried steam to the ancient heating system ringing with clangs and pings.
Ugh, would a submarine stink like this?
He hit the button for the elevator, then changed his mind and decided to walk up the fire stairs. He did not want to run into someone he recognized.
This is it. The last one.
With Scratch Gleason dead, this was the last link between him and Adam Rackers.
Once the link was severed, he would be free.
He thought of Scratch, dead in his car, underwater. Some sick part of himânot the pragmatic part that had no choice but to kill in self-defense, to protect himself from being discovered, but some twisted sliver of himself deep insideâpushed a little tune into his head to the music of Otis Redding's “Dock of the Bay.”
Dead in my trunk in the bay â¦
Feeling the tide roll my way â¦
Dead in my trunk in the bay, cov'red in slime.
Feeling the tide roll my way â¦
Dead in my trunk in the bay, cov'red in slime.
The words repeated in his head. His feet knocked the stairs in time with the music. He began to whistle. There was something grotesquely funny about the little tune, though he felt guilt over the pleasure it brought him.
But what could he have done? He could not have let Scratch live. That little thief was too dangerous. Who knew what Rackers had told him about the plan?
The final threat, to be eliminated in this hospital, was infinitely more dangerous than Scratch Gleason. He put a hand to the knife in his waistband, under his shirt.
He left the stairwell at the trauma recovery unit, put his head down, and marched the halls.
At the door, he hesitated. What if somebody he knew was inside? He made sure the hall was clear, then placed an ear to the door. Nothing but the hum of machines.
He's more machine than man right now. He's not even a human being.
He's more machine than man right now. He's not even a human being.
The door closed behind him.
“Hello?” said Stu Tracy from the bed.
A ghastly bruise, like a purple wave, had spread across Tracy's neck since the last time he had seen him.
He chuckled in reply without opening his mouth.
“Are you on the staff?”
“Mm-hm.” He stepped toward him. From his jacket he pulled a black ski mask. No plastic bag this time. This was the mask he wore when he helped Scratch's car into the drink. When he had finished with this task, he would burn the mask and get back to his life. What he had done would fade from his memoryâmaybe not completely, but he was confident that the events of the past several weeks would
soon seem like the color-washed recollections of a childhood nightmare.
soon seem like the color-washed recollections of a childhood nightmare.
“You a nurse?”
“Mm-hm.” He pulled on the mask.
“You have leather-soled shoes,” said Stu Tracy. “The nurses on the day staff wear rubber soles because they're on their feet so much.”
At the bedside, he discreetly shoved the emergency call button aside. He felt the knife and looked at the shield of bandages and tubes over Stu Tracy. No, he decided, the knife might be noisy.
“Why won't you say anything to me? Are you really a nurse?”
“Yes,” he said. He pulled a pillow from under Stu Tracy's head. “Let me fluff this for you.”
“That voice,” Stu said.
“Yeah, it's me.”
Stu stammered and tried to sit up. “That's not ⦠not possible! You're
dead
!” He grabbed blindly for the alarm.
dead
!” He grabbed blindly for the alarm.
When he inhaled to scream, the pillow came down over his face. Stu Tracy writhed weakly under him. He held the pillow in his fists and pressed down with his forearms, channeling all his weight into the task. One of Tracy's arms slapped pathetically against him.
Just three minutes and it's over.
He thought ahead, three minutes into the future. He would toss the pillow in the closet, smooth the sheets, and put everything back as he had found it. Stu Tracy was already so mangled ⦠might take them hours to figure out he was dead.
He never heard the door open. He thought he imagined the sound of an electric wheelchair, and then he howled in shock and pain when something crashed into his legs.
B
illy found his father on the hospital floor in a puddle of his own bad blood.
illy found his father on the hospital floor in a puddle of his own bad blood.
“Pop!”
He bulled past the overturned wheelchair and threw himself to the floor. He stopped suddenly as he was about to grab him; an old first-aid postulate screamed in his mind: Don't move an injured person! The old man grimaced and held a hand over a bloody gash on his chest, near the armpit on the left side. Billy pulled off his sweatshirt and pressed it to the wound.
His father turned sad blue eyes on him. “He was trying to smother Stu,” he said, in a whispery voice, like a draft through an old mine shaft. “You just missed him. Not five minutes ago.”
Stu Tracy lay limp in the bed; his breathing sounded ragged. “Billy,” he wheezed. “It was
him
âAdam Rackers. He's alive!”
him
âAdam Rackers. He's alive!”
“Not exactly, Stu.”
Billy ran to the door and screamed down the hall, “Help us! Help! Help!” His tone was not to be questioned; people in white came running.
Billy dashed back to his father and laid a hand on his chest. “Easy now, Pa,” he said. He chuckled against the tension. “If you're going to get hurt, it might as well be in a hospital.”
“He's got a knife, son. I tried to grab him but he cut me. I couldn't hang on. He's wearing a mask.”
“I know who it is, Pop.”
“Which one of your assumptions was wrong?”
“All of 'em. The truth was in my face the whole time. Breathe easy.”
The old man closed his eyes and shivered against a tremor of pain. His face blurred in Billy's tears.
Billy informed him, “If you fucking die before we have our talk, I swear to Christ that Charlie Metts will lay you ass-up for the wake.”
“He's gonna kill somebody,” the old man said, nodding in agreement with himself. “I saw it in his eyes.”
White shirts and voices flooded the room.
“Go stop him,” the old man said. “Don't let him hurt nobody else.” He pushed Billy gently away. “Do it.”
Â
Â
Twenty yards from the hospital's exit, a hand clapped him over the shoulder.
“Hey, nice to see you! What's the rush?”
He whirled. There stood Martin Smothers, a dopey smile on his face. His beard was tied with two rubber bands into twin ponytails. He looked like the world's wimpiest Viking.
“Hiya, Martin,” he said, and stuck out a hand to shake the lawyer's sweaty palm. His other hand discreetly patted the knife under his shirt, in his waistband. His knee throbbed where that son of a bitch had rammed him with the wheelchair. He was desperate to run, but reason overruled those instincts. After ditching the mask and
stumbling down the stairs on a bad knee, he was
this close
to getting away. And then, of all the luck, to run into Martin Smothers in the hospital lobby? Like a cosmic practical joke.
stumbling down the stairs on a bad knee, he was
this close
to getting away. And then, of all the luck, to run into Martin Smothers in the hospital lobby? Like a cosmic practical joke.
Be calm. I can act my way out of anything.
He seized control of the conversation before Martin could question him. “I came here to visit a buddy who had back surgery,” he said with a broad smile.
“How's he doing?” asked Martin. “If he needs visitors, maybe I'll drop in and say hello.”
“He's not here, actually. I guess they sent him home a day early.” He shrugged. “So I thought I made a trip for nothing, until I had the good fortune to run into you.”
Martin stood back, put his hands on his hips, and beamed. “I can't remember the last time I've seen you so chipper.”
“Well, circumstances haven't been the best recentlyâ”
Martin looked past him and waved down the hall. “Hey, Billy!” he called. “Look who I ran into.”
Great. There's Billy Povich. Was there a convention here I didn't know about?
He tightened the smile, adjusted the facade, turned to face him. “How are you, Billy?” he said. He extended a hand as Povich walked up.
“I'm great, Brock, just fuckin' dandy. And you?”
Without breaking stride, Povich cocked back a fist and drove it so hard into Brock's chin, he heard his jawbone crack before he hit the floor.
Barely conscious, he felt Povich's hands tighten around his throat. Povich screamed hoarse into his ear:
“Rackers didn't take
you
hostage, you took
him
hostage!
You
carjacked Stu Tracy, Brock! And if you've killed my father like you killed your own ⦔
you
hostage, you took
him
hostage!
You
carjacked Stu Tracy, Brock! And if you've killed my father like you killed your own ⦔
He squeezed tighter.
“No, Billy, no!” Smothers shouted. Unseen voices screamed and hollered for the police.
The world grew dark around the edges, and then Brock blacked out.
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