BIG MONEY, Chapter 17

A hard noise echoes inside my apartment. Rapping at the door. Who the hell needs me so badly at--I check the digital clock on my night stand--three o’clock in the morning? Mallory had enough of me by midnight. And it sure ain’t Anne Marie Talbot. Is it wishful thinking to hope it might be Tony? With Bluefish’s missing cash?

I slide out of bed. The toasted cheese smell of tomato pie lingers in my living room, but the sensation’s not exactly pleasant. I stopped for eats on the way home from Branchtown’s ancient brick police station, and my stomach tells me I should have chosen lighter than Roman Ricco’s greasy pizza. Ricco’s idea of an olive oil drizzle resembles what’s left in the pan after you fry a pound of bacon.

Bang, bang, bang. Can’t be the Creeper. The front door would already be lying flat.

Peeking through a slit in the curtains, I see Gina Farascio huddled at my door. She’s wearing the same torn sweater and wild eyes I saw at the Martha.

What I don’t see until I open the door is Gina’s handgun. She yanks some kind of shiny chrome revolver from her black purse, pushes it against my chest, and rushes me back inside.

“Where’s Tony?” she says.

Her voice wavers with emotion. Fear or anger, I can’t tell which. I’ve been too interested in her comely smell, the shape of her anatomy, that inner radiance shining from her eyes. And not in any particular order.

Gina kicks the door shut behind her. “Tell me where he is or I’ll pull the trigger.”

Where’s Mallory when I need him? I’d even settle for the Eagle Scout. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Tony since about six. Before the fire.”

The good news, Gina removes the revolver from my chest. The bad news, she lifts the gun’s muzzle level with my nose. The ugly headline, her thumb cocks the hammer.

Judging by the large bore on this chrome puppy, I’m a few pounds per square inch away from decapitation.

“Turn around and walk me through the house,” she says. “Slowly. No tricks.”




Gina drops her lusciousness onto my leather couch and stuffs the gun back in her purse. “Sorry,” she says. “I figured he’d be here.”

Her huge brown oval eyes gaze intently at me. My fear turned quickly to anger when she lowered the weapon a minute ago, but now I feel like reaching out to embrace her. And it’s more than just my groin talking. I want to soothe her soul. Honest.

“You have any scotch?” she says.

“Dewar’s.”

“Make it a double,” she says.




Mrs. Tony Farascio’s feeling better. She stretches her feet out on my couch and rattles her ice, sips what watery whisky remains, and nestles the now-empty drink into my carpet.

“Why were you with Tony at that hotel?” she says.

“Actually, he was with me. I had a meeting with the A.A.S.D. and Tony wanted to help.”

Gina snorts. Like Tony might have had some other motive besides kindness. Gee, why didn’t I think of that?

“What were you doing there?” I say.

“Following Tony. I know he’s been cheating on me practically since the day we were married. I’ve just never actually caught him at it. If I could be one-hundred percent sure--find him just once in the sack--I’d have the strength to leave him.”

I watch Gina push her shoes off, let them tumble to the floor. The black skirt rides up, showing me white thighs and making me dream higher. This is not a healthy or morally correct line of thought.

“The woman he went to see is an auditor with the American Association of Securities Dealers,” I say. “She’s threatening to file a damaging report about my firm. I don’t think he was up there cheating on you.”

“You think Tony was in that woman’s room on business?” she says.

“Yeah. She was in town to see me, not him.”

Gina shakes her head at me like a scolding teacher, then reaches over her head for the light switch. “I’m sleeping on your couch tonight. I don’t have to sleep with Tony’s gun under my pillow, right?”

I stand up. “Right.”

She flips off the light. “You’re a nice guy, Austin, but you don’t know shit.”


I wake up the next morning hard at work on Gina’s naked body. Only trouble, I’m dreaming. Gina’s not sharing intimate touches. She’s not sharing my bed. Mrs. Tony Farascio’s not even in my apartment.

The blanket I gave her is neatly folded on the couch. The coffee machine still drips, and a clean cup awaits me on the counter; the cup and a scribbled warning: “Make Tony tell you the truth.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 16

Mallory’s words smack me. Not as hard as the Creeper did last night, but enough to provoke the physical reaction I’m sure the Cop with the Girl Scout Arm hoped for. I feel my eyes go big, like silver dollars. When my breath comes back, it’s quicker and a little shallow.

“Who did you send up there, Carr? Tell me now or I’m taking you in on suspicion of murder. Let the newspapers and TV stations have the news.”

I labor for a deep breath. I need oxygen. I need the Lone Ranger. The Cisco Kid. Luis.

Okay, Carr, think quick. Tony Farascio is Mr. Vick’s friend. Tony’s carrying one-hundred-thousand dollars in what I assume to be unlaundered gambling money. And anyway you look at it, thanks to me, Tony went to see Talbot on Shore’s behalf. I do not want to give Mallory Tony’s name.

Mallory screams at me. “Who the fuck was it?”

But Shore’s troubles can only blossom into full-boat disaster if I lie during a murder investigation, play hide-the-truth with Branchtown cops.

When you’re sinking in heavy shit, it figures as pure folly to dig yourself in deeper.

“His name’s Tony Farascio,” I say.

“Spell it.”

“F-A-R-A-S-C-I-O.”

“He works for you?”

“He’s a friend of Mr. Vick’s.”

“He’s a lawyer or something?”

“Something,” I say. “Maybe just a friend.”

Mallory’s eyes narrow. “But he was on Shore Securities business?”

“I guess.”

I didn’t think it possible, but the tall cop pushes closer. His nose brushes mine. An Eskimo kiss.

Gee, Jim, does this mean we’re going steady?

“Was he or wasn’t he, Carr? I thought you were running the company while Vick’s out of town.”

I cough to clear my throat. That backs the bastard up. Maybe I should tell him I have TB.

“Mr. Vick told me to call Tony if I had trouble with...” My sentence dies. I’m wandering down a dangerous path here. I keep talking this way, explaining myself, it’s going to sound like I--or Vick, Shore, somebody--hired Tony Farascio to threaten or even kill Talbot.

“Trouble with what?” Mallory says.

“Just trouble.”

Mallory shakes his head. His jaw sets like black- flecked white marble. “Screw this, Carr. You’re coming back to the station, spend the night answering questions. For now, just tell me what Farascio looks like.”

The New Jersey sun is long gone. Stars flicker above the Navasquan River. I don’t see Gina the Luscious anymore, and the last stranglers have wandered back inside the Martha. The Branchtown Fire Department rumbles from the parking lot in a red parade of trucks. Everything’s finished. Especially me.

“Six foot one or two,” I say. “Two hundred pounds. Dark wavy hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. Handsome as a movie star.”

“Eye color?”

“Brown. Like a puppy dog.”


An hour later, at the police station, I say, “Listen to me. Every night our back office tells the clearing bank in New York what to do with the money and securities taken in during the day’s business. We send the bank a list of names and account numbers, what’s to be deposited in each.”

Mallory and I sit in an eight-by-eight-foot police interview room with a desk and two chairs. The furniture ranked as old twenty-five years ago, and the puke green, chipped walls haven’t been painted since Harry Truman was President. The floor smells of lemon disinfectant over stale urine.

“If the bank goofs,” I say, “if they leave one dollar of a client’s funds in Shore’s catchall account, then technically we’ve co-mingled client moneys. And if we don’t catch the mistake, if the banker doesn’t bother telling us, just fixes it himself the next day, our permanent records become inaccurate.”

Mallory nods with satisfaction. “I get it. And if this co-mingling charge hit the newspapers, Shore would lose a crap-load of business, maybe even close.”

I shake my head.

“You or your boy Farascio killed Talbot to keep this report from going public,” Mallory says.

He waves papers at me I assume came from Talbot’s hotel room. How else would this redheaded Irish cop know about the co-mingling charges?

“Exactly,” I say. “Shore hired Tony to kill the A.A.S.D. investigator because everybody knows a murder trial would make us look good.”

“I don’t think your friend Farascio expected to stand trial,” Mallory says. “He figured to burn the place down, cover his tracks.”

The interview-room door opens and Mallory’s partner leans in holding a manila envelope. The young detective looks nineteen in his schoolboy haircut and brand new J. C. Penny suit. Like an Eagle Scout.

“Here’s the fax from Washington,” Scoutboy says.

Mallory opens the folder, reads a few minutes while I wonder what he’s staring at. I don’t have a rap sheet, but maybe Tony does. Maybe I shouldn’t have given up Farascio’s name. I definitely shouldn’t have let Tony go see Talbot. Mr. Vick’s going to choke me when he gets back from Italy. Or, more likely, Tony, Bluefish, or Max will have throttled me long before the boss gets home.

If and when I get out of here, I’m never going to stop drinking martinis.

Mallory’s had enough of the file. He tosses the manila folder onto the poetically inscribed table between us with a tiny splat. The papers and photos slide partially out, pulling my eyes like a Shania Twain cheesecake calendar. What is this?

“How long have you and Anthony Farascio been friends?” Mallory says.

“I told you. We’re not friends. I never met the guy until this week.”

“Right. He’s a total stranger. That's why you sent him up to deal with the A.A.S.D. for you.”

“He’s Vick’s friend, not mine.”

Mallory grins. His bony fingers pick up the manila folder again. He slides out a photo-fax, nudges the grainy image across the table. My open hand slides across the table to pick up the paper, the wood smooth against my fingertips. It feels like I’m crawling into a trap.

My eyes take in the shot of a burned-out, two-story brick building, probably a restaurant and bar judging by the blackened sign in the foreground that gives the joint’s hours as 10 a.m. to 2 a.m. Guess it could be a massage parlor. One that knows how to give its customers the Big Finish.

Mallory saying, “The Feds call your pal Farascio Tony the Torch.”

Huh?

Branchtown’s top detective slides a second photo toward me, this one featuring three, tarp-covered bodies, all with blackened feet peeking from under the canvas.

“He gets paid to burn things for insurance money,” Mallory says. “Every once and while, there are people inside. You people at the Martha tonight were lucky.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 15

Gina Farascio’s unruly gaze fixes on two Branchtown police cruisers bouncing into the Martha’s parking lot. Behind the black-and-whites, I recognize Detective James Mallory’s dirty brown Ford Fairlane. He hits the driveway at thirty miles an hour.

I’m guessing Branchtown’s Bravest found something inside the Martha of serious interest to Branchtown’s Finest. Arson? Or maybe somebody got burned.

Another half-hour goes by and we’re still not back inside. The number of people waiting to return has dwindled considerably, no doubt a casualty of alcoholic thirst. I could use another see-through myself. In fact, I’d head back to Luis’s if it wasn’t for Tony and Bluefish’s one-hundred-thousand cash.

I’m beginning to consider final resting spots.

“Carr.”

Detective Mallory stalks me from behind. He has two uniformed officers beside him and a tense, don’t-screw-with-me expression on his face.

Actually, the only time Mallory doesn’t have that nasty cast on his face is when he’s coaching Little League baseball. Even then he talks to the kids like the umpire instead of a coach.

He grips my arm. “Talk to me, pal. Over there, by the patrol car.”

Mallory tugs me over, hands on, like he’s dragging a convict up before the judge. He nudges me against the black-and-white’s rear fender and pushes his face up close. I think he might have had a beer with lunch. Sam Adams? Our noses are almost touching.

“Know a woman named Anne Marie Talbot?” he says.

Gulp. “Yeah.” Mallory’s eyebrows snap higher. I can almost feel wind. “She’s an investigator with the American Association of Securities Dealers,” I say. “She’s been auditing Shore.”

“Did you see her today?”

“No.”

“You sure? I found your name on a pad by her telephone.”

Double gulp. Why was Mallory up in Talbot’s room? My stomach begins to fill with battery acid. Is there a criminal reason why I haven’t seen Tony or Talbot?

“I had an appointment but didn’t go,” I say.

Mallory grins. Now his breath smells like gasoline. Maybe he was drinking brandy. “You’re a bad liar, Carr. You expect me to believe you’re at her hotel, but you didn’t keep that appointment?”

“I don’t care if you believe me or not. It’s the truth. I sent an associate to keep my appointment.”

Oh, my, that was dumb. Sometimes my gift of blab just means I have a big mouth.

“Yeah? And who would that be?” Mallory says.


I suck a big breath. Considering what Tony was carrying, and what he may have been doing with it, I’m not the smallest bit anxious to reveal Tony Farascio’s identity. Or Shore’s semiserious A.A.S.D. troubles. Oh, man, when am I going to learn to keep my trap shut?

I stall. “Tell me what’s going on. Why all the questions?”

Mallory's right hand jumps up and pinches my shoulder. I feel like knocking it away. “Who went to see her, Carr? Tell me.”

If people exercised the right to remain silent, our prisons would be empty. Too bad so many of us figure this out too late. I say, “You want me to say another word, Jim, explain what’s happened. My lawyer’s phone number is programmed into my cell phone.”

His intense gaze holds onto mine, trying to intimidate me. Fat chance, Jimbo. I watched you throw baseballs all one summer. I’ve seen stronger arms on a Queen Anne chair.

Mallory saying, “Your five o’clock appointment was canceled, Carr. Anne Marie Talbot is dead.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 14

I extend my tongue full length, French-kissing my third martini. The now-empty, nearly clean conical glass winks back at me, another subtle indicator of full-boat overindulgence. Could this martini-glass warning blinker--a lighthouse perched above the jagged coastline of reality--suggest my ineligibility for a fourth see-through?

My only hesitation in leaving the bar involves a strawberry blonde. She’s sitting on a nearby stool--we’re upstairs at the Martha--and, more important, the lady seems to like my looks. Grinning at me in a very particular way. I have the feeling if I stay right here, drinking and winking, Cutie Pie with an Edge may just wander over here and rub me up. She’s got that “I do whatever the hell I want” line etched into her chin.

Logic, Shore’s business, and my children's’ college education luckily snag hold of my over sexed, gin-rotted brain. Checking the bartender’s watch, I see Brooklyn Tony’s been up in Talbot’s room more than an hour. If he’s trying to bribe that woman from the American Assn. of Securities Dealers, Tony could put Shore out of business, maybe install my pink ass in a white-collar prison. The U.S. District Attorney in Trenton loves to make an example of corporate criminals.

I throw down thirty bucks and slide off my stool. I must be nuts letting Tony go up to Talbot’s room, let him represent Shore Securities with the A.A.S.D.. What was I thinking? At the very least I should have held out as long as physically possible, let the contusions and concussions speak later of my attempt to prevent Tony’s madness.

Besides Carmela, who walked in ten minutes ago, the Martha’s bar swells with lingering sunset gazers and silver-haired seniors ordering early-bird specials from the bar menu. Through the crowd, the strawberry blonde and I find each other’s gaze.

I only snag a glimpse on my way out, but Strawberry’s wearing a scooped-neck black dress that frames her breasts and drapes her hips like liquid chocolate. Diamond earrings twinkle at me, but not as brightly as the lady’s smile. If Johnny Depp the pirate had a blonde sister...

I wave and disappear into the elevator lobby.

Figures. Probably the love of my life back there, and I’m ditching the bar and a chance to meet her because everything I have, everything my children need, could be sliding down the big financial drain as I speak.

The room tilts. Oops. I should have gone for the martini quatro. The third one buried me anyway.

The elevator doors rattle open before I push the button, and Tony’s wife Gina the Luscious almost crashes into me rushing out. What the hell’s she doing here? Her shoulder-length black hair dangles loose and uncombed. Her cashmere sweater sports a torn seam across the right shoulder. And Gina Farascio’s gorgeous face is drawn tight, her mascara smeared by tears.

The instant I catch her shoulders, preventing our collision, the lights go off and the Martha’s fire alarm fills the hall with high-pitched electronic screaming. The piercing, throbbing whine stabs at my ears, the ugly noise somehow louder in the dark.

In a wash of red light, Gina’s eyes go wide and wild. An intense red beacon flashes above us from high in the elevator lobby--the alarm’s screaming now has a frightening visual quality.

The good news, if I have my bearings right in the semidarkness, the flashing red light locates the stairway. Escape. My heart’s drumming.

It figures that lives are at stake. I’ve got five or six ounces of Bombay Sapphire in me, not to mention the vermouth. Plus--let’s see if I can put this delicately--my brain’s missing some blood thanks to Gina being so close. Like an airline’s overhead baggage compartment, my contents have shifted.

A crowd of alarm-driven bar patrons streams into the small elevator lobby. The elevators lock shut. I reach for Gina’s hand as the swelling pack of panicked seniors herds toward the stairs. I don’t see or smell any smoke, but Gina and I don’t have a choice. We’re swept up like leaves in a water-filled gutter.

I slip my arm around her waist to keep us together.


Outside in the parking lot, Gina and I huddle with two or three dozen other elderly bar patrons, hotel guests, and staff while two Branchtown fire crews rush inside the Martha. I don’t spot Tony, Ms. Strawberry, or Anne Marie Talbot anywhere in the crowd, but Carmela’s out here. She’s talking with three young women and a uniformed cop.

BIG MONEY, Chapter 13

Max stares at Anne Marie on the tiny black and white recording monitor. Look at her, rubbing that silly deodorant under her shaved arms. Powder on her crotch. Now pulling those see-through black panties on her ass.

He should ask Jerry for a bigger screen. Maybe one of those big plasma televisions like Jerry just bought for his apartment.

Max completes another set of one-hundred push-ups. He rolls onto his back for a set of sit-ups, but swaps his head for his feet so he can watch Anne Marie finish dressing. Hooking lace bra under her pillowy breasts; stuffing her soft flesh and into those small cups.

What would she do if he went next door right now, to her hotel room?

He sighs. Maybe she’s the woman to take Max away from this life. Anne Marie has been very nice to him, that’s for sure, like Jerry says. She has sex with him almost anytime he wants. Even cooks dinner for him once and a while.

He checks the lights on the recording equipment, just like Jerry showed him. Red and blue. Gauges okay. Everything is good, working fine. Jerry and the rest of Bluefish’s boys will be lining up to watch this tape.

Max wipes the sweat off his forehead, stands, and then bends at the waist, hands on his thighs. He takes a long slow breath. Then another.

He glances at the monitor. Bluefish says Anne Marie doesn’t know about the camera. But the way she’s playing with her breasts, she has to know she’s being watched.

She looks like she’s putting on a show.

Max unzips his pants.

BIG MONEY, Chapter 12

The next day after work I find Luis’s Mexican Grill in the full-boat grip of rigor mortis. Subdued voices, no laughter. The light crowd focuses either on round plates of Umberto’s semi-famous enchiladas or CNN’s pretty-face actress blaring death estimates for another Baghdad bombing. The air tastes brittle, ready to crack.

A stranger might think America’s war in Iraq was to blame for this pall, but I can see the cause is much more personal. Armed violence threatens the home front as well. I don’t recognize him as being among Luis’s friends, but another Toltec warrior pins me from under Luis’s caballista sombreros. Within reach of the stranger’s big paws, a tall brown package leans against his barstool. Could be a couple of golf clubs. Maybe one of those thin, fungo baseball bats. Then again, the shape reminds me a whole bunch more of a single-barrel, pump-action shotgun.

No wonder the joint’s tense.

Luis is busy making drinks. He takes a few minutes to spot me, Luis collecting money and mixing big pitchers of margaritas. Soon as our eyes lock though, my favorite bartender/club owner wipes his hands on a white towel and struts my way, Luis jaunty, but tense, too, the swagger contained.

He snatches at my offer of a handshake. Wow. The restaurant’s atmosphere isn’t the only thing uptight around here. Luis’s shiny black eyes bear the resolute, defensive wariness of a big-city cop walking up beside your car. One hand on his holster.

Whatever Luis’s problems, mine are worse. I decide to file a formal complaint. “Bluefish threatened my children, Luis. He brought that creep-ass giant with him, too, surprised me, Ryan, and Beth at the restaurant. Bastard had me roughed up in front of my kids.”

Luis’s eyes briefly shut. A long, slow blink. He says, “Did you agree to do him the favor?”

I nod. “I couldn’t say no.”

“What about this man Tony?”

“I haven’t heard from him since the day before yesterday.”

Luis reaches low to his left, draws up a half-full bottle of Herradura Gold and pours us two shots. “It is lucky for me I have not yet fathered children. I have only myself and the restaurant to protect.”

My friend doesn’t know the half of it. Besides Beth and Ryan, my current security responsibilities include Carmela, Shore Securities, and Mama Bones. Thanks to my boss and market mentor, Mr. Vick, I’m sworn to protect his, mine, and ours. Where’s my badge? My troops? Where’s Tony?

“I noticed the guy with the shotgun,” I say. “I assume he’s a friend of yours.”

Luis ignores my implied question. He wraps two fingers around his shot glass, drinks his Herradura and sneaks a glance at the front door. Maybe he thinks I’m guessing, that his armed pal remains obscure.

I throw back my own tequila. Tilt my head in the guard’s direction. “I admit I’m nervous looking. I have to go see the A.A.S.D. lady in a few minutes. But, come on, Luis. That guy pinned me like an owl on a field mouse when I walked in. And that brown paper package beside him is about as subtle as a bazooka.”

He shakes his head. “Then Bluefish’s spy will easily pick him out as well.”

“Count on it.”

He pours us another shot. “I must make my friend less visible.”

I glance at the hombre beneath the sombreros. “And maybe get a couple more friends.”


I park in the Martha Washington Inn’s side lot, grab my coat, and slide out of the Camry. A putrid, river-bottom odor whacks my nose. Branchtown residents have been throwing nasty things in the Navasquan River for more than four-hundred years. The gifts return in spirit every low tide.

I breathe as shallowly as possible walking to the hotel’s main entrance. The Martha Washington Inn perches on a small bluff overlooking the river, the hotel’s whitewashed wooden exterior molting away like feathers from an ancient seagull.

Cool and clear this evening in Central New Jersey. A few clouds glow pink in the west. Not a bad night to roost at the Martha’s upstairs brass and mahogany bar, watch the sun go down. After dark, lights pop on in the big river estates, throwing sparklers onto black water.

Maybe after I meet with the A.A.S.D.’s Anne Marie Talbot, I’ll have a Bombay martini and check out the lights.

“Hey. Carr.”

I let go of the Martha’s front glass door and swivel to see who’s called my name. It’s Tony Farascio, all six feet of him, the stubble on his George Clooney cheeks thick and black as coal dust.

“Hey, Tony. What’s up?”

“I decided to help you with that other thing.”

Tony sticks out his hand. He’s wearing tan cotton slacks, new white sneakers, and another extra-big, short-sleeve knitted green golf shirt beneath an unzipped Navy blue London Fog wind breaker. I’m familiar with his big hands, that crunching grip, but as he walks toward me I notice Tony also owns exceptionally light feet for a big man. Like a pro defensive lineman.

We drop the shake. “Carmela told you I was going to be here?” I say.

“Yeah.”

“Well, I don’t need any help with the A.A.S.D.. But I sure could have used you last night. Bluefish threatened my children.”

Tony slams a forefinger to his lips. “Wait a minute,” he says. He guides me inside the Martha’s lobby, then off to a quiet corner beside a thirty-gallon blue Chinese vase filled with blooming yellow forsythia stalks.

“Sorry, pal,” he says. “But I didn’t think Bluefish would make his move that fast. Plus, I had to get permission. But I’m on it now.”

I nod.

“I heard about the cash he gave you,” Tony says.

“You did? From who?”

“I got friends in Bluefish’s family. All over, in fact. You still have his money?”

“Yes.”

Tony smiles and wraps a thick arm around my shoulders. “Let’s go have a pop at the bar. You can tell me about this A.A.S.D. problem.”

“I don’t have time. The A.A.S.D. woman is waiting for me now. She just came into town today on a fluke and agreed to meet me. So it’s important. I don’t want to be late.”

He shrugs and redirects me toward the elevators. “Okay, let’s go see her. We’ll have a pop later.”

Once again I resist his forward momentum. Like before, my shoes slide on the slick marble. “You can’t go with me,” I say.

“Sure I can. You’re going to need me.”

He plows another few steps toward the elevators, me scuffing along with him. Suddenly he brings us both to a halt. “Wait. I got an idea. Let’s go back to your car, get Bluefish’s money. We might need that, too.”

My heart rate ticks up a notch. “What are you talking about? What’s Bluefish’s money got to do with the A.A.S.D.? Jesus, Tony. You’ll get Shore closed down letting her see all that cash. Like I’m trying to bribe her.”

“Her name’s Anne Marie Talbot, right?”

“Yeah. So?”

“And if she files her report with co-mingling charges included, Shore Securities gets hurt bad?”

“Probably. But--”

“So trust me, Carr. Vick told you to ask for my help, right?”

“Yeah, but there’s no way Mr. Vick would want you to bribe her. Jesus.”

Tony tows me through the glass doors, back outside. Once more, the gooey, tongue swelling smell of dead fish punches me in the nose. Tony’s arm, the odors, fear suddenly pumping up my heart rate...feels like I’m about to faint.

Mr. Brooklyn checks my face, shakes his head. “You look upset.”

There’s no way I can stop Tony Farascio from doing whatever the hell he wants. If I try to muscle him, I’ll end up as rotting goo, reeking like the other poor souls paving the Navasquan River bottom.

“When you give me Bluefish’s money, I think I gotta go see this Anne Marie by myself,” Tony says.

My jaw drops. Joining my series seven license, my Gift of Gab turns temporarily suspended.

I am freaking speechless.

READ NEW CHAPTERS ON FRIDAY. READ OLD CHAPTERS IN ARCHIVES.

BIG MONEY, Chapter 11

In the hallway just outside the dining room, I run into a charging rhinoceros. No wait. It’s the Creeper, crushing me against the wall and emptying my lungs with his horn-like fist. I know rhinos are bigger and stronger than the Creeper, but it doesn’t feel like it. Or maybe I was fooled by Creeper’s soiled, spotted gray coat. It smells like and otherwise resembles animal hide.

Probably a funny thing to notice when you can’t breathe, but I think Creeper’s got that European perspective on bathing, too. You know, only sissies use soap.

“Get up,” he says.

I’m sinking to the floor as he growls this. When my butt hits reaches bottom, I still can’t grab a breath, let alone stand, and since I don’t see or hear Ryan, I choose to stay right here on the hardwood floor, occupy Creeper’s creepy attentions.

Air surges into my lungs as rhino-man yanks me up by the belt, wraps his anaconda arm around me, and spins me horizontal. Holding me on his hip like a small rolled up rug. My lungs and spirit enjoy the newly reacquired air supply until I hear small footsteps in the hall.

“Pop?”

“Run, Ryan,” I say.

Holding me with his right arm, Creeper jumps sideways and snatches Ryan with his left.

“Hey,” Ryan says.

I feel like a beetle in the clutches of a six-year-old boy. Helpless and doomed.

My world view begins to bounce, my arm bumps a door jam, and Creeper delivers us like lost pets, one on each hip, back into the dining room. The huge chamber isn’t empty anymore, though. Bluefish relaxes at my old table with Beth. His greasy fingers caress her hair.

My fingernails press into my palms. I’m all out of smart ass.




Every inch of the five-thousand-square-foot dining room smells like Creeper’s unwashed armpits. And I can’t take my eyes off his nose. It has more bends than a toboggan run. I still want to kill Bluefish for touching my daughter’s hair, but I realize now isn’t the best time.

“Have I made my point?” Bluefish says.

He glances at both of my children. Beth's the oldest. Maybe Seaside County’s best teenaged swimmer. And Ryan. My shortstop and Hardy Boys fan. My kids nibble their dinners at one table, Bluefish, Creeper, at another. There’s maybe twenty feet of distance between us. I wish it were twenty miles.

Where in the hell are the other diners? A waiter?

“I understand,” I say. “The point is you’re threatening my children.”

For the kids, I’m forcing a smile. Playing relaxed. Showing them everything’s fine. Both of them keep sneaking glances. How could they not? I have to pretend I’m just dining with an eccentric client who likes to wear black silk suits and eat with his creepy rhino-shaped bodyguard.

No sweat.

So far, Bluefish and Creeper are holding their voices and tempers down, going along with my client act. Although Creeper doesn’t have to say or do much to make things look scary. The bandaged wound Luis put on his temple oozes blood. I hope it hurts like hell.

“My point is you can’t protect them,” Bluefish says. “Not twenty-four hours a day, not for one fucking minute if I choose otherwise.”

“I get it,” I say. My hands ache to snatch this bastard’s slicked-back hair and rip off his scalp. Instead, I’m saying, “I’ll open your account personally.”

I force myself to bite my prime rib dinner, and then beg my jaws to chew. See Ryan, Beth? Everything’s fine. I glance again at Bluefish’s temptingly long, grip-able hairdo, but I’ve got no real options as far as I can see. Getting Beth and Ryan home safely can be my only priority.

“Good,” Bluefish says. “In the trunk of your car you’ll find a red gym bag with one-hundred-thousand in cash and a signed Shore Securities’ account application. Buy me big cap, big name stocks.”

“All right,” I say. “Blue chips for Bluefish.”



I hand the valet his tip with a shaky hand and slide in behind the wheel of my Camry. Because of the wide market for its parts, America’s best-selling automobile is also the country’s most stolen. Wish someone would steal my Camry with Bluefish’s money in the trunk.

“Okay, Pop, we’re in the car,” Ryan says. “So who were those men?”

Both kids buzzed me with questions when Bluefish and Creeper abandoned us in the dining room. I told them we needed to scram, that I’d answer questions when we got to the car. I needed time to think.

Beth saying, “Daddy?”

“They’re friends of Mr. Vick’s,” I say. “The one named Bluefish is mad Vick went away and left me in charge at Shore Securities.”

“Is that why that big creepy guy picked us up like puppies?” Ryan says.

Internally, I can admire my son’s eye for detail. He’s got Bluefish’s driver pegged.

“Max is a little rambunctious,” I say. “Like a big kid.”

The quiet in the back seat indicates a certain skepticism, I suppose, but in this case I think lies are superior to the truth.

Beth says, “Daddy, are those men like the people who tried to kill you last year? Criminals?”

The best lies, however, always offer a bit of truth.

“Maybe, I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. Bluefish isn’t mad anymore.”

“He didn’t exactly look happy,” Ryan says.

Like I said, Ryan’s got an eye for detail.

“If you had to ride around in a car with that smelly guy Max, would you be happy?”



Bouncing into my ex-wife Susan’s driveway ten minutes later, breaking a long silence, Ryan asks if he and Beth need to go into the FBI‘s witness protection program.

“No,” I say. “But I’ll need to if you tell your mother about this.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 10

Mama Bones saying, “Why you no tell me?”

I wedge the phone against my ear, freeing my hands to sign a stack of checks Carmela’s presented me. We’re busy at Shore today, the guys scoring big working Walter’s accounts. Don’t tell those A.A.S.D. jerks who suspended my license, but I’ve been helping Shore’s bond desk fill orders and racking up a few commission dollars myself. My trades get routed through a phony rep number.

“Hey, I’ma talking here,” Mama Bones says.

Walter’s doing the same--banging the phones--with Shore clients--our clients--whose names and phone numbers he swiped on the way out of here. The bastard. I heard twice today from a customer that Walter called them, said Shore was bound to go broke, that we’ve already hired a bankruptcy lawyer. My pal, Walter.

“Hey,” Mama Bones says.

I should have guessed. Stockbrokering is not a great vocation for maintaining tight personal friendships. I can’t imagine what the business was like during the days of legal dueling.

“Hey, Golly Gee!” Mama Bones says. “Why you no tell me?”

I stop signing checks. Nobody’s called me Golly Gee in a while. Not since I moved here from California and learned to curse like a New Jersey native. I move the phone closer to my mouth. “Mama Bones, I did just tell you. I called to see if you needed help with that bingo-game thing, and when you asked what happened when Bluefish came to Luis’s on Monday, I--”

“Why you no tell me before you call Tony?” she says. “Is abada-bada mistake you ask this man to do something. He and his Brooklyn crew worse than Bluefish, worse than gavones. That Tony devil teach my Vittorio abada-bada things.”

“How did you know Bluefish threatened me at Luis’s?”

“Lucky guess.”

“Mama Bones?”

“I dunno. Maybe I have vision. Bye.”

“Mama--?”

She’s gone. Strange, as I said nothing to Carmela, Mama Bones’s granddaughter. Although there were lots of people in Luis’s restaurant the other day, saw what happened. Plus Mr. Vick’s bragged many times about his mother’s exercise/bookmaking business. Unless she’s booking all the bets herself, she could be tied to, or even part of, Bluefish’s gambling operation.

One thing I’m not buying is Mama Bones’s voodoo vision theory.


Sixty-six percent of the time eating dinner with my kids on Wednesday night is one-hundred percent predictable. Ryan always picks Burger King. I invariably choose Luis’s Mexican Grill. Only when it’s Beth’s turn might our evening involve actual culinary adventure. Tonight is such a night.

Beth saying, “Is this place cool, or what?”

“Looks like Dracula’s castle,” Ryan says.

I brake for valet parking at the apex of a huge circular driveway. Two-story rhododendrons line the walkway and steps.

The Locust Tree Inn & Restaurant caters to foreign and gourmet tastes, and I should take advantage, try something exotic for dinner tonight. I hear, for instance, the tube steak rocks.

“Does this place have cheeseburgers?” Ryan says.

“Only dorks eat cheeseburgers every night,” Beth says
.
“Hey,” I say. “Be nice.”

The kids precede me up flagstone steps. One of Branchtown’s earliest settlers snagged a fortune growing corn beside the Navasquan river, boating his crop to Manhattan. Four hundred years later, his three-story, thirty-room Tudor mansion remains the number one venue for weddings in Central New Jersey. And Wednesday through Sunday brunch, Branchtown’s priciest restaurant.

Like her mother, my daughter has Old Money tastes.


Beth saying, “I’m cold.”

“I’ve got the creeps, too,” Ryan says. “Did you see that guy who brought us our Cokes?”

It is a little weird in here. We checked out the ten-pound leather menus, started with Diet Cokes, and just ordered our thirty-dollar entrees. We’re still the only people eating.

“Do you have a jacket in the car?” I say to Beth.

“No. I thought this sweater would be warm enough, but it’s so drafty in here.”

“You picked this creep-o-rama,” Ryan says.

“Shut up,” Beth says.

“Be nice,” I say.

I take off my suit coat and wrap Beth’s shoulders. All four dining-room walls glow with dark, richly oiled wood. Gargoyles with fangs, claws, and bulging angry eyes watch us from all four cornices of the ornamental, hand-plastered ceiling. Truthfully, the monsters look a little dusty.

“Really, Pop. Did you see that waiter?” Ryan says.

“He’s just old,” I say. “People’s ears and noses never stop growing, you know. That’s why almost everybody looks funny when they get old.”

“You don’t look funny,” Ryan says.

Ouch. “Hey. I’m not old.”

Ryan and Beth glance at each other and giggle.

Outside, two pine trees have grown extra-tall, and two perfectly spaced lights shine at me through the forest. Looking out the window, the effect reminds me of giant ears and huge yellow eyes. Like a four-story cat peering at me. I shudder. Maybe Ryan’s right about this place. Creepy.

“What’s the matter, Daddy?” Beth says.

“Guess I’m cold, too.”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Ryan says.

Figures. One trip for every glass of Coke. “We passed the men’s room on the way in,” I say. “Near the front door.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Ryan takes off at a brisk walk. Iced tea does that to me. Or maybe it’s all liquids. I think the problem might be genetic as my old man was always using the toilet. Our family road trips were planned around the availability of clean public restrooms.

I watch Ryan tack toward the hallway. His shadow dances on the wall a moment after he disappears. I’m about to turn away when a huge second shadow flashes across the same wall. My heart skips when I recognize the profile.

“Ryan!” I jump to my feet and run.

Beth calling, “Daddy, what’s the matter?”

My daughter’s frightened. Behind me, her wavering voice cuts me, makes me want to turn back and comfort her. But I can’t. That second shadow looked like Bluefish’s oversized driver, Max.

The Creeper.

BIG MONEY, Chapter 9

A year ago, I didn’t have diddily squat. I lived in a pickup-mounted camper. My wages were garnished. I was thousands of dollars in debt, including overdue alimony and child-support payments. The ex-wife even had a restraining order preventing me from seeing our children. Very little to lose in those days. Taking risks came smooth and easy.

Now my support payments--all my bills--are current. I get Ryan and Beth every Wednesday night for dinner and again every other weekend. I can afford a two-bedroom apartment and a leased Toyota. More important, my ownership interest in Shore Securities could fund my kids’ college education, provided Carmela and I, the people we hire, run Shore as well as Mr. Vick did.

Point being, all of sudden I’ve got plenty to lose. That’s why I’m pushing Brooklyn Tony on Bluefish. I have no idea what happened to Rags after Tony dragged him out of Shore’s offices last week, but I know Rags hasn’t bothered me or Carmela since. Maybe Tony can pull off the same kind of disappearing act with Bluefish.


Tony examines me standing on his porch with the soft, confident brown eyes of a German Shepherd. Calm, relaxed, just inside the threshold of his home in Graves End, Brooklyn, Mister Handsome extends his paw for me. “Come on in.”

He practically lifts me inside with his giant mitt. Tony’s got on an extra-extra-large gray golf shirt and navy sweats, but there’s no missing the muscle beneath the loose cloth. This guy snatched me off the porch like I was the afternoon newspaper.

“Any trouble finding the place?” he says.

Across my shoulders, his hand weighs like a backpack loaded for an assault on Everest.

“No problem,” I say. “And I really appreciate you’re seeing me. I’m a little embarrassed coming for dinner.”

Tony’s body hardens like fast-drying glue. “Embarrassed?” His brown eyes narrow into a glare that fills my blood with adrenaline. Jesus. Is that what they call the prison stare? “What?” he says. “You got a problem coming to Grave’s End?”

Yipes. “Hell, no. I mean embarrassed about putting you out. Making your wife cook for me. I would have been happy to take you and the wife--”

“Oh.”

“--out to dinner.”

Using his hand like a puppeteer, Tony twists both our heads to greet a dark-haired young woman striding our way. She’s wearing a black skirt and a furry, sleeveless sweater with yellow and black horizontal stripes.

“Is this Vick’s friend Austin?” she says.

Tony saying, “My wife Gina.”

Mrs. Tony Farascio is a knockout. Long midnight hair, maybe ten or twelve inches past her shoulders. Huge, oval, yellow-flaked brown eyes. An ear-to-ear smile whose sincerity appears generated by an even bigger heart. The smile and the striped sweater remind me of honey bees and summer days. Sweet stuff, this Gina.

She offers her hand. “Austin.”

I give her the full-boat Carr grin when her fingers brush mine. I feel dizzy, spinning in a field of perfumed July flowers. Hey, wake up, Carr. Time to snap out of Gina’s spell before I erect myself a tower of trouble.

“Can I get you a drink?” she says.



“But Carmela’s doing okay?” Tony says. “That prick Ragsdale was a serious loser.”

“Was?”

“Slip of the tongue. I took him to the ‘splaining department is all, told him what might happen if he ever showed up again at Vick’s place.”

I nod, wondering if my boss Vick picked up the “splaining department joke from Tony, or visa versa. “Great. Thanks. No, Carmela’s doing fine. It’s this other thing with Bluefish why I called.”

Tony and I sip after-dinner sambucas in the Farascio’s downstairs playroom, a tennis-court-size basement with two bowling lanes, a pool table, a card table, a mini-theater with a big screen TV and recliners for eight, a juke box, a soda fountain, and enough cushioned perimeter seating for the Rutgers marching band.

“But you said Bluefish agreed to keep his end of bargain?” Tony says. “I don’t see the problem.”

“Neither I nor Luis trust him.”

Tony’s teeth crunch one of the three coffee beans floating in the sambuca. “I don’t personally know this guy Bluefish, but I heard of him. I don’t see him getting where he is in this world without keeping his word.”

“Even with people he’s about to kill?”

Tony grins. “You got a point there, pal.”

Gina calls from the top of stairs. “Telephone, Tony.”

I can’t see her, but I definitely remember what the touch of her hand did to my heart beat, the circulation in my extremities. Her voice makes me almost smell her.

Tony stands. “Let me check out a few things,” he says. “I’ll get back to yeah.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 8

Plenty of parking at the Mexican Grill when Luis bounces us back into his gravel lot. With no bartender to mix drinks for over an hour, Luis’s thirsty customers obviously sought refreshment elsewhere. In Branchtown, drinking loyalties have certain limits.

I’m breathing like a normal Labrador again as Luis flips off the engine. My heart-rate’s taken a dive, too. Probably down to a smooth one-eighty. Don’t think I was meant to aim guns at people. Or maybe it’s the dead-ass blank stare Bluefish just gave me. Gives me the passing thought I might be out of my league.

Luis swings his shoulders to confront Bluefish, holds up the car keys like a prize. “You will forget about the favors?”

Good thing I’ve got Luis, El Hombre. Now that man’s in a league of his own.

Bluefish nods, reaches for the keys. “Sure.”

Don’t know about Luis, but Bluefish’s tone and manner do not sate me with confidence. In fact, it’s impossible to even hope he’s telling the truth. Or maybe I’m just the skeptical type. Being a stockbroker, and all.

Bluefish’s fingers snatch air as Luis yanks the keys back. “I would be a fool to let you withdraw if you do not plan to keep your word.”

Guess Luis agreed with my zero reading of Bluefish’s Sincerity Meter. Bluefish better be careful what he says next, too. I know for a fact Luis has the stomach to kill.

“I’ll keep the bargain,” Bluefish says. “I’m pissed off, yeah, so maybe it don’t sound right. But I’ll forget about the favors, wait for Vick to get back.”

He tried that time. I have hope he might live up to his word. No confidence. Just hope. And actually, “forgetting about the favors” isn’t exactly “I won’t have someone shoot you in the head” either.

Luis gives him the keys to the Suburban.


Inside Luis’s Mexican Grill, my favorite bartender has drinks to make. Not everybody’s gone home. I cover a stool at the empty horseshoe bar, right under Luis’s collection of authentic caballista sombreros, order one of Umberto’s green chili burritos, sides of rice and beans, and a Dos Eques to wash it all down.

An hour later Umberto’s gone home and the last two customers, a middle-aged couple, are sipping coffee. Luis flips off the TV and begins to toss trash, wipe glasses, and towel the counter. When the bar’s clean and ready for tomorrow’s setup, Luis finds two shot glasses and pours us Herradura Gold. A nightcap of warriors. Actually, I guess I was more of a foil. Or maybe a prop. Poncho to Luis’s Cisco Kid.

We salute and drink.

“So Luis.”

“Si.”

“I’m starting to wonder if I was really meant to be a stockbroker.”

He grunts. “After tonight, it is not unreasonable to have suspicions.”

Luis makes a joke. Unbelievable. “I’m serious. I need to provide for my children, and right now this is where I can make the most money, have the best chance of scoring enough for their education. But is hawking stocks and bonds really what I was born to do? My life’s purpose?”

Luis pulls our glasses off the bar. Guess it’s just one nightcap tonight. “Only you can answer such a question. But I agree that a man should have purpose.”

“I have an old friend who’s a fireman,” I say. “Doesn’t get paid much, and he’s always arriving at the scene before the ambulance, trying to save or resuscitate the most horribly mangled accident victims. But he loves going to work every day because once or twice a shift he’s allowed to drive a giant red diesel truck as fast as he can. He loved racing cars as a kid. Now he loves racing fire trucks. It’s what he was born to do.”

Luis considers my tale. His long fingers are rinsing glasses, holding one up to the light now and then to check for smudges. “Your friend is a lucky man,” he says. “Also a wise one, I think. He knew his purpose when he encountered her.”

“How did he do that? Recognize it?”

“He realized it was a path with heart,” Luis says. “For the injured, and people in fires, it is important that your friend drive fast and drive well.”

“So because his purpose helps people in great need, it is a path with heart?”

“Si.”

“Unlike our Mr. Bluefish,” I say.

“Yes. Unlike our Mr. Bluefish.” Luis slides the shot glasses into a wooden rack over his head. “Have you given thought to what happened tonight?”

“I’m trying to block it out.”

“Do not,” Luis says. “This is a serious matter.”

I nod. “I know.”

“This man Bluefish will almost certainly try to kill us. Perhaps not right away. He would be wise to wait, let us think he has kept his word.”

“Sounds sneaky enough for Bluefish. Did you get a good look at that creep driving...before you changed the shape of his head, I mean?”

Luis ignores me, says, “We must make plans, take special care. Before this is over, we may decide killing Bluefish is our only protection.”

I pull my wallet, find the yellow scrap of paper Mr. Vick gave me Friday night. I show Luis Tony’s name and telephone number.

“Who is Tony?” Luis says.

“My boss said I should call him in case of trouble with his daughter. I did, and he took care of it. I bet he could take care of Bluefish, too.”

Luis switches off the beer signs. “Is this Tony a lawyer? Or a thug like Bluefish?”

“I don’t know.”

“It is of little consequence, I think. This matter must be settled between us and Bluefish.”

Luis is ready to close up. The old couple finish their tea. I’m not sure, but I think Luis may have himself a steady girlfriend these days.

I slide off the barstool. “You mean you and Bluefish will settle it, Luis. I’m not much of a fighter.”

Luis shakes his head. “This is not true, amigo. Myself, I am experienced with many weapons. My favorite is the switchblade, and I handle even the twelve-inch ones with great skill. Yet your words can be more cutting than my biggest knife. Austin Carr fights with his brain and his mouth. And he fights very well.”

Now that’s an interesting take on my Gift for Gab. I always saw my verbal proficiency as a shield, not a weapon. But who am I to argue with a Toltec warrior.

BIG MONEY, Chapter 7

The Suburban’s headlights slice through the inky air like white lasers, searching the blacktop gliding toward us. Pine and oak trees border both sides of the confined two-lane road, a thick black wall of forest. Above the treetops, a narrow strip of sky shimmers with stars.

I’m definitely getting nervous. The only thing keeping my heart rate below two-hundred per minute sits calmly beside me. Luis. Like Mr. T--the former TV star who claimed fame winning The World’s Greatest Bartender title--mi amigo Luis can handle anything.

The Suburban’s red-glow dash lights fire up the angled edges of Creeper’s profile. Almost inhuman, really. Cartoonish. Fiery colors. Trick imaging, yes, but I can’t shake the feeling he’s a monster driving me and Luis on some highway to hell.

Bluefish saying, “So, Max, tell the guys here about your first job. The one you had when you were thirteen.”

Bluefish thinks this is funny. He covers his mouth with his fingers. Call it a silly hunch, but I’m going out on a limb here. I predict this revelation about creepy Max’s teenage past is going to make me worry even more about Luis’s future.

“Max work with circus,” Creeper says. Talking about himself in the third person again, his voice is a crackling whisper. Broken glass thrown on sandpaper.

“No, tell them what you did for the circus,” Bluefish says.

“Max wrestle bears.”

Bluefish fakes a cough. “Notice he said ‘bears,’ guys. Not ‘bear.’”


The Suburban swings into a private driveway. Six-foot lengths of treated logs bridge the roadside ditch where water trickles through tall grass. A battered black-squirrel mailbox stands as wooden sentry. How cute, except the critter’s had his head shot off. The trees outside the SUV window are broken, gnarled, and twisted pine.

Seventy-five feet off the blacktop, the forest opens into a grassy clearing and a mulched playground for kids, with slides and jungle gym, and a parking lot big enough for a dozen cars. Three brick barbecues line one side of the parking area. Probably where Bluefish holds his company picnics. Buries his wives and girlfriends.

The Suburban rolls to a stop against the parking lot’s log boundary. Luis’s hand is locked onto the door handle, his gaze pinned on Creeper. Luis’s body language reminds me of a house cat. Watching Max like he’s a mouse.

Trouble is, I figure Creeper for more the Giant Rat of Sumatra.

Bluefish saying, “Do I even need to get out of the car, Max? I mean, how long could this take?”

I hear Max click a switch. All the Suburban’s doors pop free, and Luis is outside before I smell fresh air. Wow. I saw his hand move this quickly once, when some pachuko hoisted Luis by the collar and my favorite bartender went for his switchblade. But Luis’s whole body is a blur this time. Like that house cat, making his move.

Poking my head outside, I see over the SUV’s roof that Luis is loose and ready beside the Suburban’s flank while Max still squeezes from behind the wheel like some ugly brown gob of toothpaste.

When Luis kicks Max’s door, stomping on the hinged steel like he’s breaking down a locked vault, Luis times his explosion. He catches Max’s pumpkin-sized noggin just as Creeper’s face moves between the top of the Suburban’s door and the truck’s frame.

Ouch. The chunky sound of steel on Creeper’s thick head--like someone dropped a stick of butter--makes me wince.

Max staggers down to one knee, blood oozing from his temple. His body weaves, then tumbles face first onto the parking lot’s shredded bark. The earth shakes like somebody dropped a piano.

My heart’s drumming, hard rain on a cardboard roof. The two guys in suits scramble out of the Suburban’s rear seat, knocking me down, pushing past. They want Luis. One rushes around the grill, the other goes for the rear bumper. My lungs want more oxygen.

Luis stoops out of my view, then reappears like magic photography back inside the Suburban, scrambling into the driver’s seat. One hand extends a gun toward Bluefish’s head. Luis must have taken the weapon from Max. A tear of sweat rolls down my right flank.

I see Luis’s end game, at last, and jump back inside the Suburban. Same seat I had before, behind Bluefish. Damned if I don’t hear the hoot-hoot-hoot of a horned owl before I slam the door. Are the spirits with us?

Luis hits the override soon as my door shuts, locking the three of us inside. Luis grins as he hands me the gun. What an hombre. “Watch carefully Bluefish’s hands. If you lose sight of them, shoot.”

It would be my pleasure, I think. I’m no killer, but if Bluefish has another gun on him, and I don’t shoot when he goes for it, Luis and/or me could suffer serious and permanent injury.

No risk taker, however, Bluefish shows me the back of his hands, one poised by each ear. How sweet. He’s wearing his missing wife’s wedding band. Wonder if he’s still offering a reward.

I line up the muzzle with the back of Bluefish’s demented cerebellum.

The two guys in suits are hammering the windows and yanking on the doors. When that fails, they start shooting. Cracks appear on the window beside Luis’s head, but the bullets don’t penetrate. Wow. Bulletproof glass. I’m impressed with Bluefish’s defenses, and the fact Luis must have figured this out earlier. I remember him tapping the glass with his knuckles.

Luis throttles the Suburban into a bark-spewing K-turn.

Bluefish saying, “You humps are as good as dead.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 6

Bluefish’s black Chevy Suburban crunches gravel in Luis’s parking lot and then rolls quietly across the sidewalk into light traffic. Red dash lights cast a hellish glow on Bluefish and his doublewide driver, Max, who waited for us outside and had big trouble squeezing inside the SUV.

Max would have trouble squeezing inside a bus.

Luis and I are tucked in the Suburban’s middle row behind Max and Bluefish. From the jump seat behind us, Bluefish’s two pals in business suits press their semiautomatics against our necks.

“Here’s the deal,” Bluefish says. “Tom Ragsdale is a degenerate gambler. No one will take his action. But then your asshole boss Vick tells me he’ll guarantee his son-in-law’s bets. Okay, I know Vick a long time. I take his word. But a few months go by, and now this hump Ragsdale is into me for eighty-nine gees.”

“Rags and Vick’s daughter are getting divorced,” I say.

“So?”

“Well, I’m just saying. But no matter what, why is this my problem?”

Bluefish’s head turns back to the windshield. “Everybody tells me Vick’s coming back at the end of the summer. Maybe he does, maybe he doesn’t. In the meantime, I’m holding Vick’s share of Shore as collateral, meaning you and your big mouth friend are going to do me a couple of favors.”

The Suburban turns off Broad St. at Newman Springs Road and heads toward the Garden State Parkway. Every other building is a gas station or a liquor store. Guess people who work in Branchtown like to fuel up before the big ride home.

“Carr, you’re going to open an account for me at Shore Securities, help manage my money.”

Luis raps his window with soft knuckles, listening at the glass. He silently tests the door handle, too. It’s locked. The driver Max must have switched on his override. Is my favorite bartender considering a bailout?

“Sounds painless,” I say to Bluefish, “but a few months from now you’ll want Shore to accept bags of cash, or stolen negotiable securities. I know how this crap works. It’s why Mr. Vick never opened an account for you all the time he’s known you.”

Luis’s hand tests the door handle again. Hope to hell he doesn’t leave me in here alone. Double hell. That driver Max makes my skin creep. His head is the size of a jack-o-lantern, his back and shoulders like a rhino.

“What favor do you ask of me?” Luis says.

“Liquor distribution,” Bluefish says. “I got a company in Philly would like to supply your restaurant.”

“No,” Luis says.

Bluefish’s head drops to his chest. Very expressive, this bookie. I should introduce him to Walter. “This ain’t no negotiation, asshole, you and me going back and forth. Do what you’re fuckin’ told or I bury both of you alive in the pine barrens.”

He nods out the window. We’re on the Parkway headed south now. Manicured lines of scrub pine, oak, and maple trees border both north and south lanes. Another fifteen or twenty miles, the forest turns shorter and wilder. Nothing but scrub pine.

“Perhaps there is a third choice,” Luis says. “A contest. Myself against your driver.”

Turning to us, Bluefish’s eyebrows jump halfway to his receding hairline. “You want a piece of Max? That’s your genius solution?” Bluefish shakes his head. “You come across as smart, too, although maybe I was fooled ‘cause you don’t talk much. But no, I see no benefit. I’ve got what I want right now.”

“What if I agree to include a one-quarter interest in the restaurant itself--in addition to my liquor business?” Luis says.

Wow. My man is feeling confident. Is Luis in possession of material facts of which I am unaware? Maybe something to do with that door handle?

“Hey, I’m impressed,” Bluefish says. “How about you, Carr? You’re not going along with this dumb idea, are you?”

I’ve never gone wrong trusting Luis yet. El Hombre. He’s got a mean plan, I know it.

“Sure I’m going along,” I say. “Here’s my offer: Max wins, you get your new account at Shore, plus I’ll agree to launder cash for you, say $100,000 a month.”

Bluefish scratches his narrow chin. “Your actually making this tempting.” He sighs. “Max? What do you think?”

A bus zooms by in the fast lane, a steel box loaded with senior citizens and their rolls of slot change headed for Atlantic City. Max, The Creeper, shrugs. As if the Suburban went over a small bump.

“Max stomp him,” Max says.

Bluefish says, “Hmm. So what’s the rules, Pedro?”

“No weapons,” Luis says. “The fight will continue until there is only one man still able to fight.”

“Sounds like a waste of time,” Bluefish says. “Max?”

The driver’s huge head bounces up and down maybe an inch. My pulse ticks much higher than that. This duel is going to happen. Luis versus The Creeper. A ball of imaginary grease rolls around my stomach.

“Max stomp him quick,” Max says.

Bluefish stares out the car window. “Well, why the hell not.”

“If I win, you will forget about these so-called favors?” Luis says.

Bluefish shrugs. “If you win? Right. Turn off at the next exit, Max. I can’t look down at a fifty-dollar-bill lying on the sidewalk and not pick it up.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 5

One week later, I’m grabbing a stool at the bar of Luis’s Mexican Grill, anxious to eat a couple of Chef Umberto’s green-chili burritos for dinner, when the world’s greatest bartender comes over and leans across the counter.

“Do you know this man?” Luis whispers. His head tilts, indicating I should look in the direction of the corner booth nearest the kitchen.

I follow Luis’s gaze. Looks like...it is, Joseph “Bluefish” Pepperman. Dining with two business-types, although now that I look a tad closer, both of his friends maybe a little too athletic and solid under the suits, ties, and starched white collars. Imported muscle.

“Anybody who bets in Branchtown knows Bluefish,” I say. “I’ve never seen him in here before, though. Have you?”

Luis shrugs. “No, he has never been here before this afternoon.”

Luis wears his usual black slacks and white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. My friend’s high forehead and aquiline nose tell of European descent, but his black penetrating eyes and high cheek bones give him a distinct Native American quality as well.

“Did Bluefish say something to you?” I ask.

“No. But his arrival encouraged several of my customers to abandon their dinner plans. I believe he has more of an interest in you, does he not?”

“What? Has he been staring at me or something?”

“As soon as you walked in,” Luis says.

When I tasted how oily fillet of bluefish was, maybe at a fish fry two years ago, I figured it must be Bluefish’s greasy appearance that earned the local bookie his nickname. The black silk shirts. The slicked back hair. The man definitely sports a slippery quality that seems to match the oily taste of the fish.

Bluefish catches me looking. Slowly, he nods his long narrow head at me in recognition.

But Bluefish’s nickname has nothing to do with oil or grease I learned last year from my friend at the Newark Herald-Examiner.

“You ever see swimmers called out of the Jersey surf by the lifeguards because of a boiling mass of fish?” my friend said.

“Last summer. Somebody said it was a school of bluefish.”

“I don’t know if the bluefish are in a frenzy because they’re eating something smaller, or because they’re being eaten by something bigger,” my friend said. “I never asked because I figured it didn’t matter. It’s the way the school acts that got Bluefish his nickname.”

“Violent, you mean?”

“Out of control.”

Glad I remembered that now. And truly glad that except for the ponies once in a while, I don’t gamble.

This is all doubly good because, now that I’ve noticed them, Branchtown’s minor-league version of a New York goon squad leaves the table and strolls around the bar in my direction. Another doubly good thing: I met Bluefish once at a restaurant in Spring Lake. Mr. Vick, who was taking me and some guys to dinner after a round of golf, told us he knew Bluefish from high school.

“Hey, Carr,” Bluefish says. He offers his hand.

I’m surprised he remembers my name. There were four or five of us at the dinner table that night. The guy must have taken a Dale Carnegie class. I slide off my stool and shake. “Nice to see you again, Mr. Pepperman.”

He slaps my shoulder like an old drinking buddy. “Call me Bluefish.”

Luis saying, “It is not good for my business that you are here.”

Luis leans across the dark horseshoe bar, staring at Bluefish, showing all of us that windy Halloween look in his eyes I’ve only seen once or twice before.

“I would like you and your friends to leave,” Luis says.

Thanks, Luis. Trying to get me killed?

Bluefish’s two sidekicks slide up quietly beside their bookie boss, creating a wall to screen us from most of the restaurant. Bluefish’s men unbutton their Italian sports coats and show us the pistols stuffed in their belts.

Luis may have to reconsider his poor hospitality.

Across the room, a young woman leads her table in sharp laughter. The TV behind the bar blares spring-training baseball highlights. The restaurant’s familiar onion, cilantro, and simmering chili smells seem suddenly sharp and pungent. My pulse is up. What the hell is it with me and guns? Suddenly, they’re a major part of my life.

“Are you leaving?” Luis says. “Or will I call the police?”

I grew up in the eastern, Mexican-American section of Los Angeles. Ever since grammar school I’ve admired the code of honor and fierce pride with which so many Hispanics are raised. Simply put, my favorite bartender is an hombre. You feel safe drinking at his bar, but I hope Luis doesn’t think the switchblade he carries in his back pocket matches him up with those two semiautomatics I saw.

“We’re happy to leave,” Bluefish says. “Your food looks like runny dog shit. However, Pedro, you’re coming with us. I think your big mouth has earned you a spot next to Carr in my back seat. Get your ass out from behind the bar.”

Luis’s face hardens into wood. “I have customers. I will not leave my place of business.”

Bluefish’s men aim their pistols at my head.

BIG MONEY, Chapter 4

I’m in Mr. Vick’s mahogany-paneled private office, one hand on the boss’s previously locked and out-of-bounds liquor cabinet, the other on an unopened bottle of forty-year-old bourbon, when I hear Carmela scream.

I have to say, my first thought is Carmela’s seen a mouse. The scream is high-pitched, sort of squeaky, and I expect there’s a little smile on my face when I reach Vick’s office doorway to check the scene out. But it’s not a mouse chasing Carmela down the center isle of Shore’s half-staffed big sales room. It’s a rat--Carmela’s estranged husband and Shore’s ex-sales manager, Tom Ragsdale. More surprising, shocking even, Rags is wielding a steak knife. My old boss and nemesis is pretty fast, too.

Probably the only way to catch him is to step on his tail.

Breaking into a run, and spotting no other available appendages, I dive for his legs. I’m not really the hero type, but Rags’s small and demented brain seems completely focused on catching Carmela. Plus, I personally owe this bastard plenty. Before he turned his life over to booze, drugs, and gambling, Rags actually ran me down last year with his Jaguar.

My shoulder makes perfect contact with his knee, a classic, all-pro tackle, and we tumble together in a ball of fists and elbows, crashing against the bottom of Bobby G’s desk bordering the main aisle. High school football coaches everywhere would be proud of my form.

My ears await the rush of cheers and accolades from the dwindling, late Monday afternoon sales staff as I push up onto my hands and knees. But the only sound I hear are gasps.

What? Did my pants fall down?

Nope. It’s Rags, up much faster than me.

As I’m still scrambling to my feet, Rags grabs Carmela, rips a bond calculator from the top of Bobby G’s desk, then wraps the machine’s electric cord around Carmela’s neck.

“Back off, sucker,” Rags says, “or I’m going to recalculate Carmela’s yield to maturity.”



“Tony?”

“Yeah?”

I decided to call Brooklyn. It’s what Mr. Vick told me to do, and except for lining up left-to-right-breaking putts, and maybe right-to-left ones as well, Mr. Vick’s past advice has proven...well, not bad.

“My name’s Austin Carr, Tony. My partner Vick Bonacelli said I should call you if his daughter’s jilted husband came back and caused trouble.”

“Jelly what?”

“Jilted. Carmela’s husband. He’s here.”

“Vick’s in trouble?”

This guy Tony sounds like major mental midget. Hope it’s just a bad first impression. “No, his daughter Carmela’s in trouble. Vick’s in Italy.”

“Right. Uh...what’s going on...exactly?”

I shake my head at the phone, then glance at Rags. He’s had Carmela inside the big glass conference room for five minutes now. The door’s locked and that black electric cord still winds tight around Carmela’s neck like a snake. Maybe I should have called the police instead of this Tony guy, but Rags appears very scary. Beady, drug-zapped eyes. Oily sweaty skin. I’m afraid he could be too much for local law enforcement. Besides, the boss Mr. Vick told me to call Brooklyn, not the cops.

“Hey, Carr. I’m waiting here,” Tony says.

“Sorry. I was just taking a look. Right this second, Rags is holding Carmela hostage inside our conference room. He has an electric cord wrapped around her throat. I don’t know what to do.”

“Did he say what he wants?” Tony says.

“A hundred grand to pay off some gambling debt. Says it’s a loan against the stock in Shore he’s signing over to Carmela as part of their divorce settlement. The split’s not a done-deal yet, so he thinks he’s got leverage.”

“Okay, that’s good. That’s very good. Tell him someone’s on the way with the hundred thousand.”

“You want me to tell him you’re going to give him the money?”

“That’s what I said, right? Now get in there, tell him what I told you. And make sure he knows he doesn’t get the money if he hurts Carmela.”

Tony’s confidence is not catching, but it does somewhat relieve my first impression. He sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. Perhaps he has experience with unwrapping cords from people’s necks.

“But how can I stall him for hours while you get the money, then drive down from Brooklyn?” I say.

“This is a cell phone, sunshine. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t worry ‘bout the cash.”



Handsome man, Tony Farascio. Six-foot-plus. Wide shoulders. That Mediterranean-dusky thing, onyx-black hair with a beard heavy enough to sprout five o’clock shadows at breakfast. But also with delicate features; chin, nose, and cheekbones like a movie star. George Clooney pretty.

Through the conference-room glass, I watch Tony show my ex sales manager what’s inside his New York Giants sports bag. I’m guessing the contents must look like a hundred grand because Rags pushes Carmela closer to the glass and reaches to unlock the solid oak door.

I hold my breath.

Tony glances over his shoulder to make sure I’ve emptied the office of potential witnesses, then kicks the just-unlocked door in on Rags. I hear and feel the thud of the collision. Carmela goes flying, too.

Tony is inside instantly, ripping the calculator from Rags and freeing Carmela.

By the time I rush in, the skirmish is over. Rags moans on the floor. Carmela’s crying, but standing off in a neutral corner. Tony digs in his pocket.

“Bring my car around back,” Tony says.

He tosses me his keys. My hand drops from the weight of the catch. Must be fifteen or twenty keys on this NY Giants ring.

“It’s the dark blue Town Car out front,” he says.

Flat on his back, Rags kicks at Tony’s crotch. It’s wild, and pretty much telegraphed. He misses, Rags’s Gucci-shoed foot barely scraping the bigger man’s thigh.

Tony raises his fist and pops Rags hard in the forehead.

“Don’t hurt him,” Carmela says.

Too late for that, Carmela. Your hubby’s eyes are rolling back into his head as we speak. He’s unconscious and probably has a concussion.

Tony nods to me. “Get my car.”

“What are you going to do with him?” I say.

Tony grins. “Don’t worry ‘bout it. Let’s just say I’m going to relocate his ass. Like one of your dangerous New Jersey black bears.”

BIG MONEY, Chapter 1

First, a little pre-weekend update: TGE, my Hot Tip #1, looks like the tout special I worried about Monday when we made the buy. The stock is down 90 cents, the account off about $100, including commissions. No news. No volume, except regular waves of selling. The Hot Tipper is ducking my calls. I feel like selling this turkey before we lose more than 10% of our assets. (I'm not putting any MORE cash in hot tips.) But I said I'd give TGE the week and I'm going to work my plan. Maybe we'll get lucky.

It's Friday. I have to post another installment of TFA's upcoming novel, BIG MONEY, coming February, 2008. TFA said I have to run the prologue again, too--although Jennifer Crusie and other people hate them--because this particular prologue is what makes the story a mystery. (TFA's not kidding, either. If you don't read the prologue to BIG MONEY, or BIG NUMBERS for that matter, you don't know what the mystery IS.) Oh, and remember when I said I wouldn't post any LONG passages? I lied.

If you read the prologue last week, of course, just scroll down to chapter one.

PROLOGUE

Maybe it’s only a ghost.

The lady’s two-story house ranks as ancient, so it’s no surprise the pine floorboards creak. But do I detect a certain rhythm...as in footsteps? Hope I didn’t make too much noise going through her dirty laundry.

I lean back on the blood red living-room sofa and hold my breath to listen. A grandfather clock tick-tocks in the foyer. The oil-burning basement heater pops and rumbles. And yes, there...bare or stocking feet pad quickly toward me down the hall. My heart rate ratchets up to match the hurried footfalls.

I stuff the DVD under my laptop and work hard to put on my three-o’clock-in-the-morning, full-boat Carr grin. Not exactly a simple trick. And definitely not sincere. I mean, how am I supposed to be calm and forthright when this DVD suggests last night’s love interest may not be the innocent beauty I imagined?

In truth, the lady headed this way could be a killer.

Clever of me to wake her up.

I don’t mention her name because...well, gentlemen do not identify their secret lovers, not even by pet handles. And seeing her march out of the murky hall into the living area’s yellowish lamplight strongly suggests the need for a new nickname anyway.

I gasp. Oh, my. And oops. Oh my because she’s wearing nothing but white athletic socks. And oops because she’s using both hands and all ten red-nailed fingers to grasp a pump-action, single-barrel shotgun.

“You found the DVD, didn’t you?” Ms. Shotgun says.

“DVD?” If it wasn’t for rhyming consonants, I’d be pretty much speechless. My gaze is tightly focused on her bare breasts and that shotgun in the same close-up. Visually and emotionally, it’s a lot to absorb.

Her right foot slides back, toes out. Improving her balance. “I know you found it,” she says. “Wrapped in my black beach dress.”

My lips move without sound. I suppose my throat might be choked with fear, but I’d rather think I’m distracted by the long curve of Ms. Shotgun’s hip, the loose weight of her breasts swinging below the carved gun stock.

Watch me get a boner.

“I just checked the bathroom,” Ms. Shotgun says. “You rifled the hamper, found the black dress. So...you’ve got my DVD.”

I try taking a deep breath. On tough stock and bond clients, this often works as a show of calm sincerity. “I swear I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She racks a shell into the shotgun’s firing chamber.

My pledge of innocence must have lacked conviction.

I lift my iBook and offer her the DVD. My heart ticks to an even quicker time. My ego slips a notch. Time was, the full-boat Carr grin and a reasonable lie got me through bumpy spots with naked women.

My heart’s really thumping now, but I probably don’t have to worry anymore about that possible erection.

“Play it,” she says. “We’ll solve the murder together.”

I slide the silver disk into my Mac and wonder if I’m really going to view what the Branchtown Sun calls the “MISSING HOTEL MURDER VIDEO.” Like smoking, this feels very unhealthy.

The DVD’s first images show a thirty-ish woman primping her hair before a gilded oval mirror. Oh, my. I recognize her all right. The happy smile fooled me.

“Don’t you want to fast-forward?” Ms. Shotgun says. “Get right to the choking and burning?”

On screen, the doomed victim cracks open her hotel-room door. Until tonight, I would have been surprised by what I see next: Ms. Shotgun’s digital image rushes inside, pushing violently into the startled hotel guest and knocking her onto the carpet.

I turn from the laptop. “So it was you.”

Ms. Shotgun raises the pump-action level with my nose.

And I thought my future looked shitty last month.



CHAPTER ONE

One Month Earlier...

The big thing about my pal Walter Osgood, Shore Securities’ biggest producer, he’s like a kid when it comes to his feelings. He just can’t hide them. So when I walk into Luis’s Mexican Grill, see Walter at the bar and notice his every other breath is a sigh, that he’s clutching his Gray Goose like a soldier with a ticket to Iraq, I know Walter’s worried about seeing me.

He’s got news I’m not going to like.

Great. A fitting end to a wonderful week. I’ve been taking it hard in the wallet, even harder in the shorts. Ever since Monday morning’s annual appointment with the New York urologist.

The name’s Austin Carr, by the way. Since my Series Seven stockbroker’s license is temporarily suspended, instead of Senior Financial Consultant, the slick business cards in my wallet say I’m a Special Management Adviser to Shore Securities, Inc., Members of the American Assn. of Securities Dealers. In truth, I am really just a salesman--like Walter--and I work for myself. Straight commission.

If we don’t sell, we don’t eat.

I slide in next to Walter at Luis’s horseshoe bar and touch the slick Gucci material covering my buddy’s shoulder. “What the hell’s bothering you?”

Another sigh from Shore Securities’ number one producer of commission dollars. A bit girlish if you ask me. Maybe I’ve been living in Central New Jersey too long, but I find myself fighting an urge to smack him.

A lot of us stockbrokers call ourselves investment counselors, or if we have a license to sell insurance, too, then we’re financial planners. We like to wear two-thousand-dollar suits, carry leather attaché cases, and think of ourselves as professionals, like doctors, lawyers. But really we’re more like car salesmen.

“You worried about the business?” I say to Walter. “We’ll be okay without Mr. Vick. Carmela and I can take care of his accounts, keep the numbers coming.”

Walter and I agreed to meet here after work, tune up before Mr. Vick’s Friday night dockside farewell party in Atlantic Highlands. Shore’s boss, Vick Bonacelli, sails with his family tomorrow for Tuscany. Only his daughter Carmela refused to go. She’s staying behind to help me run Shore.

“Carmela’s just like her old man,” I say. “Slick on the phone.”

Walter shakes his head.

I like to ruminate over the shortcomings of my profession with double margaritas and a positive setting: Luis’s Mexican Grill on Broad Street in Branchtown. The decor reminds me of home, the east side of Los Angeles, and Luis, the owner-slash-bartender, is mi amigo.

“Shore’s a dead puppy without Vick,” Walter says. “You know it better than I do.”

My jaw stiffens. “Whoa, Walter. Things aren’t that bad. A couple of lousy months.”

“Shore’s toast,” he says.

I lean forward, make him look directly at me. I need to see those expressive blue eyes. If Walter really believes Shore isn’t going to survive, then I can easily guess the nature of tonight’s bad news.

“You’re leaving?” I say.

Walter nods.

Shit. “Today was your last day?”

He nods again, then bumps his shoulder against mine. “You know how this friggin’ business is,” he says. “Two minutes after I’m gone, the back office is passing out my accounts and my old best friends are telling my clients I ran off with my twelve-year-old babysitter.”

Luis’s Mexican Grill is Friday-night packed, loud and oblivious. Walter still has his voice set on whisper.

“This way,” he says, “I’ve got a weekend to prepare my clients for your assault.”

Except for math, science, history, and geography, Walter’s no dummy. Guaranteed he’s been tenderizing his good clients about this move for weeks.

“You’re a part owner, Walter. You have a piece of Shore. Why would you throw that away after only a few bad months?”

When he shakes his head this time, not a hair moves. Walter Osgood pays a hundred bucks per styling. “Shore’s lost money every month since we bought in,” he says. “With Vick leaving town, this A.A.S.D. investigation, Sunny and Doppler taking a walk...the red numbers can only get worse, Austin. I’m bailing.”

Sunny was a complainer and Doppler spent his days distressed over potential bad weather. They’ve had a pissy attitude since Mr. Vick sold me, Carmela’s now-estranged husband Tom Ragsdale, and Walter half of Shore’s stock.

“Are you worried about this A.A.S.D. investigation?” I say. “Is that why you’re leaving?”

“No,” Walter says. “I’m leaving because Jaffy Ritter Clark is handing me a check for $450,000 when I show up for work Monday. But if I were you, I’d worry what that A.A.S.D. cutie might dig up on Shore Securities marketing practices. Remember that St. Louis bond default last year? Mr. Vick’s sales contest?”

My hand turns Walter’s shoulder to make him look at me again. “You’re leaving me, Vick, and Carmela dead in the water, man. Without your numbers, we ARE in trouble. Can’t you give it another six months?”

Walter’s pale blue eyes turn cold on me. “What’s going to change?”

Next Friday, Chapter 2