Saratoga Payback Page 3

  Charlie had known Mickey for six years, but he knew few details about his life. When he had arrived in Saratoga no one was sure where he’d come from; one man said he’d heard Mickey had been in prison, another said he had originally come from Cleveland. Charlie hadn’t cared one way or the other until he had found himself caught up in Mickey’s general slander.

  Standing at Mickey’s table, Charlie tried to force his face into a genial but modest expression. “You’re making too much noise, Mickey. Tone it down, okay?” Even from five feet away, Charlie had caught a whiff of his urinous breath. Perhaps that was why Mickey had never married. It made Charlie a little sorry for him.

  “Fuck that business, Charlie,” said Mickey loudly. “I got as much right to talk as anybody.”

  The young woman stared down at her plate, on which was an uneaten T-bone. She looked miserable.

  “Of course you’ve a right to talk,” said Charlie. “You just don’t need to bother everybody else.”

  Mickey looked angrily around the room. “Just show me one person who doesn’t like it.”

  “Come on, Mickey, let’s just go,” said the woman.

  Belatedly, Charlie saw that Mickey was drinking a double whiskey, with an empty whiskey glass to one side of it. Taking his time, he sat down at Mickey’s table and began fishing through his pockets for his cell phone. Though he’d carried a cell phone for a few years, he still hadn’t gotten used to it, so when it rang he was never sure which pocket it was in. Finding it, Charlie set the phone before him on the white tablecloth.

  “You driving, Mickey?”

  Mickey had looked at the phone, but didn’t speak.

  “You ever have a DUI? They make you go to a bunch of AA meetings now. If you’re good, you get your license back after a year. In the meantime, you’d have to ride a bike or ask friends to give you a lift. I’d keep it down, Mickey. You never know who might make a call. There must be a lot of people here fed up with your noise.” Charlie had counted to five, retrieved his phone and got to his feet. “See you around.”

  But that hadn’t been quite true. Mickey and the woman soon left and Charlie had never seen him again. Alive, that is. He’d heard, however, that Mickey’s real estate and insurance office wasn’t doing well and some people wondered where his money came from. That was a problem with a small town, especially out of tourist season. Nosiness. The scrutinizing conversations that helped pass winter evenings in a local bar—so-and-so’s divorce or a kid arrested for smoking grass or an inheritance from Uncle Cedric—had occasionally focused on Mickey. Where did his money come from? It made Charlie wonder, in a casual way, if Mickey had really been in prison. It hadn’t been a big question, not big enough to do anything about it, but now Mickey had been murdered on Charlie’s front walk and idle speculations were no longer idle.

  —

  Charlie had been asleep for half an hour when, at eight fifteen, there was a crash at the bedroom door and his friend Victor Plotz stumbled into the room, having jumped to avoid the cat, Twinkle, that had scuttled between his feet just past the upstairs landing. These days Victor sometimes carried a cane as a concession to his sore knees, so when Charlie woke, the first thing he saw was Victor leaping toward the bed with the cane upraised.

  “What’s up?” he asked. After all, he’d known Victor a long time and it wouldn’t have occurred to him that he was under attack, though he was glad Janey had already left for work at the hospital.

  Stumbling forward, Victor half turned and sat down heavily on the bed, sat down in fact on Charlie’s feet. Charlie pulled them out from beneath his friend. “I said, what are you doing?”

  Victor wiped his brow. “You know it’s against the law to let cats run between people’s legs. The FBI could easily confiscate your cat.”

  “Then they’ll have to deal with Emma. It’s her cat.” Charlie didn’t feel like swapping jokes so early in the morning. His eyes felt stuck together.

  Victor took several deep breaths. During his middle and late middle age, his hair had resembled a gray dandelion clock, but as he’d moved toward seventy, the clock had grown somewhat patchy. Accordingly, Victor now shaved his head, which made his baldness appear his own choice rather than nature’s. In addition, he had joined a concept gym called Nietzsche’s and wore a white sweatshirt with a drawing of the philosopher over the motto “What does not kill me makes me stronger.” Bulked up and bald, he no longer looked like a senior citizen but a lifer in Attica with a lot of time in the weight room. Even his round plum of a nose looked different; it looked like a weapon.

  “So what’s with the yellow cop tape? You kill somebody or was it Dave Parlucci?”

  “What’s Parlucci have to do with it?” Charlie swung his feet to the floor and felt for his slippers. Unless he could grab a nap in the afternoon, he knew he’d get no more sleep that day.

  “He’s why I’m here. I did a bad thing just because I was trying to glom a girl’s tits.”

  “What sort of bad thing?” Charlie’d had experience with Victor’s bad things. The two men sat side by side—Charlie in his pajamas and Victor in his Nietzsche sweatshirt.

  “I saw Parlucci in the Parting Glass. He wanted to know where you lived and thought you were still out at the lake. I wasn’t going to tell him. I mean, I’d have asked you first. But he said you’d lent him a hundred bucks and he wanted to pay it back.”

  “You kidding? I’d never lend him money. He’d drink it or put it up his nose.”

  “He said he’d needed to buy tires for his truck and you helped him out.” Victor’s voice began to contain elements of complaint.

  “I don’t believe he has a truck. Last time I saw him he was on foot. Anyway, I’ve never lent him a cent.”

  “So I did a bad thing. I’m just saying I did it and I’m sorry.”

  “I wonder why Parlucci wanted to know where I lived.”

  “Beats me. So was he killed out on your sidewalk or not?”

  “No, it was Mickey Martin.”

  “Old Piss-breath? You kidding?”

  Charlie grimaced. “You’re the one who kids; I’m the one who endures.”

  “Hey, don’t get trendy on me, who killed him?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Are you up to your old tricks? You know what the DA said about playing detective.”

  “Really, I don’t know anything about it. I was taking out the trash around three thirty and there was Mickey with his throat cut on my sidewalk.”

  “You tell the cops you were taking out the trash at three thirty in the morning?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “And did they roll their eyes? Why were you taking out the trash at three thirty?”

  So Charlie told him, describing each minute, beginning with waking abruptly at three thirty, as he remembered his need to take out the trash, to the arrival of the police and his realization that the two maples between the sidewalk and the street belonged to him and Janey together.

  By this time Victor had moved to a rocking chair across the room. “That’s great, Charlie. Your very own maples. Have you given them names? I’ve always thought Melvin was a good name for a maple, Melvin and Marcus, the Maple boys. So what was Mickey doing here?”

  “I don’t know, but the police will find out. There’ll be no lack of suspects.”

  Victor wasn’t convinced. “That might be the problem, sorting through the people with a grudge against him. You’re not planning to ‘poke around,’ as you call it?”

  Charlie gave a slight laugh. “I’m a different person these days.” He wondered if Victor believed him. Actually, he wondered if he believed himself. Victor was staring at Charlie as if he had said the earth was flat.

  “And you’re not curious?”

  “Not really, no. I’ll wait to read about it in the paper.”

  “He must have wanted to talk
to you about something and, considering the time he was showing up, it must have been important.”

  “Maybe.”

  “He probably wanted your help.”

  “That’s possible.”

  “And you’ve no curiosity.”

  “Only mildly.”

  “Have you upped your dosage of antidepressants?”

  Charlie got up and put on his robe. “I’m not taking antidepressants.”

  “Then maybe you should, though they can play hell with your sex life. So Mickey can get killed on your sidewalk while engaged in a post-midnight mission and you’ve got no desire to find out why? You’ll just wait for The Saratogian to enlighten you with its limpid prose?”

  “That’s about it.”

  “Jesus, you’re full of shit. What are you, a eunuch?”

  “Victor, I’m out of that world. I’m just a regular citizen.”

  “What about Parlucci?”

  “What about him? He knows where I live, thanks to you. If he wants to contact me, he’s free to do it.”

  Victor looked at his friend with disappointment. “Maybe he never meant to contact you. Have you thought of that? Maybe he was finding out where you lived for Mickey. I’ve seen those two together more than once. Parlucci did some work for Mickey now and then, fixing up houses that Mickey was trying to sell. I bet that’s how it happened. Mickey wanted to talk to you and he asked Parlucci to find out where you lived.”

  “Victor, slow down. Can’t you see? I don’t care. It’s up to Hutchins to figure it out. Not me. Let’s go downstairs and get some coffee. You want eggs?”

  “I’m not supposed to eat eggs. Just coffee’s fine. You know, this isn’t like you.”

  Charlie led the way to the kitchen, which got the morning sun through a pair of large windows, each with a shelf for flowerpots containing red bougainvillea. Straggly and with few blossoms, they reached up over the curtain rod and then dangled down so the sun shone through their leaves. Janey had made a pot of coffee before she left and Charlie poured a cup for Victor.

  “Did you see much of Mickey?” asked Charlie.

  “Socially? I avoided him like genital warts. He told people I was sponging off Rosemary, pawning her trinkets to buy scratch tickets. Not only does the lady get my Social Security check, but she’s also taken charge of my so-called nest egg. The fact is, the Queen of Softness puts me on an allowance and if it weren’t for one or two hidden, but trifling, checking accounts, I’d hardly have a dime. But sponging? Far from it. I’d see Mickey in the Parting Glass or around town, but he could take a simple hello and twist it into the claim that you were part of the bunch that bumped off Abe Lincoln.”

  Charlie laughed. They were sitting at a yellow Formica table. Victor tore open two small bags of sweetener and poured them into his cup. “He used to say I was a blackmailer,” said Charlie. “He said that’s what I did as a PI, that I scraped together bits of embarrassing information that people paid me not to reveal. Then a year ago I heard he’d told people I was in trouble for improper conduct with my stepdaughters, though he never said what it was. He’d just let the statement hang and let people guess what they wanted. I had a conversation with him.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Well, I was cross.”

  “I can imagine. What did you say?”

  “I promised to have his knees broken.”

  Victor whistled. “Impressive. Would you have done it?”

  “No, no, of course not. At least I don’t think so. I just felt I needed to talk to him in language he’d understand. In any case, he stopped spreading that particular story.”

  “So the cops might put you on their list of suspects?”

  “Maybe, but why kill him on my own front walk?”

  “To make it seem someone else had killed him. It’d be the perfect place.”

  Charlie poured Victor another cup of coffee and then filled his own cup as well. “Actually, I never thought Mickey’s slander had much point behind it. He slandered the way other guys talk about baseball.”

  Victor wasn’t so sure. “Nah, it was mean. He was a bully and he wrecked some lives. And I guess he did some of the blackmail he accused you of. I’m not a fan of murder, but I’m glad I won’t be seeing him anymore.”

  “You really think it was Parlucci who told Mickey where I live?”

  “Stands to reason, doesn’t it? They were cut from the same mold.”

  “I’ve always found stuff that ‘stands to reason’ can lead to a lot of unnecessary trouble.” Charlie got to his feet. He’d remembered several blueberry muffins were in the bread box. “Would you like a muffin?”

  “Jesus, Charlie, I can’t eat that stuff anymore. Besides my knees, the doctor says I’m nearly cheek to jowl with diabetes.”

  “No ice cream?” Charlie couldn’t imagine Victor without ice cream.

  “I’ve been eating this stuff that’s got no sugar and no fat.”

  Charlie was skeptical. “How does it taste?”

  “Like medicine, but really good medicine. The doctor keeps telling me I got to eat more fodder.”

  “You mean fiber?”

  “That’s it. Beans and grains. But it fucks with my pipes. Last week it jammed me up for three days. When I finally made it to the crapper, I dropped a turd the size of a nuclear submarine. I felt I should’ve snapped a photo, but I flushed it nonetheless. Then there was strange stirring in the water and a rat poked up its paw waving a white flag of surrender.”

  Three

  The horse’s head lay on the black leather seat of a BMW 760 with its neck propped up on the armrest. Blood had run into the sedan’s controller, and had then pooled and dried in the two burnished metal cup holders. The horse’s head was also black with a black mane so, in a perverse way, it seemed meant to match the car’s interior. The cut was ragged and Charlie guessed it had been done with a chain saw. He placed the photograph back on the desk and picked up another.

  This head had been set inside a child’s crib, though no child was in evidence. A dark stain of blood had spread across the blankets with Disney images of Pooh Bear, Piglet and Eeyore. The horse’s head was chestnut with a white splash on its brow and a dark mane. Its muzzle was squashed against the bars at the top of the crib, while the severed neck was pressed up against the bars at the bottom, fitting the crib as neatly as a foot in a sneaker.

  “Was a child in the crib when they stuck the head in there?” asked Charlie.

  Sitting across the desk from Charlie, Fletcher Campbell leaned forward to look at the photograph. “Fortunately not. They were visiting friends in Cold Harbor and the maid had the night off.”

  The third picture showed a horse’s head wedged on the top of a flagpole in front of a large stone house with a green mansard roof. The pole stood in a grassy area surrounded by a circular drive. The head was tilted to the left and blood had run down the pole. Charlie guessed the pole was about twenty feet tall—a gray horse’s head facing away from the house like a macabre weather vane, facing, presumably, anyone driving up the driveway.

  Charlie put the picture back on the desk. “How’d they get it up there?”

  “The cops weren’t sure. A crane would have attracted too much attention. Maybe a ladder and a couple of strong men.”

  “They certainly have a flair for the dramatic. This is pure Godfather stuff.”

  “They’re crazy people, that’s all. Crazy sadists.”

  “Maybe.” Charlie pushed his chair back from the desk. “But the more dramatic the pictures, the faster owners like you will pay up.”

  “So you’ll help me?”

  “I already told you, I’m not a private investigator anymore.”

  “And I told you, Charlie, I don’t want anything investigated. I just want to pay them and get my horse back. Even if he never races again, Bengal Lancer is w
orth over a million in stud fees. All I ask is for you to deliver the money.”

  “What makes you think they won’t keep the hundred thousand and then either kill or sell the horse?”

  “Because no one would pay if horses hadn’t been delivered. These scumbags are businessmen. They may kidnap horses but otherwise they’re on the up-and-up. The guys who owned these horses”—Campbell gestured to the photographs—“they all went to the cops and this was the result. Hey, I know them. They told me what happened. I just didn’t think it would happen to me. I mean, I had big dogs.”

  Charlie had been acquainted with Campbell for about ten years: a Long Island contractor who had retired young to buy a horse farm near Saratoga and raise and train thoroughbreds. Although mildly friendly, they had never been friends. After all, they moved in different circles. Charlie drove a Golf, now five years old. Campbell drove a Mercedes SUV, the G550 model with over 400 horsepower. Charlie had barely one house and Campbell had three or four. And it went like that: cashmere versus cotton, vintage wine versus Budweiser.

  But Charlie felt little envy. So much money would make him anxious, and in his present financial decline he’d never be in a situation where somebody might threaten to decapitate his prize stallion. The only animals he had to watch out for were his stepdaughter’s cat, which had nearly crippled Victor, and her Chihuahua puppy, Bruiser.

  Campbell was in his late fifties with a white moustache, a shock of white hair and one of those healthy tans unaffected by the passage of time, as golden in January as in July. Buttoned over his substantial stomach was a blue-and-green vest, with the double-black lines of the Campbell tartan. Campbell wasn’t so much fat as thick, having a fire hydrant shape. Charlie had first met him at the Saratoga YMCA before Campbell had quit to join an expensive health club. He played racquetball, lifted weights, swam and seemed one of those men who excelled at all sports despite his size. Given half a chance, he’d launch into vivid descriptions of playing football at Yale back in the seventies. As for Charlie, swimming was his single athletic activity, unless one included worrying and trying to stay out of trouble.