CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHARLIE

“Charlie, whatta ya doin’? Tell me what the fuck you’re doin’.”

What I wanna tell Ricky Ricci is simple. I’m doing my fuckin’ job. The one you told me to do. But as I’ve never in my life considered suicide, I don’t.

“Jeez, Ricky, we’re makin’ money hand over fist.”

“For how long, asshole?” He pauses, but I have nothing to say. “An outright fuckin’ war with a motorcycle gang? What kinda bullshit was goin’ round and round in that little brain of yours? You take stupid pills when you got up that morning?”

Last time we spoke, just after me and Dominick visited the Horde in their canyon hideout, Ricky congratulated me. Now I take stupid pills. But that’s how it goes in Thugworld. Your boss can disrespect you any time he wants. And you, no matter how tough you are, have to take it. You can’t talk back, can’t even raise your voice. And make sure your tone is wheedling.

“The Horde was established when we got here. In the trade. They pretty much controlled distribution in Baxter.”

“You shoulda reasoned with ’em.”

“I tried. I met with the club president, man named Zeb, but there was nothin’ doin’. Their attitude, right? We were here first. This is our turf and we own it. I made the asshole a fair offer, but he wouldn’t budge.”

“What’s this I’m hearing about the dead whore?” Ricky abruptly changes the subject, a trick designed to throw his people off-balance. Unfortunately, he uses it too often and I don’t react. “What’s her name?” he asks.

“Corey Miller.”

“Yeah, and she’s got a sister makin’ trouble.”

“Maggie Miller.”

“So, what’s up with that?”

“You know the basics. An overdose. I had to get rid of the body . . .”

“You shoulda buried her.”

“The ground was frozen solid, Ricky. We tried.”

“Lemme get this right. You could blow up a hundred motorcycles, but you couldn’t dig a hole in the ground because the ground was too hard.”

“I had somethin’ else to do that night, somethin’ I can’t talk about over the phone. Even encrypted, it’s better you shouldn’t hear this. And if you wanna say I’m wrong about how I dumped Corey’s body, I’ll go this far. I couldn’t call 911. That would bring cops to the Paradise. But I should’ve left the body in some cornfield outside the Baxter city limits. That was my mistake and I own up.”

Suckin’ up 101. Admit you’re wrong and beg forgiveness. Ricky takes his time processing my confession. I know he’ll offer absolution, no matter what he plans to do. Better I shouldn’t see it comin’, if it’s gonna come.

“Yeah, so what the fuck, water under the bridge. You take your lumps and move on.”

“I hear that, boss, and I appreciate it, but as long as I got you on the phone, I could use your advice. See, the cops out here think Corey was murdered—”

“Old news, Charlie.”

I have to wonder who’s been whispering in Ricky’s ear, but now’s not the time. “Okay, check this out. I know who killed her.”

“Who?”

“Bruce.”

“Angoleri?”

“Bruce handed out the envelopes that night. He’s the only one in a position to know which girl would get which envelope. And nobody else OD’d, not in the Paradise or the whole fuckin’ city. Just Corey Miller.”

“And for what? Because she was pregnant? And how the fuck did that happen?”

Again, I have to wonder what little canary has been twittering in Ricky’s ear. “Corey had an IUD, but IUDs don’t always work. And Bruce hasn’t confessed. I haven’t even put the question to him. But there’s no doubt that Bruce passed Corey Miller the overdose. No doubt at all.”

“If she was pregnant, why didn’t she get an abortion?”

“Abortion’s illegal in this state, and maybe . . . Look, I don’t have all the answers, but maybe she waited too long for the abortion pills to work. I’d need to get in Bruce’s face to answer every question. But the facts speak for themselves. One, Corey Miller was pregnant when she died. Two, the Baxter cops are investigating aggressively and they’re not lettin’ up. Three, if the cops get their hands on Bruce’s DNA and it matches the embryo, he’ll be arrested.”

A long pause follows, a legitimate pause most likely. I look around my so-called office, thinkin’ it’s not a corner office on the fiftieth floor of some Wall Street tower. It’s a cube, the only decoration a calendar with photos of vintage tractors. The tractors have iron wheels and look like props out of some post-apocalyptic Australian movie.

“You know Bruce is married to my cousin.”

“I do, boss.” I’m fully aware of Bruce Angoleri’s status. If he’s to be whacked, the order has to come from the boss. Meantime, the boss decides to change the subject.

“Look, I’m not worried about the cops. The sheriff, right? That’s bein’ handled. But the dirt our project’s sittin’ on? It don’t belong to us, Charlie. It belongs to people who wanna keep life simple. Simple and quiet and smooth. No muss, no fuckin’ fuss.”

Now I get it. In this business, everyone pays up. The boys in Boomtown pay up to me. I pay up to Ricky. And Ricky also pays up to the powers behind Boomtown. That makes Ricky a contractor with his client threatening to cancel the job.

“I’m not seein’ trouble ahead, boss, unless the cops grab Bruce. He’s the wild card in our deck.”

Whacking Bruce isn’t the only option here. Bruce can be called back to New York and hidden out until the Boomtown operation grinds to a close. Or he could lawyer up and fight an order for a DNA sample, or extradition if he’s indicted. It’s up to Ricky.

“Okay, Charlie, here’s what it is. A wild card in a deck is one too many cards. Handle it. Quietly, right? Very fuckin’ quietly.”

“Consider it done.”

“And one more thing, the pickup’s gonna be delayed. Edith Pinella had a stroke and Joe won’t leave her bedside. I have another couple in mind, but it’ll be a few days, maybe a week, before I get them out to you. In the meantime, make sure you hold onto that money. No slipups. The money’s got places to go. Even the delay’s givin’ me fuckin’ headaches.”

I head out to a Quonset hut on the southern edge of Boomtown where the ladies of the Paradise are currently housed. And where they’re gonna stay until we find a place for them, a place far away from Boomtown and Captain Mariola. Me, I don’t like the whole idea. Too much like pure trafficking, which wasn’t how it started. But the orders come straight from New York. Nobody walks away until her debts are settled.

So, no more strolls to Baxter Boulevard, no more shopping for cosmetics, or a manicure, or lingerie. The women are confined and guarded, and my job this morning is to make them aware of the consequences sure to follow any act of defiance. Meantime, the place is a shithole. Lawn chairs, cheap mattresses on the floor, picnic tables, plastic forks and knives, takeout, takeout, takeout.

The women are not happy, of course, but I’m not expecting them to be happy. I’m here to drop the hammer, or at least raise it above my head. The stick first, then the carrot.

“We’re slaves? That it?” a woman named Harley Johnson asks.

“Debtors.”

“And how are we supposed to pay our debts if we can’t work?”

Harley’s generally enthusiastic and very popular. If it wasn’t for a serious smack habit—I know she scores before work every day—she’d have earned her independence long ago. But the woman’s not really interested in repayment. She’s worried about that turkey, the cold one in the refrigerator.

Bruce Angoleri is in the room, along with Gene Casio, his second-in-command. Both are lookin’ up at me like I’m a magician about to pull the magic rabbit out of the magic hat. Meanwhile, I plan to put Bruce in the hat, and the longer this bullshit goes on, the happier I’ll be to perform the trick. When Corey revealed her pregnancy, Bruce should’ve come to me with his problem, not taken it into his own hands.

“I’m gonna do this much for you,” I tell Harley and the rest of them. “I’m gonna freeze your debts until you can start earning again. No vig, no interest. Plus, I know some of you are hurting, so I’ve brought the magic cure.”

I glance at Dominick, who produces a clear plastic bag filled with smaller glassine envelopes. The women’s eyes jump to those envelopes.

“On the house, ladies, to make the time slide by. And more to come until we get you settled. Vegas is where I’m thinkin’ right now.” This is bullshit. I don’t know where the women are going. But Vegas has to sound good after a couple months in Baxter. “So, I’m advising you to slow it down. Let the game come to you. Play cards, play Scrabble, watch television, and pretty soon this royal pain in the ass will be yesterday’s news. But know this. What’s happenin’ here is a lot bigger than you. It’s an avalanche. You get in the way of an avalanche, you get buried in the rubble.”

I nod to Dominick, who quickly distributes the envelopes. There’s smack in some, coke in others, meth in a few. Whatever, the goodies are snatched up, no hesitation. That’s good, because any of these women can tie the dose that killed Corrie to Bruce. Which is all Mariola’s waiting for. She’ll arrest Bruce minutes after securing a witness, then extract a DNA sample. By force, if necessary.

Bad for Bruce, bad for Ricky, and really fucking bad for Charlie Setter.