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More sirens. Another couple of squad cars go speeding by. They make my blood run cold. I turn over the engine, let it idle. Turning on talk radio, I listen for the local news now that it’s the top of the six o’clock hour. Or a minute passed it anyway.
“...shooting and stabbing in Albany,” I hear as I break in on a news report already in progress. “Details of the murder are just now filtering in,” an on-the-spot male reporter says. “But by the looks of it, and from what the local APD are telling us, a postal worker, thirty-one year-old, Martin Ricco, of Ballston Spa, was brutally murdered at the New Karner Road Postal Distribution Center sometime after its routine 4PM closing.”
“Say something about CCTV footage,” I whisper to myself while the adrenaline rushes through my veins and capillaries. “Were the cameras on?”
“Thus far authorities have little to go on in terms of a perpetrator since the CCTV cameras which normally surveil the facility, were not running as just one of the federally funded postal operation’s cost cutting measures.”
“There,” I say, aloud. “He said it. Exactly what I wanted him to say. Those cameras are never on.”
Relief washes over me. I actually feel happy right now. Almost giddy. But then, a full investigation is sure to follow. Who knows what clues the cops will find on the scene. Maybe I shouldn’t get my hopes up too far. For all I know they will find one of my prints on something. Or maybe they’ll find a way to match the bullet from Joanne’s gun to her pistol. That is, it’s legally registered which I don’t think it is. One can only hope that in this case, it’s not.
“However, sources are speculating that this could be an inside job since Ricco was currently feuding with one of his fellow co-workers who was said to be having an affair with the victim’s wife. The name of that person has yet to be identified. But no doubt, he will soon be called in for questioning along with Ricco’s wife.”
The reporter signs off then, and I shut off the radio, and slap both my thighs.
“Holy crap, I think I’ve dodged a bullet,” I say, as the passenger side door opens, and Joanne sets a grocery bag on the floor.
“What did you say, dear?” she asks, as she climbs in.
She closes the door and I throw the transmission into reverse.
“I said I think that, unlike my old buddy, Martin, we may have dodged a bullet with this one,” I say.
“What are you talking about, Bradley?”
As I pull out of the space, shift the joystick into drive and head back across the lot for Central Avenue, I give her the skinny about the on-the-spot news report.
“Interesting,” Joanne says, nodding. “The guy was having an affair. That could work in our favor.”
“No wonder he was there after hours drinking alone,” I say.
“And no wonder he was so mad at the world,” she adds.
I see it in the rearview mirror then. Not a cop (thank God), but something else. A new model Range Rover, not unlike the one that blew by me earlier. It comes up close on my tail. The windows are tinted, so I can’t really see who’s driving. But my gut can see him. Don Juan Perez. Or, someone who works for Juan Perez.
One eye on the road, the other in the rearview, I say, “I think someone is following us.”
Joanne turns around quickly, then focuses on me.
“The Range Rover?”
“Doesn’t Don Juan Perez drive an SUV just like that one?” I ask. “I noticed one or two just like it parked outside his mansion when we met with him over the Bubble Gum deal.”
“So do a thousand other rich people who live in this city,” she says.
“True,” I say. A hard pit is growing in my stomach. It combines with the adrenaline that’s still flowing through my veins from killing Martin. “It’s just that I got a feeling is all.”
“There you go again, Bradley,” she says. “Let’s not let the paranoia get the best of you.”
I can still hear her telling me she doesn’t think I’m cut out for this line of work. On one hand, it hurts to hear her say that. On quite another, she is so right. There’s a red traffic light up ahead. I hit the brakes and the Rover swerves into the passing lane and pulls up to the light right beside me. Swallowing something that feels and tastes like a brick, I slowly turn and look at the Range Rover just as the driver is rolling down the passenger side window.
Well, I’ll be damned. Sometimes even paranoids are right. The driver is, indeed, Don Juan Perez. He smiles and offers a quick wave. He says not a word and neither do I.
Joanne sees what’s going on and leans forward a little to get a look at our new partner in crime.
“Hello, Juan,” she barks.
“Senorita Jones,” he says, ignoring me like he can see right through me. “It’s good to see you.”
“And you,” she says.
“Not a very fitting ride for a person of your beauty and brains,” he adds. “Perhaps your husband might purchase something a little more suitable now that he is a wealthy man. I know I would buy you anything you wanted, mujer hermosa.”
Well, if that doesn’t just frost my white ass, I don’t know what does...
The light turns green. Don Juan puts the passenger side window up and speeds away. Glancing at Joanne, I can see that she’s smiling not so much on the outside, but on the inside.
“Can you believe the nerve of that guy, flirting right in front of me with my own wife?”
“Don Juan is dashing, Bradley,” she says. “You gotta give him that.”
“I’m dashing,” I say, “in my own humble way.”
She bursts out laughing.
“Now, that is funny, Bradley,” she says. “You might have officially retired from the post office, but you’re still the mailman.”
Okay so if it isn’t humiliating enough that my wife had to shoot the man I was fighting with just to make sure he didn’t kill me, she’s now openly telling me she has a crush on our very dashing drug running Mexican cartel employed partner. I’m not used to Joanne showing interest in other men. But then, I’m not used to her being so alive and beautiful and so attractive to other guys.
Just up ahead, the Jeep dealership and the red Jeep Rubicon that caught my eye. My blood is pumping through my veins far faster than the good Lord intended. I’m so on edge at this point, it’s like my nerve endings are guitar strings that are being twisted tighter and tighter and tighter. Pretty soon they’re going to snap, and I’m either going to do something terrible like climb a tower and start shooting at innocent passersby. Or hell, maybe I’ll just jump off a high bridge and get it over with. The latter would be preferable.
My wife and I just killed a man in cold blood, even if he did have it coming (this is becoming an all too overused excuse). She then goes all googly eyed at our drug lord partner when he mysteriously shows up on our tail. Now we’re on our way home to have a nice spaghetti and meatball dinner with our one and only son, like we’re still just the aging, boring folks we’ve always been.
Not a very fitting ride for a person of your beauty and brains. Perhaps your husband might purchase something a little more suitable now that he’s a wealthy man. I know I would buy you anything you wanted, mujer hermosa...
I don’t have to Google translate mujer hermosa to know it means, pretty lady. I took four years of Spanish in high school. It was easier than French or Latin.
“That’s it,” I say to myself while turning the wheel hard and pulling into the auto dealership.
“Jesus, Bradley,” Joanne says. “You didn’t even look to see if there was a truck about to plow into us.”
“I don’t really give a damn at this point, Jo.”
“My lord, what has gotten into you? Might I remind you our son will be arriving at our home in fifteen minutes, and I haven’t even begun cooking.”
“He’ll have an extra beer or two while he’s waiting,” I say, parking the minivan outside the dealership. “This won’t take very long.” Killing the engine and getting out. “Do me a quick favor and pull out anything from the back that you want to save. Oh, and don’t forget to grab the groceries.”
Joanne just gazes at me stunned, eyes wide, her jaw having dropped down to her chest.
“I’ll be right back,” I say.
I slam the minivan door shut for what will be the very last time, and march into the dealership. I spot a very tall man seated at a desk to my right. He’s got gray hair and a matching mustache. He’s also wearing a cheap blue blazer over white button-down and tan slacks. He’s on the phone but when he spots me, a potential customer, he says he has to go and hangs up.
Fake smile on his face, he says, “How can I help you, sir?”
“I’d like to purchase that red Jeep Rubicon in the lot,” I say.
He stands, gazes out the window. His smile goes a little askew.
“Will you, um, be trading in your minivan?” like he can’t even get himself to look at it. And who can blame him.
“You can have it,” I say. “I just wanna get rid of it.”
“Splendid,” he says with a smile.
When I pull out my debit card, and set it on his desk, his eyes go wider than my wife’s did. “I’ll pay now, if that’s okay.”
He shakes his head in disbelief.
“That’s a fifty-plus thousand-dollar vehicle, sir,” he says. “I can surely give you a better deal if you just give me some time to speak with my boss. I’ll need to check your ID, bring up a credit report, and check with the bank also. And it is after closing hours for the bank, so perhaps you wish to leave a deposit for the vehicle, once you’ve test drove her and come back tomorrow to finalize the deal?”
“Listen,” I say, reaching into my jeans pocket, and pulling out a wad of Benjamins. Peeling off three crisp ones. “That’s a little bonus for you if you run my card now, give me the fucking keys, and I can be on my way. You don’t need a credit report if I’m paying in cash now, do you?”
He holds up his hands like, Time out already. A couple other salespersons are also seated at desks identical to his. One of them, a young woman, is trying to do a deal with a worried looking middle-aged husband and wife who remind me a lot of a broke Joanne and I not all that long ago. When I quickly gaze over my shoulder, I can see that all eyes are on me—a crazy man who wants to pay full price for a vehicle with his debit card.
“I understand your need to rush this sale, sir,” Car Salesman goes on. “But I will have to ask you to watch your language.
“My bad,” I say. “Now, can we get this show on the road? We have to get home to make dinner.”
“But there are a lot of features on the new Jeep that I must demonstrate for you,” Car Salesman goes on. “Lots of electronic gadgetry is involved.”
Listen, I know he’s just trying to do his job, but my temples are pounding, and my head feels like it’s about to explode.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Richard,” he says. “Richard D’Alleva. That’s capital D apostrophe, capital A. Two Ls.”
“Okay, Richard D’Alleva capital D apostrophe, capital A, two Ls,” I say. “You wanna make the greatest sale of your life? Or do you want me to go to another dealership?”
“Not at all, sir,” he says, that car salesman smile now plastered all over his face once more. “It’s just that...well...I’m not used to making a sale this quickly. A full price sale. Plus, without showing you how to operate the vehicle.”
I pull out my smartphone and press one of the app icons. I show him the screen.
“YouTube,” I say. “I can learn anything I need to know about operating a brand new Jeep Rubicon.”
He nods. “I suppose you’re right,” he says. “But tell you what I am going to do. I am going to shave one thousand dollars off the sale price.”
“Gee, thanks,” I say.
He shrugs his shoulders. “Might get me in a little trouble with the boss, but I’d certainly enjoy a long-term relationship with you.”
I bet you would...
“Now allow me to run your card and get you the keys.”
He does both. All in all, it takes less than three minutes. While I’m waiting, I look out the floor-to-ceiling window and see Joanne, holding the groceries in one hand, and a ratty old blanket in the other that’s been stored in the minivan for years, ever since the heating system started dying a slow death on us. The setting sun is bathing her in a golden glow. Grabbing my receipt and my debit card, Richard hands me the keys and holds out his hand.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr...” He hesitates. “Gee, I don’t even know your name.”
“Jones,” I say. “Brad Jones. Says so on the debit card.”
He squeezes my hand and releases it. “Well, great doing business with you, Mr. Jones. Allow me to at least follow you out to your new Jeep.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, going for the door. “Find a nice junk yard for the minivan.”
“Oh, we will,” Richard says.
Heading out the glass door, I take hold of the blanket.
“What are you doing?” my wife says.
“This old ratty thing has served its purpose,” I say, tossing it through the open driver’s side window. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To our new vehicle,” I say.
“You didn’t,” she says.
“I did.”
We come to the new Jeep. I press the electronic key fob that unlocks the doors. We get in, me behind the wheel, and Joanne riding shotgun.
“It’s got the new car smell,” I say, closing the door.
She closes her door. I shove the key into the starter, twist it, and the powerful engine roars to life. It’s getting dark out, but the lights come on automatically. One of the perks of a new Jeep. Backing out of the parking space, I put the automatic transmission into drive and we speed across the lot towards Central Avenue. Already, I feel like a new man. An independent man. Dare I say it, a young man.
I pull onto Central, and we speed in the direction of our North Albany home.
“My Lord, Bradley Jones, whatever has gotten into you?” Joanne says after a time.
I’m loving the feel of the Jeep. Rugged, tight, bouncy almost. The minivan’s ride was like driving through three feet of wet concrete.
“We can take the roof off,” I say. “It’s still warm enough out. Your hair will blow in the wind, like it used to do when we were back in college in my convertible.”
“So that’s what this is about?” she says.
“Your hair blowing in the wind?”
“You’re jealous,” she says. “You’re jealous because we just happened to run into Juan Perez and he just happens to mention how the minivan isn’t a good enough ride for a new and improved woman like me.”
“Well, this Rubicon probably cost more than his Range Rover,” I say. “And you know how much I’ve always wanted a Jeep, Jo.”
“Yes, you have,” she says, the bag of groceries in her lap, her arms wrapped around it like she’s cuddling it. “But you know what Sean said. We should limit our big expenditures. We don’t want to raise any red flags with the IRS. That’s the kind of thing that keeps me up at night.”
“For Pete’s sake, Joanne,” I say, “we just killed yet another man and our buying a new Jeep is what will keep you up at night?”
I take the turn off Central onto the road that will take us into North Albany.
“It’s not like we murdered anyone, Bradley,” she says. “It was pure self-defense.”
“Not so much self-defense,” I say, “so much as self-preservation. If Martin started shooting his mouth off, there’s no telling what could happen with the FBI and the APD investigation.”
“One thing’s for sure, darling,” she says. “We need to get the Perez brothers murders behind us somehow. They’re like two little monkeys on our backs.”
“I think that might actually be construed as racist,” I say.
“Now you listen to me. I don’t have a racist bone in my body,” she insists.
No, you’re an equal opportunity drug runner...
We pass Little’s Lake on our left. Stopping at the red light, I wait for it to turn green. That’s when I go left and drive the few hundred feet to Hope Street. Hooking a left on Hope, I spot a pickup truck in the driveway.
“Those killings may never get solved, Jo,” I say. “It could hang over our heads for the rest of our lives.”
“Let’s not worry about things we have no control over,” she says. Then, “Oh goody, Brad Junior is here. Time for a nice family dinner. Maybe we can play Scrabble after dessert.”
A nice family dinner and Scrabble...
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