as well as Carmela’s?”
Mama Bones nods.
That son-of-a-bitch. I’m going to drive a full set of MacGregor golf irons up his spaghetti-eating ass. Plus the leather bag and cart.
B ut below my surprise and anger—I always figured Mr. Vic for a worm, not a snake—another more logical jewel of thought blossoms and bubbles to the top. “Do you know who killed Ann Marie Talbot?” I ask.
Mama Bones glances at Gin a. Mrs. Farascio nods.
“Brooklyn believes Tony did it for the hundred thousand,” Mama Bones says. “That’s what Bluefish told them, anyway. Said he had a video recording of the murder that the Branchtown cops took. A DVD. Brooklyn believed him and must have okayed a hit on Tony.”
“Nunzio’s been jealous of Tony for years,” Gina says.
“Where did Bluefish get a video of Talbot’s murder?” I say.
“Don’t know. I t’s only rumor I heard.”
“But you don’t think Tony really did it?”
She looks at Gina. “No.”
Why do I feel her answer might be different if Tony’s wife wasn’t here? Wasn’t it Mama Bones who told me Tony was “a bad, bad man?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I am so pissed at Mr. Vic, I can’t sleep. By leaving me here to deal with his problems, knowing the space involved serious danger, that son-of-a-bitch con man Bonacelli might as well have stenciled bull’s eyes on my children.
Some anger must be self-directed as well, as I certainly have to question my ability to choose business associates. First Walter, now Mr. Vic. And that does not even account for wacko Rags. I couldn’t have done any worse picking co-workers if, as a source pool, I’d used Seaside County’s special holding cell for violent suspects.
Hard to believe my golfing-buddy boss, Vic Bonacelli, would do this. Except, thinking semi-objectively for unbroken hours, enough moonlight to see only gray through Bluefish’s second-story window, I figure putting my family up as a target must have been the only way Mr. Vic could think of to protect his family.
Not that I forgive the dickface .
My body heaves and pitches, my molars grind all night, imagining what I’m going to do the next time I see him. Scream in his face? Punc h his classic Roman nose? Use a thirty-four-ounce baseball bat to adjust the worst golf swing in Seaside County?
Just before dawn, I’m glad for the Vic-hating insomnia. As the northeastern New Jersey sky finally lightens to blue steel in the bedroom window, the quiet hiss of slow-moving automobile tires announces someone’s arrival.
The approaching tire sounds roll me off Bluefish’s California king. I know Branchtown’s Godfather Wannabe sleeps here because above this swimming pool sized, feather-soft bed rests a twenty-three pound specimen of his namesake fish.
I slept —no— rested on top of the blue satin bedcovers because I didn’t want to worry how clean his sheets were, what dried body fluids or particulate remnants I might be touching. Yuk. I can’t believe I even thought of that.
Two long strides put me at the window. This is the only bedroom with a view of the driveway and front door parking area. That’s why I picked it.
Crows squawk somewhere close as I carefully inch back the curtain. A Lincoln Town Car glides to a perfectly silent stop. The driver door pops open and Max the Creeper squeezes out like toothpaste.
Oh, joy. The sight of him kicks my heart rate up two notches. My legs want to flee down the stairs, race out the back, run through the forest until I’m safe and hidden.
Maybe later. Instead, I remain frozen by the window while Creeper thunders up the steps and rattles keys unlocking the split-log front door. Doesn’t he have to huff and puff or something? Blow my house down?
Creeper sure is making a lot of noise, though. Hope that means he doesn’t know I’m here.
Maximilian Zakowsky
Soon as he sees the complicated electronic controls—so many dials, switches and gauges—Max wishes he made Jerry come with
Mama Bones nods.
That son-of-a-bitch. I’m going to drive a full set of MacGregor golf irons up his spaghetti-eating ass. Plus the leather bag and cart.
B ut below my surprise and anger—I always figured Mr. Vic for a worm, not a snake—another more logical jewel of thought blossoms and bubbles to the top. “Do you know who killed Ann Marie Talbot?” I ask.
Mama Bones glances at Gin a. Mrs. Farascio nods.
“Brooklyn believes Tony did it for the hundred thousand,” Mama Bones says. “That’s what Bluefish told them, anyway. Said he had a video recording of the murder that the Branchtown cops took. A DVD. Brooklyn believed him and must have okayed a hit on Tony.”
“Nunzio’s been jealous of Tony for years,” Gina says.
“Where did Bluefish get a video of Talbot’s murder?” I say.
“Don’t know. I t’s only rumor I heard.”
“But you don’t think Tony really did it?”
She looks at Gina. “No.”
Why do I feel her answer might be different if Tony’s wife wasn’t here? Wasn’t it Mama Bones who told me Tony was “a bad, bad man?”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I am so pissed at Mr. Vic, I can’t sleep. By leaving me here to deal with his problems, knowing the space involved serious danger, that son-of-a-bitch con man Bonacelli might as well have stenciled bull’s eyes on my children.
Some anger must be self-directed as well, as I certainly have to question my ability to choose business associates. First Walter, now Mr. Vic. And that does not even account for wacko Rags. I couldn’t have done any worse picking co-workers if, as a source pool, I’d used Seaside County’s special holding cell for violent suspects.
Hard to believe my golfing-buddy boss, Vic Bonacelli, would do this. Except, thinking semi-objectively for unbroken hours, enough moonlight to see only gray through Bluefish’s second-story window, I figure putting my family up as a target must have been the only way Mr. Vic could think of to protect his family.
Not that I forgive the dickface .
My body heaves and pitches, my molars grind all night, imagining what I’m going to do the next time I see him. Scream in his face? Punc h his classic Roman nose? Use a thirty-four-ounce baseball bat to adjust the worst golf swing in Seaside County?
Just before dawn, I’m glad for the Vic-hating insomnia. As the northeastern New Jersey sky finally lightens to blue steel in the bedroom window, the quiet hiss of slow-moving automobile tires announces someone’s arrival.
The approaching tire sounds roll me off Bluefish’s California king. I know Branchtown’s Godfather Wannabe sleeps here because above this swimming pool sized, feather-soft bed rests a twenty-three pound specimen of his namesake fish.
I slept —no— rested on top of the blue satin bedcovers because I didn’t want to worry how clean his sheets were, what dried body fluids or particulate remnants I might be touching. Yuk. I can’t believe I even thought of that.
Two long strides put me at the window. This is the only bedroom with a view of the driveway and front door parking area. That’s why I picked it.
Crows squawk somewhere close as I carefully inch back the curtain. A Lincoln Town Car glides to a perfectly silent stop. The driver door pops open and Max the Creeper squeezes out like toothpaste.
Oh, joy. The sight of him kicks my heart rate up two notches. My legs want to flee down the stairs, race out the back, run through the forest until I’m safe and hidden.
Maybe later. Instead, I remain frozen by the window while Creeper thunders up the steps and rattles keys unlocking the split-log front door. Doesn’t he have to huff and puff or something? Blow my house down?
Creeper sure is making a lot of noise, though. Hope that means he doesn’t know I’m here.
Maximilian Zakowsky
Soon as he sees the complicated electronic controls—so many dials, switches and gauges—Max wishes he made Jerry come with
Similar Books
