Bruce DeSilva - A Scourge of Vipers

“Bull,” I said. “The local economy sucks, and your sales are in the crapper. I want an out-the-door price of thirty-nine five including dealer costs and registration fees. And Burt? Say one more word about the price and I’m out the door to another dealer.”

He leaned back and looked me over again.

“How much are you thinking of putting down?”

“Fifteen grand,” I said.

“We can arrange financing for you.”

“I might have a problem with that.”

“What?”

“When dealers arrange financing, they like to tack on a thousand-dollar fee for themselves. I’m not paying that.”

“Okay. Let me have a word with my supervisor, and I’ll see what we can do.”

Ten minutes later, he waddled back with his boss, a Cheshire cat named Edwin who tried to squeeze another grand out of me, gave it up as a lost cause, and slinked off to do the paperwork.

If the homicide twins were going to arrest me now, I thought, they’d have a devil of a time catching me.

The plunging neckline of the sleeveless, lime-green dress Yolanda wore on Saturday night made it difficult to keep my eyes on the road.

“I love your car,” she said. “Is this what the twenty-five grand was for?”

“You betcha.”

“Going to miss Secretariat?”

“Not really. I gave him to Joseph, but I retained visiting privileges.”

“Decided on a name for the new one yet?”

“Mr. Ed, after the talking horse on that old TV show.”

“Ha! Why not something noble like Citation or Seabiscuit?”

“I named my first car Citation after the three moving violations I got the first week I owned him. He was a used Yugo. When I named the Bronco, I was still in my ironic period. I decided to give the Mustang a name that actually suits him.”

“Mister Ed suits him? I don’t get it.”

“This baby talks to me.”

“He does? What’s he say?”

“Whenever I obey the speed limit, as I am now, he gets pissed off,” I said. “Listen to the engine. He keeps growling ‘Chicken!’”

I was searching for a rare parking space within walking distance of Andino’s when blue flashers lit us up. There was no place to pull over, so I stopped in front of the restaurant, blocking traffic. In the rearview, I watched Wargart and Freitas climb out of an unmarked Crown Vic. He swaggered toward us on the driver’s side, and Freitas approached the passenger side. Their right hands rested on the butts of their Beretta.40 semi-automatics.

I waited until they rapped their knuckles on the side windows before I powered them down and let the evening heat in.

“Sweet ride,” Wargart said.

“It is.”

“Must’ve set you back more than forty grand.”

“Not quite.”

“Where’d you get the money?” Freitas said.

“None of your business.”

“Bet I know,” she said.

“Bet you don’t.”

“That’s one hot-looking broad sitting next to you, too,” Wargart said.

“I think you meant to say hot-looking lady.”

“This what you’re blowing Alfano’s cash on, Mulligan? Fast cars and high-class hookers?”

Beside me, I felt Yolanda’s whole body stiffen as she prepared to tear the officer a new one. I squeezed her hand, signaling her to let me handle it.

“Fuck you, Wargart. Want to take that badge off so I can teach you some manners?”

“Maybe some other time. For now, why don’t you two lovebirds join us at the station so we can discuss your newfound affluence?”

“Affluence?” I said. “Who bought you a dictionary?”

This had been fun, but I decided it was time to put an end to it.

“I just collected a six-figure wrongful termination settlement from The Dispatch, ” I said.

“Oh, really?” Wargart said.

“Ask my attorney.”

“And who would that be?”

“You’re looking at her.”

He’d met Yolanda several weeks ago when she burst into the interrogation room to rescue me. Maybe he didn’t recognize her in her party duds. Or maybe he was just being an asshole.

After a little more bluster, Wargart wrote me a ticket for blocking traffic and let us go on our way. Ten minutes later, the maître d’ seated us at a table by the front window. Andino’s was becoming our place.

“Detective Wargart is a goddamned bigot,” Yolanda said as we waited for the waitress to take our drink orders. I was surprised her language wasn’t stronger.

“He’s got his faults,” I said, “but I don’t think that’s one of them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s married to a nurse who works at Rhode Island Hospital.”

“So?”

“She’s half Dominican.”

“Oh.”

“The prick was just trying to get a rise out of me, Yolanda.”

After my Killian’s and her carafe of white wine were delivered, Yolanda started looking uncomfortable.

“People are staring at us again.”

“They’re just curious,” I said. “You mind if I give you a word of advice?”

“What?”

“I know I’m not you. I know I’ll never feel what you feel. But if you keep looking this hard for signs of racism, you’re always going to find them. Whether or not they’re actually there.”

“So I should let my guard down?”

“No. But you shouldn’t jump to conclusions either. It’ll drive you nuts.”

She sat silently for a moment, trying to decide whether to get angry. She chose against it.

“Why are the cops still pestering you about Alfano’s money?” she asked. “Don’t they think Mario Zerilli took it?”

“They haven’t found it yet,” I said, “so they’re keeping their options open.”

“If they bring you in for questioning again, you’ll call me, right?”

“Of course.”

When the appetizers were served, she turned the conversation to business.

“What am I supposed to do with the seventy-five grand I’m holding for you?”

“Seventy-six thousand two hundred and fifty, to be precise,” I said.

She smiled. “That’s correct. What did you think? That I was skimming?”

I reached into my blazer, extracted an unsealed business envelope, and passed it to her. The address on it read: Keenan Jefferson, 17 Willard Ave., Providence, RI. She opened it and found a business letter I’d created on my laptop. The letterhead said: Tuukka & Associates Insurance Underwriters of North America.

I watched her face as she read the text.

Dear Mr. Jefferson,

We are pleased to inform you that we have approved payment on a policy the Providence Vipers Basketball Club purchased on your behalf. The policy insured you against any physical injury incurred during the team’s recent open tryouts. Enclosed you will find our check in the amount of $76,250.

If you have questions regarding this policy, or if we may be of future service, do not hesitate to contact our legal representative, Yolanda Mosley-Jones, at McDougall, Young, & Limone in Providence, Rhode Island.

Yours truly,

Joseph DeLucca/Vice President and Director of Benefits

Yolanda laid the letter on the table and slowly shook her head.

“Does this company actually exist?” she asked.

“On paper, it does. I filed incorporation papers last week.”

“You really want to do this?”

“I do.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“So everybody keeps telling me. But I feel responsible, Yolanda. I destroyed his dream. This is the least I can do for him and his family.”

“What will you do for money?”

“The work I’m doing for McCracken and the stories I’m writing for The Ocean State Rag will pay more than I was making at The Dispatch. It’s enough to keep the sheriff from my door.” Of course, I was also in business with Whoosh and Joseph. I hated keeping secrets from Yolanda, but I decided she didn’t need to hear about that.