Victor Gischler - Gun Monkeys

I got to my feet, down the stairs, back out to my car.

I drove.

Where? Not back to my apartment. Fuck that. Too dangerous. I didn’t want to end like Bob. Back to Ma’s. Hell, no. They’d think to look there. I’d only get Ma killed with me and Danny. Better for them if I stayed away. I pulled into a convenience store, found a pay phone, dialed a number.

She picked up after four rings. “Hello?”

“Marcie?”

“Yep.”

“It’s Charlie.”

“I know.”

“I need a place to stay.”

No hesitation. “Come on then.”

Marcie let me in, took my coat. “Are you okay?”

“I don’t know yet.” I handed her the gym bag. “Put that someplace out of the way. Please.”

“Okay.” She disappeared into the garage then came back.

I still stood in her dim foyer. “Where’d you put it?”

“In the freezer under the raccoon.”

“Okay.”

“Come on. You look terrible.”

She took my hand and led me into the living room. I stood there like I didn’t know what to do. I felt numb, listless, indifferent. She lowered me into the big leather recliner in front of the TV, put the remote on the arm of the chair but didn’t switch it on. I leaned back, raised the chair’s footrest. My muscles cried in relief.

I hadn’t noticed Marcie had left the room until she returned. She handed me a drink. Chivas. My brand. She’d been shopping. I nodded my thanks at her.

“What happened?”

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t help.”

“You don’t know. Try me.”

I thought about it, closed my eyes. “My boss is being squeezed out by a big shot from Miami. All my buddies are dead, and the place where I work just burned to the ground. I was hit on the head and slept in the dirt. And all I got is a gym bag full of questions. Still think you can help?” I gulped back the Chivas, emptied the glass.

She took the glass from me. “Well, anyway, I can get you another drink.” The rustle of her clothing followed her out.

I didn’t hear her return, didn’t get my next drink. I sank into the comfort of the chair, down into vivid Technicolor dreams.

The first dream was a rerun. I was looking down the barrel of Blade Sanchez’s Luger again. He was talking and talking but only one thing he said really came through clear. Beggar says I can go to work for him anytime .

Why would Beggar want to hire your sorry, dumb ass?

In the next dream, I walked through O’Malley’s. Flames licked the walls, skipped across the carpet. I kept thinking we needed to get everybody out. But Lou Morgan was there, waving a big muscle arm. “Get out, man. It’s empty.”

Yeah. Empty. Where were the people? The place should have been full of drunks. The bartenders. Amber. Why weren’t they there? I was alone in a burning house with nobody to save.

Somebody had tipped them off. That was the only answer, and I realized I wasn’t dreaming anymore. I was thinking, figuring it out. But I didn’t want to think too hard about thinking. It was like asking the centipede which foot he started walking with. Think about it, and you’re fucked. So I let the thoughts drift. Somebody had tipped the bartenders. They didn’t come open. Patrons couldn’t get in. Don’t show today. Fire. Everyone gets the tip-off.

Except the monkey cage. We didn’t get the word. Somebody’d set us up.

Sold us out.

I opened my eyes to darkness.

I sat up,shifted the recliner into its upright position.

The base of my skull ached distantly. Dim light leaked in from the kitchen, and I got up, followed it back to its source. Marcie sat at the little kitchen table, hunched over the books, reading them by the light of a low-watt bulb in the small lamp she dragged in from her bedroom nightstand. She wore a pair of grandmotherly half-glasses.

I smelled coffee.

She saw me, read my mind.

“I just made it,” she said. “Want me to pour you a cup?”

“I’ll get it.” I took a plain white cup down from the cupboard, filled it. Drank. I took the pot to the table, refilled Marcie’s cup.

“Thanks.”

She’d arranged the books on the table side by side, had her finger on a column of numbers. Her lips moved quietly as she read, the finger sliding down the page.

“I thought you’d stashed those,” I said.

She shrugged. “You needed to sleep, and nothing good was on TV.”

“A fun read?”

“I was an accounting major for two semesters.”

“Why would you want to be an accounting major?”

“That’s what I asked myself,” she said. “Why would I want to be an accounting major? Why would anyone? So I chucked it in for art.”

“So what’s with the ledgers?”

She put her hand palm down on one of the books. “These are the accounts of several businesses in South Florida, mostly in Miami. It’s all here. Let’s take Geno’s as an example.”

“Geno’s?”

“A restaurant.”

“Gotcha.”

“So according to this book,” she patted the ledger again, “Geno’s made a profit of sixty-seven thousand dollars.” She looked at me over her granny glasses, made sure she had my attention. “But according to this book,” she slapped her hand over the other ledger, “Geno’s made two point four million dollars in the same year.”

“What? Let me see that.” I grabbed the book. My eyes danced along the rows of numbers. I had no idea what I was looking at, but I didn’t need the book. I knew the rest of the story.

I held in my hands Beggar Johnson’s whole operation. Two ledgers. Two accounts of all the businesses under Beggar’s thumb in South Florida. One for public consumption, the one he showed the I.R.S. The other book contained the real numbers. The money laundering. It completely outlined the flow of cash for his whole organization. These books should have been under lock and key. No wonder Beggar wanted everyone in Toppers rubbed clean. If these books got into the wrong hands, it could be Beggar’s end.

But they were in my hands, and as far as I was concerned, they were hot potatoes.

“I got to go see somebody about this.”

Marcie took off her half-glasses, set them on the table. “How bad is it, Charlie?”

“Bad.”

“Charlie-”

“Bad, Marcie. As bad as it gets. I have to go.”

“It’s the middle of the night!”

“There’s no time. I can’t stay here.” I gulped the coffee. There was a bag of rolls on her kitchen counter. I opened it, grabbed two rolls, shoved them in my jacket pocket.

“You can stay as long as you like. You know that.”

I shook my head. “No good. If they find me, they find you. Then we’re both dead.”

I took the books, headed for the front door. Marcie followed.

“Charlie.”

I stopped, looked at her.

“Anytime, day or night,” she said.

I nodded, thought about her, the ledgers, us. I hadn’t known her long, but you got to have somebody to trust, lean on. Might as well be somebody pretty.

I kissed her. “I’ll be in touch.”

I tried to think of what I needed more, friends or answers.

My friends were all dead, at least the ones who could help. I knew I could count on Marcie and Danny and Ma to all go to the mat for me, but I didn’t see how they could help and I’d only be getting them in hot water.

I decided to settle for answers, and I figured Beggar’s toady, Alan Jeffers, might have them.

I drove to a convenience store, found a pay phone.

Information had a listing for Alan Jeffers in Heathrow. I got the number and dialed it. Nine rings. It was about four A.M., so I wasn’t surprised when Jeffers’s machine answered. “You’ve reached the home of Alan Jeffers. I can’t come to the phone right-” I hung up, put in another thirty-five cents, dialed again. “You’ve reached-” I hung up, a quarter and two nickels, dialed the digits.