Victor Gischler: Suicide Squeeze

“Or maybe this.” Otis showed Conner a big silver belt buckle like a rodeo cowboy might wear. It was gaudy and enormous.

“I’ve seen smaller satellite dishes.”

Otis said, “It’s sneaky like. Ever see one of them canes that’s got the sword inside? Same kind of deal.” Otis thumbed a hidden latch, and the front of the belt buckle sprung open. Inside was a single-shot derringer. “Thirty-two caliber. Take some motherfucker by complete surprise.”

“No guns,” Conner said. “Let’s see the binoculars.”

“Didn’t you used to have binoculars?”

“No.” Pawned.

Otis slid the gun drawer back and picked out a new pair of binoculars, handed them to Conner. They were midsize. Conner looked through them, and they brought the streetlight at the far end of the complex up close and clear.

“How much?”

Otis scratched his belly. “They run one eighty in the store.”

“How much do they run from the back of a Lincoln?”

“Man, you can see flies fuck on the moon with these.”

“Otis.”

“Fifty bucks.”

“How about a discount for your old buddy Conner?”

Otis smiled. “I’ll knock off ten bucks if you tell me why your dick is blue.”

Joellen Becker pushed paper into arbitrary piles, glanced at file folders, tapped at her computer, her brow furrowed as if deep in thought. She had one of those little square offices with glass walls, and to everyone else in the offices of Marvin & Strauss Insurance Company it looked like she was working hard.

She wasn’t.

She was sneaking Little Debbie Swiss Rolls from her bottom desk drawer and playing Texas hold ’em poker online. She was up nine bucks.

Becker had trouble taking her job seriously. Just a few years ago, she’d been an elite member of a special ops unit for the National Security Agency. Highly trained in combat and investigations. Things had gone wrong. Mistakes were made. Jesus, you just shoot a few of the wrong people, and everyone goes apeshit.

Now she investigated claims for a second-rate insurance company. How the mighty had fallen. It was only temporary, she told herself. Something to pay the bills until the big opportunity came along.

The phone rang just as a heart flush beat her two pair, and she was maybe a little too cranky when she answered. “Yeah?”

“May I speak to Joellen Becker, please?” The voice was formal, crisp, just the hint of an accent.

“Speaking.” She cradled the phone between chin and shoulder so she could continue typing at the keyboard. The computer dealt her a jack and a three. She’d stay in and get a look at the flop.

“Ms. Becker, my name is Billy Moto. I understand you are the investigator in charge of the Teddy Folger claim.”

“The baseball card thing?” The computer dealt the flop, a queen, a six, and a ten. No help. She folded and logged off.

“Yes,” Moto said. “A rare Joe DiMaggio card signed by the player, his wife at the time, Marilyn Monroe, and the film director Billy Wilder.”

“We closed the file on that one,” Joellen said.

“May I ask you a few questions about it, please?”

“What the hell for?”

Moto cleared his throat. “My employer is most interested. I was hoping we could discuss the claim in detail. I would naturally compensate you for your time.”

“Uh-huh. Who’s your employer?”

“Ahira Kurisaka.”

She made a mental note of the name. “The card burned in a fire.” Joellen absently twisted a lock of black hair as she spoke. “I’ll tell you that for free. No compensation needed on that one, sport.”

“So I’ve heard,” Moto said. “Nevertheless.”

“What else?”

“As you say, the file is closed,” Moto said. “So it could not possibly be of any consequence for you to divulge to me the information in that file.”

“Are you fat?”

A long pause. “What?”

“Are you fat or ugly?”

“What does that have to do with-”

“I want you to buy me dinner, and I don’t want to be seen in public with some toad.”

“Buy you dinner?”

“I haven’t been out in eight weeks. I’ll bring a photocopy of everything in the Folger file, but you have to meet me in a restaurant. A nice one with cloth napkins.”

Moto cleared his throat on the other end. “I’m authorized to compensate handsomely for your full cooperation and any information-”

“Yeah, we’ll get to all that over dinner. Be sure to wear a tie. And I want wine.”

“Ms. Becker, this is a most peculiar conversation.”

“You want to throw dancing into the bargain, sport? Keep talking.”

“Your terms are acceptable.”

“Damn right.” She told him the time and place, then hung up.

Joellen bit her thumbnail a second, reviewed the Folger case in her mind. A lot of bullshit, kids’ stuff, comic books and games and Star Trek crap. And this one crazy expensive Joe DiMaggio baseball card. The card’s price tag had sent a red flag through the insurance company’s hierarchy of pencil pushers, and Joellen had been dispatched to investigate. She’d had a few mild suspicions, but really she was always suspicious of everyone, so the feeling hadn’t meant much. Anyway, a routine look-see had turned up zilch and there was a backlog of case files cluttering her desk. She knew she’d given the case a perfunctory effort at the time.

Now she was curious. She put on some coffee and pulled the Folger file. She meant to give it a close read before her meeting with Billy Moto.

The thought suddenly struck her she should have asked Moto about his teeth. Nothing was more off-putting than a mouth full of yellow, crooked teeth. Oh, well. Too late to worry about that now.

Teddy Folger wondered if anyone was still looking for him.

Probably not, he mused. He sat at the Pensacola Beach Resort Tiki Bar feeling pretty pleased with himself. His master plan was coming together nicely. Still, he looked over his shoulder now and then, half-expecting to see his wife.

The vile and vicious Mrs. Folger wanted Teddy’s balls dipped in bronze and mounted on her mantel. That blood-sucking bitch can kiss my fat white ass. He was pretty sure she’d given up the chase, and anyway it wasn’t like she could afford a private dick to come track him down. He’d cleaned out the account, left her high and fucking dry. Served her right. She’d blindsided him, no doubt. Little gold digger tricked him into popping for a marriage license, and in two seconds flat her legs slammed shut tighter than a clam and Teddy was going bust paying for pedicures twice a week.

Teddy’d thrown the brakes on that shit. His master plan was now in full swing. He had the boat, the cash, and a ton of suntan lotion. His schemes hadn’t all gone like clockwork. Not quite. The arson job hadn’t produced the insurance payoff like he’d expected. No matter. He’d been trading online for a few years, and selling off all his stock would keep him liquid until he got his asking price for the Joe DiMaggio card. He’d tried to sell it on eBay but was dissatisfied with the bids. This card was his prized possession, and he wouldn’t part with it lightly. But he’d made his start. The new Teddy Folger was headed for the Caribbean, and the whole world could just suck on that. His total and complete bliss lacked only one key ingredient.

The blond girl behind the bar eyed him from the taps at the far end. She wasn’t in any hurry to come down to Teddy’s stool. Considering the circumstances of their last meeting, Teddy wasn’t surprised that Misty was a little skittish. Misty. What a perfect name.

And the Tiki Bar was the perfect place for Misty. All the girls wore bikinis. Misty was soft with big curves. Wonderful, golden-age-of-Hollywood starlet curves. None of this emaciated, toothpick, starving stick-girl bullshit that was on the covers of all the fashion magazines. Butter-silk hair, big wet red lips. Perfect skin. When Teddy had first plopped his ass on the stool and glimpsed her pulling drafts for the tourists, his big fat sappy heart skipped a beat. It was as if Marilyn had been reborn.