HE DEATH GRIP he had on the steering wheel was completely subconscious. Mitch, from under the canopy of Three Queens, stared straight ahead, past the coming and going guests, past the traffic and the line of taxi cabs on Bridger, past the pimple-faced valet standing beside his car, past the ugly images burned on the back of his eyelids. His gaze was fixed on a phone booth across the street. If he had any chance of solving the spate of new problems that had collapsed all around him, old emotions, he decided, had to be reined in. Twice he’d chosen to run from his problems and twice it had been to his demise. Now he was through running. Mike deserved more than an acid bath on the floor of a paint booth, and Mitch wasn’t about to take the fall for Vinnie’s vicious murder. But he couldn’t allow Stephanie to get hurt, either. So, what next? Vinnie had him positioned squarely between the viselike grip he held and the confinements of the pending law.
Mitch sighed deeply. His father had failed to deal positively with adversity; his mother, too, to a lesser extent. And though Mitch recognized he wasn’t to blame for either of their actions, the seven-year-old in him still carried the guilt. The anger and suffering and despair and hopelessness he felt after his father’s death had never gone away.
Grandpa was the strong one of the family. Backed into a corner, Mitch’s old role model seemed to tackle a good fight like a seasoned veteran. Hard work and determination, employed smartly, that’s what would save a man. He often turned to his tiger analogy to illustrate. “It’s like grabbing a tiger by the tail,” he’d preach in his gruffest voice. “Don’t grab on ‘less you’re willin’ to hold tight ‘til it’s over. Just ‘cause you want to quit fightin’doesn’t mean the tiger does. So take a good look before grabbin’ hold. If it’s right to fight, you’ll feel it in your gut. If it ain’t, then swallow your pride and let it pass.”
Mitch could feel it, all right, smack dab in the center of his gut–and in his veins and in his head. The ‘tiger’within was more than willing to fight.“Something wrong, Mr. Wilson?” the young valet asked through the open window.
Mitch snapped his head to the side. “You got a couple quarters?”
The kid bent at the waist and squinted through the window, his youthful ears mulling over what he’d heard. “Quarters?”
“I need to make a call.”
“Sure.” The kid dug into his pockets and pressed two coins through the window. Mitch snatched them up, then started the car and pulled away. “You’re welcome!” the kid hollered after him.
The accelerating little car struck bottom when Mitch hit the road. The thin traffic was pure luck as he sailed across four lanes without looking either left or right. Skidding to a stop, he jumped to the curb and rammed the coins in the phone slot. The words surged from his lungs. “I need to report a murder.”
“Who’s calling?” asked the police dispatcher.
“There’s no time. The killer’s name is Vincent Domenico and he’s trying to destroy the body with acid. His red Ferrari’s parked in front of Carson Body Works on West Carson. Hurry!” Mitch slammed down the phone. Every muscle in his body screamed for him to run; every fiber of his being told him to stay and fight. But how? If Vinnie was destroying the evidence, and they caught him in the act, both of us would be implicated, Mitch reasoned. If, on the other hand, he wanted me arrested, he would’ve called the cops already. So why hasn’t he?
Mitch maneuvered the Escort partway around the block, shut off the engine, slid low in his seat, and peered down Carson to where Vinnie’s car was still parked. Just then Vinnie, carrying a garment bag, came out of the shop door. He opened the Ferrari’s trunk and lay the bag inside. Glaring down the street toward the Escort, he secured the trunk and pulled his cell phone from his jacket.
The sound of a phone’s musical call wrenched Mitch’s attention from the street–and the three Las Vegas PD patrol cars, lights flashing, that squealed up in front of the building. What was a phone doing in the car? Unnerved, Mitch exhumed the Mozart-playing gadget from under the front seat and, punching the “Answer” button, pressed the phone to his ear.
“Shame on you kid. Don’t care much about your woman?” Mitch glanced down the street. Vinnie was smiling at him over the hood of one of the police cars. “Hope you get to her before Frankie does. . . . Well, looks like I gotta go. Call me if you need any help with the details. You got his phone now.” Vinnie terminated the call and raised his hands in the air.
Mitch, unnerved by the sudden turn of events, gunned the Escort and aimed it towards home. He could hardly breathe. He stared down at the phone, still in his hand. It was Mike’s. With the gas pedal pressed to the floor, he dialed home. “Stef!” he said as calmly as he could.
“Mitch, where have you been?” The reply was sharp.
“I don’t have time to explain. Is everything all right?”
“Not exactly.” Stephanie paused, trying to decide if she should hold her tongue or let him have it for the cold meal sitting on the stove.
“What do you mean ‘not exactly’?”
“It’s nothing. How soon will you be home?”
“Is anyone there?” The urgency in his voice was evident.
“No. Mitch . . . what’s going on?
“You sure? You sound a little tense.” Mitch was almost yelling.
A short silence ensued. “It’s just that the food is cold–that’s what’s the matter. And you’re yelling at me again!” More than a trace of anger had surfaced. “What’s the matter with you? You took my car, you made me miss church . . . as if you even care!”
“I’m sorry, Stef, it’s just . . .” Mitch breathed out a bevy of frustrations and fears. What could he tell her? Someone was on the way over to do her in, is that what he should say? “Listen, I’ve decided not to go on this trip. Make sure the doors are locked and don’t let anyone in until I get there, okay? I’m only a few minutes away.”
This was the most severe–and strangest–case of separation anxiety Stephanie had ever heard of. “You’re not going? Hey, it’s alright. Nothing’s going to happen to me. You need to go and win the title . . .”
The sternness in her husband’s voice hiked up a notch. “We can talk about it as soon as I get home! Just keep the doors locked. Got that?” Then he hung up.
Stephanie sank into the couch. According to what she’d read, the only way to overcome an anxiety disorder was to plow ahead, get it behind you. She dialed Maggie’s number. “Hi, how was your day?”
“Well, Stephanie. It was nice. I had a wonderful morning at church and now my youngest daughter’s here to visit . . .”
“Oh, I’ll call back when you’re not with family.”
“Don’t be silly, dear, you’re family too. In fact, I was just thinking about you. How are you feeling?”
“Pretty good.”
“And how was church?”
“I didn’t make it. That’s why I called. I think Mitch is having a hard time leaving on this trip. He’s been on edge the last few days.”
“Hmm.”
“I think it’s because of our loser-of-a-neighbor. Oh . . . sorry, I know I shouldn’t judge, but the guy gives me the creeps. The other day he trapped me against my car and asked a bunch of personal questions . . .”
Maggie broke in. “Well why don’t you come stay with me? I’d love the company, and we could share a ride to work.”
“Oh, would it be all right? I hate to . . .”
“All right? It would be a treat. We could stay up and talk–maybe even start on a couple of baby quilts.” Stephanie did her best to keep from crying. Maggie always knew what to say. “Now you just tell Mitch you’re coming to my house while he’s gone and that’s all there is to it. When does he leave?”
“An hour and a half.”
“My goodness, you better start packing. Will you be taking him to the airport?”
“If he’ll let me. He’s been acting funny the whole day.”
“Well, you just insist. Men like those warm-fuzzy goodbyes, even if they won’t admit it. I’ll be expecting you around seven. We’re going to have fun!”
“Thank you so much.” Stephanie wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
“Nope. As you can see, no one here’s been murdered.” Vinnie, together with several police officers, stood in the middle of a spotless paint booth. “The only chemical we have that’s even close to acid is a barrel of cleaner we use to clean the paint gun equipment. You’re welcome to look around, but like I told you, I just came down to show the place to a client. Wasn’t feeling so good, poor kid, and puked on the floor. I ran the booth through a quick wash cycle to get rid of the smell and keep it from drying.”
One of the officers spoke up. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Domenico, I’d like to look at that barrel.”
“Right this way.”
Vinnie led him to a drum that sat in the corner of the dusty shop next to a red machine with Gun Mate painted in big bold letters across the front.
Underneath, in smaller print, it read: Self-contained spray equipment cleaning system. Cleans, flushes and recycles fluid automatically. EPA approved. The officer began prying the top off the drum with his gloved fingers.
Another officer knelt near the back bay door to examine a set of car tracks in the fine dust. Yet another, a younger cop, answered a call on his radio.
“That’s it,” Vinnie said, rubbing his hands together in a gesture of finality. “Now if you don’t mind, I got a busy day ahead.”
“Did someone pull a car in and out of here recently?” the cop near the door asked.
Vinnie shrugged. “Could be. I store collectible cars here occasionally.”
The officer pressed the matter. “What kind of car would it’ve been? By the width of the tracks and the size of the tires, I’d guess it was either a mid-size or compact car.”
Vinnie, clearly perturbed by the questioning, took a moment to consider his answer. “Probably a Mustang,” he replied. “My people bring ‘em down for a wash and dry.”
“Looks to me it might’ve been a bit heaver when it left than when it pulled in.” The officer studied Vinnie’s face. “See, the tracks had less tread touching the floor coming in than it did pulling out.”
Vinnie let out a snort. “Who d’ ya’ think you are, Sherlock Holmes? Maybe it was movin’ faster. Or maybe it was a small truck and the bed got filled with water when they washed it. Maybe, maybe, maybe . . . it don’t mean nothin’. Ya’ know, I ain’t got time for this. Now why don’t ya’ just gimme back my gun and get outta here. I was nice enough to let ya’ in, and all ya’ done is make accusations.”
The officer who’d been on the phone snapped the clip from Vinnie’s .45 and checked the chamber. “Permit’s valid, but the boys downtown want you to come in and have a chat with them about the one you claimed was stolen.”
“Yeah, I heard they found it when they pulled Eddie from the wall. I already told you, he took it from me after he assaulted me.” Vinnie thrust his chin in the air and pointed at the ugly bruise. “See where he popped me? Old man musta’ hit me with a brick ‘r somethin’.”
The officer who had opened the barrel of solvent walked over. “Couldn’t have been his fist? . . . Because if it was, that means you had your clock cleaned by a skinny old geezer.” All three officers laughed.
“Get out!” He waited until the last of the cops was out the door, then broke into a robust laugh. “Bye, bye, boys,” he jeered, fluttering his fingers and inching the door closed.
The officers lingered in front of the building, chatting in a tight blue triangle. “The guy’s good–got to hand it to him. He came back with an answer for every question.”
“Could you tell the car was heavier just by the tracks?” asked the younger cop.
“Nah, I was pullin’ his leg. But the bozo didn’t once call my bluff to argue that the car was the same when it went in as it was when it went out. He’s as dirty as they come. These gangsters . . . they’re all the same. Cruise in here from back east thinkin’ they can just step in and open up for business. It won’t be long before the big boys get tired of him and squash him like a bug.”
“This is the second tip we’ve received that this guy pulled off a murder. I just wish we could get our hands on one of the callers.”
“Not a chance. They see someone’s brains splattered on the ground and the guy that did it’s never been nailed for more than a traffic ticket. You think they’ll come forward and just give it all up? Yeah, right. Everyone of ‘em’s probably got a sheet a mile long.”
The officers headed for their vehicles. “So you don’t think Mr. Domenico’d let a forensics team come check out the place?” one of them bristled sarcastically.
“Over his dead body.”
Vinnie waited until the last car had pulled away before jerking open the front door and strutting out into the sunlight. He didn’t mind being the brunt of their jokes; let ‘em get their jollies, while he flaunted his masterful ability to get away with murder–literally. After opening the trunk and removing the garment bag, he returned to the shop and opened the cover to the Gun Mate. Taking the clothing from the bag, he dumped the load–bag and all–in the tray of the cleaning apparatus, closed the lid, and pressed the auto mode button. A casual dusting off of the hands was followed by a cigarette pressed to his lips.
At the same time, Mitch, finally at the end of his panicked race home, screeched to a stop in the driveway. Twice he’d tried to call Stephanie to confirm that everything was still okay. Each time he’d gotten a busy signal. He pushed the key into the lock and barged through the front door. “Stef!”
“In the bedroom.” Her voice was cheerful and pleasant.
Mitch calmed his nerves–to a mild hysteria, at best–and hurried down the hall, trying to best decide how to begin his eventful saga. Stephanie was organizing her new clothes in a suitcase lying on the bed. “What’re you doing?” he asked, his face rife with confusion.
“I know why you’ve decided not to go, and I’ve solved the problem.”
“What?”
“You’ve been acting strange the last few days and I want you to know it hasn’t gone unnoticed. I’m sorry I wasn’t more sensitive.”
“No, I’m sorry. None of this is your fault . . .”
“Mitch–please–let me finish,” she insisted. “You always apologize first and now it’s my turn.” She looked him in the eye. “I’ve decided I haven’t been very fair with you about church. I won’t ask you anymore about going. When you’re ready, I’ll be waiting.”
Mitch looked up. If she only knew. “Stef, it’s not that–”
“Wait, I’m not finished. I was probably responsible for your file being messed up, too. It’s been so long I can’t remember, and you know how I am about cramming things into tight spaces. Just look at my closet.” She stepped nearer and smiled.
“You don’t . . .” Mitch started before being cut short again by the tip of Stephanie’s index finger against his lips.
“Shh, this is hard enough already. You have to go to the finals. I’ve made arrangements to stay with Maggie while you’re gone, so you won’t have to worry about me. I know you’ve been worried about Al, but he won’t even know where I am. You know I’ll miss you, but Maggie and I will have lots of fun together. Besides, it’s safer to fly in an airplane than it is to drive a car.”
Mitch could no longer meet her enthusiastic gaze. He realized how hard it must have been for her to apologize. She’d just bared her soul to him, and he was about to let his deception continue. She’d be safe with Maggie, he reasoned. Then he could pretend to leave town and figure out what to do about Vinnie.
Seeing her husband’s hesitation, her smile widened. “I’ve flown lots of times, and I’m still here.” She reached out and raised his chin with her fingers. “Everything will be fine–I promise.” She kissed him softly on the lips.
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Now I don’t mean to be rude, but you smell deadly.” She winced and feigned holding her nose. “You hop in the shower. I’ll finish packing my things and start on yours.”
Deadly, Mitch thought. Vinnie’s the one who’s deadly.
Vinnie crushed the life out of a second smoldering butt with the sole of his patent-leather shoe and approached the Gun Mate. The auto mode light had just quit flashing and the machine had spun to a stop. The spray-gun cleaner was the top of the line, promising “four chambers of spotless equipment with every cycle. No residue build up or corrosive deterioration to metal parts”–and it had fulfilled every promise.
Vinnie jimmied the residue basket from the drain and shook the pile of debris into a plastic bag. A smirk crossed his lips as he reflected on the surprise awaiting Mitch–or, better yet, his sweet wife– in the Escort. The same Escort that sat in the sweltering sun on Mitch’s driveway, slightly heavier at the back; the same Escort that had struck bottom when it sped onto Bridger from Three Queens; the same Escort that had a growing puddle of blood dripping from its trunk onto the scorching driveway. The kid would be back, no doubt, and details would need to be taken care of.