Read Online Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) by Jack Getze - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Getze
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open the Camry’s sky roof as I roll onto Shrewsbury Avenue minutes later. Except for parallel golden streaks of airplane condensation, a few puffs of tangerine candy-cotton on the eastern horizon, the windy sky sets a clean palate for the coming day. The crystal air tastes like pine forests and snow-topped mountains.
I’m headed to work earlier than usual today, the sun still an un -flowering yellow bulb behind Branchtown’s century- old sycamores and oaks. The kind of trouble I’m in—Bluefish threatening Ryan and Beth, Walter leaving, Talbot’s charges, then her murder, Big Tony’s wife giving me lustful, restless thoughts—sleeping wasn’t an option. My mind buzzed all night.
One good thing, an idea that came to me as I spread my peanut butter, I’ve decided to send Ryan and Beth away from Branchtown. By good, I mean they’ll be safe. Missed but safe. My ex-wife Susan won’t go along at first, but I think she’ll cooperate after I describe Bluefish, the Creeper, the stories about Ann Marie Talbot’s body I overheard around the BPD station house.
For the past twenty-four hours, I figured Beth and Ryan would be safe as long as I did what Bluefish wanted. But Tony disappearing with the bookie’s hundred grand and Talbot’s murder dramatically changes that wishful assessment. Branchtown is turning ugly, especially for me and mine. Susan has to relocate our children someplace even I don’t know about.
A man doesn’t like to think he could be tortured into giving up his child ren’s whereabouts. But why take the chance? I am a stockbroker.
Crossing the train tracks, I glance across Broad Street toward Luis’s Mexican Grill. Luis’s and Umberto’s cars are parked there every day except Monday, but I’m earlier than usual, curious if I’ve beat them to work.
Both cars are there, Umberto’s fifteen-year-old Ford clunker and Luis’s well-maintained red Jeep, but something else quickly grabs my eye. Something that kicks my heart into race mode: A fast-rising column of black smoke gushes from one of the restaurant’s side windows.
Fire.
I have the Camry in a left turn anyway, so all I have to do is hold the wheel a little longer to snap a U-turn across both northbound lanes of Broad Street. See how easy? Now my little Japanese import bounces right back into Luis’s gravel and asphalt parking lot. Who cares if a Branchtown cabby shows me his middle finger?
I dig inside my coa t for the cell phone as I slide to a stop. The front suspension bottoms as the car skids across the gravel.
The 9-1-1 lady gets my name and Luis’s address, but I say no when she asks me to stay on the line.
“I’m going inside,” I say.
The kitchen door i s unlocked. Black smoke chokes the room from ceiling to my waist, a solid hot mass, the line between black and clear a sharply defined slash across the rectangular space. The top of the long, food prep table is already invisible.
I fall to my hands and knees and scurry like a rat along the wooden legs. Heat radiates on my back like the noon summer sun. My knees crack and shout with pain on Luis’s imported Mexican tile.
I had to wear the Canali, right?
Umberto lies near the kitchen’s twin stainless steel sinks he and Luis use to wash vegetables. I check the chef’s pulse. It’s strong and steady. There’s no sign of Luis.
I grab Umberto’s collar and drag him toward the back door. I duck walk to keep my head out of the smoke. Thank God the pint -sized Umberto doesn’t weigh much more than Beth. I have him outside on the back steps before I can say roasted pablano chili.
He coughs. Breathing fine on his own.
Crawling back inside, I see the mass of hot black smoke engulfs the top three quarters of the kitchen. I have to get lower than before, snaking along like some Marine recruit dodging barbed-wire. The low, cleaner air is hotter, too. My lungs tell me to turn back.
I wheel right at the twin sinks on my way into the main dining room. My navy blue
I’m headed to work earlier than usual today, the sun still an un -flowering yellow bulb behind Branchtown’s century- old sycamores and oaks. The kind of trouble I’m in—Bluefish threatening Ryan and Beth, Walter leaving, Talbot’s charges, then her murder, Big Tony’s wife giving me lustful, restless thoughts—sleeping wasn’t an option. My mind buzzed all night.
One good thing, an idea that came to me as I spread my peanut butter, I’ve decided to send Ryan and Beth away from Branchtown. By good, I mean they’ll be safe. Missed but safe. My ex-wife Susan won’t go along at first, but I think she’ll cooperate after I describe Bluefish, the Creeper, the stories about Ann Marie Talbot’s body I overheard around the BPD station house.
For the past twenty-four hours, I figured Beth and Ryan would be safe as long as I did what Bluefish wanted. But Tony disappearing with the bookie’s hundred grand and Talbot’s murder dramatically changes that wishful assessment. Branchtown is turning ugly, especially for me and mine. Susan has to relocate our children someplace even I don’t know about.
A man doesn’t like to think he could be tortured into giving up his child ren’s whereabouts. But why take the chance? I am a stockbroker.
Crossing the train tracks, I glance across Broad Street toward Luis’s Mexican Grill. Luis’s and Umberto’s cars are parked there every day except Monday, but I’m earlier than usual, curious if I’ve beat them to work.
Both cars are there, Umberto’s fifteen-year-old Ford clunker and Luis’s well-maintained red Jeep, but something else quickly grabs my eye. Something that kicks my heart into race mode: A fast-rising column of black smoke gushes from one of the restaurant’s side windows.
Fire.
I have the Camry in a left turn anyway, so all I have to do is hold the wheel a little longer to snap a U-turn across both northbound lanes of Broad Street. See how easy? Now my little Japanese import bounces right back into Luis’s gravel and asphalt parking lot. Who cares if a Branchtown cabby shows me his middle finger?
I dig inside my coa t for the cell phone as I slide to a stop. The front suspension bottoms as the car skids across the gravel.
The 9-1-1 lady gets my name and Luis’s address, but I say no when she asks me to stay on the line.
“I’m going inside,” I say.
The kitchen door i s unlocked. Black smoke chokes the room from ceiling to my waist, a solid hot mass, the line between black and clear a sharply defined slash across the rectangular space. The top of the long, food prep table is already invisible.
I fall to my hands and knees and scurry like a rat along the wooden legs. Heat radiates on my back like the noon summer sun. My knees crack and shout with pain on Luis’s imported Mexican tile.
I had to wear the Canali, right?
Umberto lies near the kitchen’s twin stainless steel sinks he and Luis use to wash vegetables. I check the chef’s pulse. It’s strong and steady. There’s no sign of Luis.
I grab Umberto’s collar and drag him toward the back door. I duck walk to keep my head out of the smoke. Thank God the pint -sized Umberto doesn’t weigh much more than Beth. I have him outside on the back steps before I can say roasted pablano chili.
He coughs. Breathing fine on his own.
Crawling back inside, I see the mass of hot black smoke engulfs the top three quarters of the kitchen. I have to get lower than before, snaking along like some Marine recruit dodging barbed-wire. The low, cleaner air is hotter, too. My lungs tell me to turn back.
I wheel right at the twin sinks on my way into the main dining room. My navy blue
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