Four silk ties bound Caroline Ames’ ankles and wrists to the bedposts. Johnny checked her gag. A muffled shriek escaped from the corner of her mouth and he deciphered the fury flashing from her eyes as a promise to scratch his eyes, if she was freed. He had no pity for Charles’ sister. She should have been the one kidnapped, not Tammi. Johnny should be sitting at the Ocean Club celebrating a record contract with the rest of the band and he tied the gag tighter. “Sorry, Caroline, I’m only doing my job."
Johnny left the bedroom and wandered into the greenhouse, overrun with tropical plants. Their exotic perfumes were intoxicating to a sense of smell more accustomed to the odors of Times Square. The greenhouse’s real treasure was a view as close to heaven as this side of dying. The Queenborough Bridge was lit by the thousands of cars heading home and 57th Street glowed with decorations. It was getting to look a lot like the Christmas diorama in Macy’s, until he turned his head and saw Charles and Bobby in the living room.
They were waiting for the clock to hit 4:30. It was only ten minutes from here to West 44th Street. Then it was the money in exchange for Tammi. She was worth $100,000 to just one person. Voicing his suspicions about Bobby’s involvement would only further imperil Tammi or plant doubts in Charles’ mind about his own guilt, so Johnny decided to the best tactic was to say nothing.
Go along for the ride.
Take his cut.
Do nothing and no one gets hurt.
But he knew better than that and he walked into the living room, where Sean Tempo lay on the sofa with his eyes shut. Someone had been hurt. Caroline was tied up in the next room. Sgt. Weinstein was somewhere. They were the least of his concerns, because Tammi was being held by strangers. Strangers to him, but not Bobby, who was wearing a black turtleneck, slack, and heavy boots. Charles knew nothing and this ignorance wouldn’t grant him a reprieve. Johnny glanced at the wall clock. "It's 4:30.”
"Then it’s time to go." Bobby was getting anxious. Anyone would in his situation.
“We have everything.” Charles had never been in this situation and his body felt useless, but this was about money, Tammi, her being with him, his being with her, and nothing else. He handed the case to Bobby. "Than let's go."
“You understand you don’t have to go.” Bobby grabbed his jacket. “None of us have to go. We can call the police.”
“It’s too late for that.”
“Okay, you’re the boss.” The weight of $100,000 matched the identical briefcase in the trunk of the Lincoln. They started for the door, but stopped when Sean announced, "I'm going too."
"He’s not coming." Bobby flashed a warning to Johnny, who stood before the car thief.
"Sean, you’re staying here.”
“I want to speak with Tammi.” Sean blinked like a fighter informed his corner had thrown in the towel and Bobby slammed his fist against the wall. "Now’s not the time for this."
"Then let me speak with Tammi.”
"We're getting her," Charles' expression betrayed that this wasn't a case of fetching her from a new boyfriend and Sean grabbed the millionaire. “I’ll go with you.”
“You can’t.” Johnny restrained him gently.
“And why not?”
"She was kidnapped," Charles said through a wavering echo.
“Then I have to help her.” Sean wavered on his feet and fell onto the sofa. Johnny examined him. He was breathing swallow and his eyes were disconnected with this world. He was hurt worse than any of them suspected. Johnny should really stay with him, however if he let Bobby and Johnny go, the money or Tammi were at risk.
The other two men waited at the elevator.
Bobby held the doors apart. Johnny had to decide fast.
$10,000 was $10,000. It would take care of him and Frankie no matter what happened next. They needed that edge and he told Sean, “We’ll be back soon with Tammi.”
The ex-hippie didn’t respond. It wasn’t a good sign, but he stepped into the elevator.
Bobby pressed the down button and looked at the other two men.
Charles was a rich cripple and Johnny had pulled off countless relatively harmless small-time scores. Neither of them had been involved in anything this serious, but they were probably experiencing the same rush of adrenaline awakening his senses. Now came the hard part. Doing what they were told, instead of what they thought they should do. "We reach this place, keep your heads down. They’re expecting one person, not three.”
"We understand.” Johnny and Charles entertained opposing plans of action and inaction for the drop site.
"Good, this goes smoothly and no one gets hurt," Bobby announced and the trio filed from the elevator to the Lincoln. Charles and Johnny sat in the rear, while he placed the money in the trunk. The bogus case was under the tire. Settling behind the wheel, he glanced in the rear-view mirror at Johnny. He would hate to have to kill him, but fixing a fuck-up was always messy. Starting the car, he said, “Remember, keep your heads down.”
On the ride over to Hell’s Kitchen. Charles Ames III nervously tapped the window. Time was measured at another speed other than minutes. Closer to seconds. Lights changed fast. Blocks went by quick. It was dark. No one was on the streets of Hell’s Kitchen. Only the three of them. Tammi and her kidnappers. The only people in the world. A little over a month ago Charles had been riding in this car; a zombie awaiting his burial. Now he was excited and castigated himself to succumbing to such a cheap thrill. This was no ‘snuff’ film on 42nd Street. This was his life. Tammi’s life too and his fears outbalanced his doubtful exhilaration. "What if this is just a test?"
“No, this is not test.” This was a fuck-up.
“But if it is?”
"Then we return to your place and wait or call the police in," Bobby answered, nearing West 44th Street. The neglected street was the ideal setting for the exchange. The bankrupt city was running the streetlight on 75% power, which barely illuminated the sidewalks. He parked the car on the corner of 10th Avenue. No one was on the
telephone. The street was clear of cops. Two attendants were filling cars in the gas station. He pulled up on the door latch. "I’m going to the payphone. They say where and when. I drop the money and we rescue Tammi.”
"If all goes wells.” Johnny let out.
"It has so far." Bobby wished the guitarist would shut his mouth. “Just keep your heads down.”
Bobby walked to the phone and waited for it to ring.
5pm came.
Louie wasn’t at the next phone booth.
No ring.
Bobby lifted the receiver and he spoke to the dial tone, hoping to fake any observers into assuming he was conversing with the kidnappers. After hanging up, he sat in the car. "I have to wait two more minutes for another call."
"Then what?" Charles asked, wishing Tammi and he were in his penthouse. He didn’t belong out here. This was someone else’s job.
"I take the money to the drop-off spot."
"And they give us Tammi?" Charles was no hero.
No one was, if they were in their right mind.
"That's supposedly the deal." In junior high school Bobby had read a short story about the kidnappers had taken a pain-in-the-ass hostage whom they released before receiving a penny of the ransom. The title and author escaped him and Bobby worried that Benny might have attempted to rewrite a more brutal version of his scheme. It was the only explanation for the phone not ringing. “Pretty simple, right?”
“You give them the money and I save Tammi." It was much too late to heed his sister’s warning.
"Just like we planned, boss." Bobby opened the door and walked to the corner, expecting the phone to ring.
The wind stirred the loose papers on the sidewalk.
The telephone didn’t ring.
He picked up the receiver, pretending to listen to instructions. This set-up was compromised and he surveyed the street. Charles might have called the police, Benny and Gucci Cucci might have killed Louie, and Tammi could be alive or dead. There was $100,000 in the trunk. He could throw Charles and Johnny out of the street and drive away. There was nothing stopping him, but his loyalty to Louie and his vow to not let Tammi get hurt. He returned to the car.
Bobby had to stick to his original plans and unloaded the fugazi case crammed with newspapers. He shut the trunk and walked to the bridge, tossing the phony package over the side. It landed with a thump. Five seconds later a fat man in black retrieved the case and ran north. At least Richie had followed his instructions.
"Now what?" Charles asked, as Bobby slipped behind the wheel. "We go to 416 West 45th Street. The door will be unlocked. We rescue Tammi and then home."
The Lincoln rolled along the uneven street to 416. The silence at the payphone warned of the danger waiting inside the warehouse. Bobby swore for being unarmed and pleaded for the protection of his mother’s rosaries. He parked the car before the garage and advised the two men scrunched in the back. “Let me check this. I’ll be responsible, if anything bad happens.”
"Responsible?" Charles asked, worried about no one driving the car.
"Yeah, rich people tend to blame the poor for crimes they commit, so don’t worry about nothing.” Bobby slammed shut the car door and strode up to the garage, yanking on the door. It was locked. Driving away was the smartest back-up plan, but he owed Louie and Tammi and popped the trunk of the Lincoln, pushing aside the case with the money and pulling a steel tire iron from underneath the spare tire.
“Anything wrong?” Charles had left the car.
“I told you to stay inside.” Bobby wasn’t preventing him from being a hero any longer.
“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” The street’s quiet had temporarily calmed Charles’ anxiety.
“Which is all the more reason for you not to be standing in the street.” It was his life or death and he could make his own stupid decisions. Bobby pried the tire iron between the jamb and the door. One shove snapped the interior lock and the door swung inward.
"Maybe Tammi’s not here." Charles peered into the gloomy interior.
“Stop speculating on what you don’t know.” Bobby walked inside the garage with the crowbar firmly clasp in his hand as a weapon. Beer bottles were scattered on a makeshift table near the office and cards were spread over the oily floor. The idiots hadn't bothered to police the garage before leaving was hardly encouraging and neither was the sight of mayhem in the office.
Tammi lay on the floor. She didn’t show any signs of injury, although Benny Bottles was leaning against the wall, his shirt stained red by numerous punctures in his chest. Blood seeped from a cut in Louie’s head. At least he was breathing. He moved swiftly to Tammi and tore out her gag. “Tammi, it’s Bobby.”
“You’re safe now.” Charles ripped off the tape binding her wrists. She threw her arms around his neck and said, “Thank God, you found me. One of the men tried to rape me, they fought___"
“Sssh, you can explain about it afterwards.” Charles unwound the tape from her ankles.
“Yeah, we have to get out of here.” Bobby dragged the younger man’s body from the office.
“Isn’t that a job for the police?” Charles tried to help Tammi and a sharp pain seared his spine. Their roles were instantly reversed and she hauled him to his feet.
“We want to get involved in this?”
Tammi and Charles shook their heads.
"Once the police find them, they'll be asking questions and even more if the bodies were moved from their original locations. Questions they can’t answer or connect to us. I’ll be out in a couple of minutes.”
Bobby hadn’t failed them yet and they left the office, using the faint light from the door to guide them through the garage. On the sidewalk Tammi asked, "Why me?”
“With that blonde wig, they must have mistaken you for Caroline.” Charles had earned the right for Tammi to appreciate his role in her rescue and told her directly, “I had to pay a ransom for you."
In the faint chrome streetlight Tammi appeared confused. “Ransom?”
“$100,000.”
“I’m not worth $10,000.” She threw the blonde wig in the gutter.
“Yes, you are.” Charles led her to the Lincoln. Johnny Darling opened the left rear door. Concern tattooed his face. "Tammi, you hurt?"
Despite her thirst, hunger, and weariness, she was bursting with life. "Not yet.”
“You want a hospital?” Johnny had to say the next words. “Or the Police?”
“No, all I want is a long bath and a night's sleep. Have you seen Sean?"
Charles had paid $100,000, gone inside a dark building to free her, and she had asked about Sean. He had to hurt her and stated plainly, "He's with Caroline."
Charles pushed her inside the Lincoln, leaving Johnny on the street. The millionaire’s lying was immoral. $10,000 or not, Tammi deserved the truth, however Johnny coughed convulsively for about fifteen seconds before spitting a blood-speckled gob. A chill congealed in his bones.
Bobby emerged from the building. "Let's go."
"The sooner the better.” Johnny nearly fainted against the hood.
“You okay?” Bobby helped the guitarist into the front and glimpsed into the back.
Tammi was resting in Charles’ arms. The money was in the trunk. Louie and Richie were on their way to Brooklyn. Their lives were worth spit once the news about Benny
Bottles hit the street. He had given Louie the cash in his pocket and told them to hide far from Brooklyn. They said they couldn’t and he understood, because before this job all he had ever known was Brooklyn. Working for Charles and meeting GTH had broadened his outlook on the world. After he dropped Johnny, Tammi, and Charles at the penthouse, he was getting on a plane and heading to Florida and finding a job in a retirement colony, in which no one had heard the name Gucci Cucci.
Unexpectedly the tires peeled rubber and a V-8 engine revved behind him. Headlights blinded him. He jumped in the air too late. The hood clipped his feet and Bobby landed hard on the pavement. The impact knocked the wind from his lungs and he fought to get his breath, as a masked man in Gucci clothing slipped of the Chrysler and aimed the muzzle at the Lincoln's occupants as a warning to stay in the car. Bobby struggled to his knees and Sal Cucci said, "Gimme the money."
"I threw it over the bridge to Richie." Undoubtedly Sal intended on killing him.
"Richie and Benny met with___"
“I’m not stupid." Gucci Cucci had followed the kidnappers to this safe house. He had sat in the car throughout the day drinking coffee and listening to the radio. He had seen Bobby arrive on the corner, make the phone call, throw a bag over the bridge, break into the garage, and lead the others onto the street, except he was no fool and hissed, "That was a fugazi for the dummies in the car. Where is it?"
"Back in the penthouse." Bobby groaned nearly inaudibly.
"I believe you, but my friend." Sal hefted the shotgun in his hands. "My friend thinks you're lyin’."
"Shoot me and you'll never find it." Begging wasn’t buying Bobby a second closer to Christmas.
"I bet the house it's in the trunk, so cross yourself, cuz your next destination is Hell." No one had to aim a shotgun at this distance.
Johnny Darling had witnessed countless robberies, rip-offs, and beatings on the Strip and realized once the masked man killed Bobby, they were next. Instead of running he inexplicably rushed the larger man, who swung the shotgun's twin maws away from Bobby. Johnny was dead man, but only for a second, because the driver kicked the masked attacker in the knee.
The shotgun unleashed a lethal hail of steel balls harmlessly against 416's brick façade. The masked man grabbed Johnny’s jacket and three fishing hooks pierced his fingers. “Shit.”
A shotgun butt to his head plopped Johnny on his knees and the killer jerked his hand free, splattering blood over the young man's face. "You fuck. You stupid fuck."
T
he masked killer re-loaded the shotgun and Johnny told himself, "So this is it. Shot dead in the gutter bleeding to death. Never to love, only to cry.”
Then from deep inside him music erupted to match the words and create a song without the time to finish it. He adlibbed the lyrics to an old reggae beat. "No one to love, no one to cry. No one to love, no one to cry."
The beauty of the young man's voice stalled Sal Cucci from pulling the trigger and Johnny needed to fix the hook, bridge, and refrain in his mind. It was no Top Ten hit and the shooter’s hand tensed on the trigger. “Nice last words.”
A late-model sedan crashed solidly into masked man. His body flew about thirty feet into a heap of trash piled against a building and Johnny muttered, "Thank you, Jesus."
Sgt. Weinstein manhandled his body from the Valiant.
"No one move."
Bobby acted above suspicion. "Thanks, I thought I was a dead man."
"You still might be, if you don't shut your hole." Sgt. Weinstein picked the shotgun and walked to the fallen man. The detective ripped off the mask, arching his eyebrows in recognition. Sal Cucci was a reputed Mafia boss and he turned to the driver. “He a friend on yours?"
"No." Bobby grimaced at how false the one word sounded.
"Sure.” Sgt. Weinstein wasn’t supposed to have hurt anyone tonight. Just a simple arrest for a bank robbery, a few charges about abduction, not a murder and he ordered the driver, “You stay right there.”
“Yes, sir.” Bobby was in no condition to move right now.
“You’re wondering why I’m here.” Sgt. Weinstein lifted Johnny, avoiding the jacket lapels. “I was following you and your friend from the Terminal Hotel. One thing led to another. I have a few questions and spare me any wise-ass answers. Your friend, Tempo, he here?”
Johnny coughed, as a corkscrewing giant worm burrowed into his lungs. He wasn’t spending the night in jail in this state and he said, “Sean was hit over the head by the kidnappers. Nearly killed him. He’s at Charles’ place.”
“Kidnappers?”
“Yeah, three guys kidnapped Tammi and that guy was with them.”
“Good boy.” The whack to the bass player’s head had been a fitting punishment for his ATM robberies and he eyed the blonde boy in leather with suspicion. "Johnny, were you involved any way in the kidnapping?"
Johnny’s informing Charles Ames III about his driver's part in Tammi's abduction was a strike against him, however only the rich have the luxury of telling the truth. “I knew nothing about it.”
“So why they kidnap an under-aged stripper?"
"They mistook her for Charles’ sister. He was sweet on her, so they hit him up for $100,000.”
“The fuck-ups.” Sgt. Weinstein had seen the driver throw a case over the bridge and walked over to Bobby. He stuck his hand inside his jacket and withdrew his wallet. The driver’s license snitched his identity. His address was in Brooklyn. Sal Cucci’s fiefdom and he stuck the muzzle of the revolver under the driver’s jaw. "Where’s the money?"
Bobby appreciated the irony of Johnny turning Gucci Cucci into the scapegoat, but he also suspected the detective wasn’t shy about pulling the trigger. Still he wasn’t giving him the money. “I threw it over the bridge.”
“Bullshit.”
Inside the Lincoln Tammi begged Charles, "You have to help them."
"Help them?" Three people had died. His driver was close to becoming number four and Charles did not intend to be number five. The windows were bulletproof. He had Tammi and they had their entire lives were in front of them. No one was stealing that from him.
"You can't just do nothing." Tammi shrieked frantically trying to leave the car.
She was right. He had to do something to prove his worth and opened the door. “Stay in the car.”
The detective glared at him. "Don’t be a hero, Mr. Ames.”
“How do you know my name?”
“It’s part of my job.”
"He came to help me." Charles was amazed that neither a shotgun blast nor a vehicular death had brought a single citizen out on the woodwork, however people in Hell’s Kitchen knew how to mind their business. "You can’t get away with this."
The detective spun on the rich kid so fast that he jumped back a step. "I rescued the four of you from getting killed and you have the balls to threaten me. Go back to your little penthouse and have yourself a Merry Little Christmas."
"I'm not leaving my driver or Johnny." Charles owed them that much.
“A man is dead. Someone has to take the heat and that's gonna be Guido." He turned around to Johnny, sitting on the curb with his arms wrapped around his chest. “And me and him got things to talk about.”
Bobby was happy to be alive and not having any broken bones, but raised an eyebrow to establish a mental link with Johnny Darling. If the cop found the money, they were bound for prison. Thankfully he was placing his faith in a person as selfish as himself. Johnny slowly walked over to Charles Ames III. "I'll handle this."
No one had done anything for him in years. No one but GTH.
“You would do the same for me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
“I am.” He laid his hand on Charles’ shoulder and led him to the car.
Once the millionaire was inside, Sgt. Weinstein chortled, “I’m very impressed.”
“You have a low opinion of me for the wrong reasons.” Johnny stifled a cough.
“Johnny, I’m not a rich kid or runaway.”
“I have to speak with you in private.”
“I’m all ears.” Sgt. Weinstein lowered the muzzle of the .38 from underneath Bobby Vacca's chin and walked Johnny to the front of the garage.
"Let us go," the blonde guitarist pleaded simply.
"Your friend, Sean, was robbing ATMs. You were involved. That runaway was kidnapped, so was Charles’ sister.”
“By her brother.”
“Still a crime.” A little shove across the line would transform Johnny into the best snitch in Times Square and the detective was adept at shoving him to the brink. “That dead man’s name is Sal Cucci. A Mafia thug from Brooklyn. Normally dead man keep their mouths shut, but that stiff has a big mouth, so you're asking a lot for nothing in return."
"One, I'll say nothing about the car crash and so will the rich kid, who is only interested in keeping his name out of the newspapers." Johnny cleared his throat.
"Sean’s barely conscious, the girl is glad this is over, the dead man is a total stranger, and I swear the driver’s not connected to the kidnapping."
“The money?”
“He threw it over the bridge. I guess an accomplice was waiting for it.”
“You expect me to believe that?" Two out of five was asking too much.
“Have I ever lied to you?” It was the most believable answer to his question.
“So you expect a free ride?” Sgt. Weinstein stood with his hands on his hips. “In return for what?”
“You’ve been hassling me for information about petty drug dealers and hustlers.”
Johnny leaned closer to the detective. "There are hundreds of them in Times Square and thousands more in the wings, but if I’ve learned anything in the last two years, it’s that the DA doesn’t give anyone a ‘get-out-of-jail-free card for ratting out petty criminals.”
“So you’re snitching up?”
“It’s the only way to go.” He had heard more than just about Times Square. “There’s this Russian émigré from Odessa. Viktor Malenski. He moved from Odessa to Brighton Beach and starts trafficking in stolen icons, then gets into selling counterfeit dollars for the KGB. He’s protected by the FBI. There are police involved on pay-offs. Jimmie the Bagman and the 20th Precinct.”
“Bullshit.”
“No, and this get a lot bigger.”
Sgt. Weinstein had heard the Russians were pushing the Jews out of Manhattan Beach, however no one had said anything about them papering the town with forged money for Uncle Sugar. He motioned Johnny to sit in the Valiant. “Guess good things come to those that wait."
"Can we speak tomorrow?" If becoming a snitch saved the rest of them, his sacrifice was worth the sell-out.
“You expect me to trust you?”
“No, but I’m in no condition to run.” Johnny extended his hand to the detective. "I give you my word.”
The weariness in Johnny's voice sold his surrender. He wasn’t leaving New York. Not tonight. Not ever. "Johnny, you're mine now. You gotta tell me your secrets.”
"I’ll do you one better I’ll you other people’s too, if you give Sean a miss.”
“You come through, why not?” The ATM robberies were history and Sgt. Weinstein holstered his .38. ”This bites me in the ass and you'll pay for it with a bullet.”
“I know.” Johnny lowered his head in submission and Sgt. Weinstein motioned the driver to the Lincoln. An anonymous call to 911 and fifteen minutes later the boys in blue would clean up the mess. They could write it up however they thought best. The reporters would do the same. “Now beat it before I change my mind and don’t try running.”
“Run. I can barely walk.”
“Well, I'll be watching you and if not me another dedicated police officer.”
“I’m surprised NYPD has two.”
“Maybe even four.” He personally knew at least ten.
‘Then I’m your man.”
“I know.”
Sgt. Weinstein wouldn't forget this promise and Johnny slumped into the front seat of the Lincoln. “Head over to Charles’ place."
“Are we okay?” Bobby asked, feeling his ribs for broken bones.
“For the moment.”
The Lincoln proceeded down West 45th Street and turned onto 10th Avenue. The unmarked police car followed, leaving the street deserted, until the rats crawled onto the sidewalk. They sniffed along the crimson trickle to Sal Gacca's corpse and then squeaked a message that emptied the gutters. It wasn't a pretty sight and once a newspaper blew over Sal's face, the party was on.
Neither Charles nor Tammi spoke in the back seat.
The streets became more populated on 8th Avenue. People were going to the theater. Dealers were hanging out on the corners. It was the holidays. Life was going on as if nothing had happened to her, but despite the explanation about the mistaken identity, she still couldn’t understand why two men had been killed and another was smashed by a car. All for her. Charles had paid her ransom and gone onto the street to save Johnny.
All for her. She wasn’t worth it. Not as a runaway or a rock singer or anything else. She was nothing and sighed heavily, praying no further nightmares answered her doubts.
"Shouldn’t you go to a hospital?" Charles asked, desperate to delay the upcoming meeting between Sean and the teenager.
"I'm okay, really.” Tammi rested her head on Charles Ames III's shoulder, ashamed that she had even contemplated his involvement in this kidnapping. He had paid the ransom for no other reason than he cared for her. He should have known better.
“Are you sure?” Charles held her closer.
"I’m just a little hungry."
“The first food I craved after my accident was a cheeseburger, fries, and a shake.”
The hospital had given him a bowl of chicken soup and Caroline had smuggled in a cheeseburger. She had fed him by hand. The taste had reaffirmed his return to life, even if he had gagged it up in his sleep.
“Sounds divine.” Charles’ tenderness was touching and she was extremely grateful for his saving her.
“I can order the same.” Charles breathed in her day-old odor as a precious perfume.
"I have no home." Only a plastic bag at Josie’s apartment.
"There’s always my place.” His body was veering out of control and he withdrew his hand from her hair. “I’m not the same person I was yesterday or a month ago. GTH changed my life and so did you, but it is meaningless, if I have no one.”
A month ago she had been proving her worth by allowing men to fuck her.
"Charles, I'm no good."
"You’ve been told that for too long." Charles believed in his new power to effect people’s lives. Tammi could attend school or they could travel around the world. He would address her every material desires. No matter the cost. “I could help you be someone else.”
“Someone else?” A total transformation wouldn’t resurrect her father or erase the years as Kittery’s town pump, yet she wasn’t throwing away his offer for a car thief. yet. “Charles, I was someone else once. A boy I loved told people a lie about me. No one wanted to believe me. I became what they wanted without ever fighting them other than by being what they wanted. And now you’re asking me to do the same.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Not to you.” She realized he was trying to help her, but also that he didn’t see the similarities between his offer and the girls in Kittery calling her a slut. She wasn’t sure that she did either. “Can I sleep on it?”
"Sure.” Charles was hurt by her hesitancy and Tammi caressed his hand. “And I’ll stay at your place tonight.”
Hope napalmed the ashes of his despair and he tapped the window. "Home."
"Where else were we going?" Bobby asked once the separating window shut.
"Florida is good this time of year," Johnny chattered with his hands splayed before the heater. He yearned for his bed in Orlando. It was clean. His mother made him breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She would nurse him back to health. He had money. His father would speak to the police. He would be a good boy, only he was twenty and his boyhood had been over since he was twelve.
"I'd take my mother's house in Bensonhurst." He wasn’t showing his face in Brooklyn for a long time. Louie and Richie might think it was safe, but this night was a ticking death sentence. "You think our friend in the back suspects anything?"
"Suspects?" Johnny was surprised by Bobby’s admission of guilt. “This was his only shot to win Tammi, so for the moment he’s the least of your problems.”
"Yeah, tell me about it.” Louie Zip and Richie Manucci had sworn tonight’s events to secrecy, but if the press connected the death of two mafia thugs in Hell’s Kitchen to a millionaire rescuing a punk runaway, then it was national news, however no one, Johnny, Charles, Tammi, or that cop were talking to any reporters.
"It wasn’t supposed to work this way, was it?” Johnny’s cost of his $10,000 was becoming Sgt. Weinstein’s snitch. A narc. A squealer. The lowest of the low and there was no running from the overweight detective.
“No, it wasn’t, but that guy must have seen everything. Who was he? A cop?”
“No, and not a friend either.” Johnny checked Charles and Tammi. They weren’t being trailed by the undercover Valiant. Everything worked out in favor of the rich kid. It always did. “I'll be needing my money soon and don't insult my intelligence by saying you really threw $100,000 over the bridge."
Johnny's ten percent was $10,000. 99% of the city's murder victims died for less and at 57th and 10th Bobby announced, “Killing you would be a snap.”
“Most murders are committed by someone you know.”
“Or a complete stranger.”
“I saved your life.”
“I never asked you to.” Bobby wasn’t admitting how scared he had been with the gun under his chin.
“I’d be $100,000 richer, if I hadn’t.”
“You wouldn’t let him kill me.”
"You’re right and why?”
“Because we’re friends now.”
Boys from Brooklyn avoided gays as the plague and Johnny sat straight. “We are?”
“Yeah, just try not to brag about it.” Bobby slowed through the next intersection.
"That guy would have pulled the trigger, if you hadn't started singing. You know your voice isn’t half-bad."
"And I can see how the girls in Brooklyn fall for you."
"I won't be seeing any of them, if I know what's good for me.”
"You should head to Miami." His promise to Sgt. Weinstein ruined any possibility of the two of them driving to Florida.
“Yeah, I can buy a boat and run charter trips for fishermen.”
“You know anything about boats?”
“Nothing.”
“Every movie I’ve seen about a charter skipper begins with him broke and some crook offering him a suicidal deal.” Humphrey Bogart had played the bankrupt sea captain in KEY LARGO and TO HAVE AND HAVE NOT. In one movie he got the girl and the other he ended up dead.
“Then it sounds perfect for me since I can be the skipper and the crook.” Bobby drove into the basement of the 57th Street high-rise and parked by the elevator bank.
Charles limped from the car and ordered with authority, "Help Tammi."
She wasn’t hurt and shook off his hand, remembering the voices of her kidnappers. The teenager pressed the penthouse button, but no one moved away from the car, for Charles had his hand on the trunk of the Lincoln.
He had his own suspicions.
Bobby’s speaking with the masked man hadn’t been right and Charles had deduced he had switched the money. Johnny and Bobby eyed the trunk. Gratified by this involuntary admission of guilt, he stepped into the elevator and glanced accusingly at each of them. "The less said about tonight the better for all the parties concerned."
"I'm can live with that," Johnny read Charles' statement to mean that despite the $100,000 and two murders, the evening had wound up to his satisfaction.
“Me too.” Any mention of their conspiracy to use Caroline for stealing Sean from Tammi would destroy Charles’ chances with the lead singer.
“My lips are sealed.” Tammi wasn’t mentioning anything about tonight or the kidnapping to anyone. Not unless she wanted the police to drag her back to Maine as a runaway. She was staying in New York.
“Good, I’m glad we all understand each other,” Charles said, then remembered Sean was on the sofa and his sister in the bedroom. It would have been better if he had taken her anywhere, but here, unfortunately it was too late to change their destination, because the elevator doors opened for the penthouse and Tammi called out, "Sean."
He wasn't lying on the couch. The toppled furniture and paintings knocked off the wall marked his path into the bedroom. Loosened restraints hung from the bedposts. Caroline had been freed and Bobby flipped through the possibilities. None were good, though Charles smiled triumphantly, "He must have left with Caroline. You want me to find them?"
"No." Tammi sat on the bed. She had been a fool to think Sean would choose her over a millionairess. “All I need is some food, a shower, and sleep.”
Johnny held her hand. "I forgot to tell you. We have a record deal."
"Record deal?" A spark of life animated her voice.
"Max Levy saw us at CBs. We were supposed to meet him this afternoon.” Johnny had cut a deal about a dead man with Sgt. Weinstein and figured ironing out a missed meeting with Max Levy was no problem. "I'll call him tomorrow.”
"Why bother?" Charles had an alternative route to stardom. "How much it cost to cut a record?"
"An album?" Johnny was surprised Charles remained interested in GTH after tonight.
They didn’t have the material for an LP. "An EP, four, five songs."
"You're joking." Johnny swore to play it straight for the rest of his life.
"No, I'm dead serious." Over the past month Charles had heard various musicians talking about independent record labels to protect their royalties from being raped by the major record companies. Richard Berry had written LOUIE LOUIE. The record company had paid him $750 and another penny more. The Kingsmen hadn’t earned a fraction of their percentage, due to fraudulent accounting practices. GTH would not be cheated by these record scum. Not if he could help it.
"$50,000."
"And if I were to produce the record, GTH gets most of the money?"
"We own 50% of the rights from the producer.”
“There’s no escaping paying them half.”
“Unless we’re the producer, but we still need a distributor."
“No problem.” The millionaire controlled shares in a small classical record company and he had told them to adapt their format in light of recent developments.
"And Sean?" Johnny had a verbal agreement with Sean.
"Sean has chosen his own path," Tammi stated firmly, displacing Johnny as leader of GTH. She owed Sean nothing and hadn’t for weeks. "How hard can it be to find a new bass?"
Johnny held no illusion of the teenager being the main reason Max Levy sought GTH for his label or that Charles Ames III was willing to produce their record and she deserved his backing after tonight’s misadventures. “We can hire a studio musician.
It’d be quicker than conducting auditions.”
"The faster the better.” Tammi touched his hand to show she had been his friend from the beginning. His fingers were unnaturally cold. "Are you okay?"
"I'll be fine after a night’s sleep. You want to come back to the Terminal?”
"No, I'm staying here.” Tammi pointed to Charles’ bedroom and the organist swallowed hard. He had not expected her sharing his bed. She could answer all his dreams. All his fantasies and then some more, but only if she played someone different than who anyone wanted her to be. After the bedroom door closed Johnny said, "I can’t let you take advantage of her."
"Tammi’s fine with her wish being my command." Charles walked into the living room. "Secondly you're in no position to stop me, because Bobby switched the money on the kidnappers.”
“I did___”
“Do yourself a favor and say nothing.”
“And you knew something was up.”
Johnny stood with his mouth agape.
“Yes, I’m not stupid.” Charles straightened the painting on the wall. “We’re lucky your greed failed to kill us. I could ask for the money back. You’d get angry and say things that might hurt Tammi. $100,000 won’t change my life, but being with Tammi might. One thing, Bobby, why you do it?”
Bobby licked his lips. The truth couldn’t get him in trouble with Charles. “My friend was in trouble. He owed a bookie $10,000 for a bet on a basketball game.”
“And for his bad bet three people are dead.”
“Two are the right people.”
“And the third.”
“They are all complete strangers.” No one told all the truth.
“And your friend?”
“He’s safe for now.”
“Good.” Charles turned to Johnny. “Why you get involved?”
“I have a problem with the law.”
“The fat guy back on 45th Street.”
“Yeah.” Johnny was too tired to lie.
“And now?”
“Everything is good.” No one needed to get involved in his mess.
“Then Robert, I’m hiring you as my permanent bodyguard/chauffeur. You’ll understand if I reneged on that $10,000 bonus.”
“I thought it was $20,000.”
“It’s nothing now.” Bobby had $100,000. It was ten times that bonus. These people always wanted more. “But I'll triple your pay, so you won’t have to pull a stupid crime again. Johnny gets to become a star with GTH. There’s no yeses or nos. Bobby, show Johnny out. We'll talk about the record tomorrow."
Charles entered the bedroom.
The door shut and the lock was bolted from inside. Johnny and Bobby regarded each other with bemused amazement. They should have been heading for jail instead of being offered jobs with the Ames family. The rich most certainly didn’t act the same as the poor. Bobby pressed the Down button. “I didn’t expect any of that."
"Neither did I." This morning he had woken with the prospect of signing a record contract. This afternoon he had taken part in a kidnapping/ murder. Tonight he was bound for the stars and stepped into the elevator. It buzzed to the basement. "What now?"
"Nothing." Gucci Cucci and Benny Bottles were dead. Bobby reached into the case, and extracted a wrapped packet of $10,000 in hundreds. It wasn’t much for two people’s death, except they deserved to die for free. “Thanks for your help.”
“I know you were trying to kidnap Caroline. Why?”
“Same story as I told Charles only times five.”
“What you think we would have got for ransom?”
“A bullet in the head.”
“I guess you’re right.” They were no one, but he was happy with that anonymity for tonight and stuck the money inside his leather jacket. A hot flash rushed over his face and he leaned against the Lincoln. Bobby noticed the guitarist’s pallor bleach from gray to white. “You need a ride downtown?”
“No, some fresh air will put me right.” Johnny zippered his jacket and climbed the parking garage’s incline to the street.
The cold air cleared his head and he gazed around the sidewalk. Sean’s Triumph was parked before the hi-rise. Several parking tickets quivered in the wind. He must have gone to the Terminal Hotel, Caroline’s place or even left town for good. He hoped it was the latter for everyone’s sake, but his whereabouts were unimportant, for Johnny had his own choices ahead of him and he wouldn’t discover whether they was good or bad, until it was probably too late.
The police from the 9th Precinct cleared CBGBs. The punks left with words of encouragement or clever insights for guitarist handcuffed to the bar, although Frankie, Dove, and his Russian boyfriend passed without a comment. Charles Ames III stopped to offer the name of a lawyer, except gruff cop ordered him to keep moving and Bobby escorted the crippled organist to the van.
