43. Plotters at the Dead End
Bert Nagy lurked in the remotest corner of the pub with his bucket of brews and an extra large meat-lovers pizza. The beer and the comfort food were bringing him little comfort today. Elsewhere in the room, people were socializing, watching sports on the various screens, and having a general good time. Occasionally, someone would glance toward Bert’s gloom corner, then quickly look another direction.
This was to have been ‘Decompression Day.’ After the upset of the killing and hassles with the police, this was to be the day that he’d relax, take stock, and plan his escape.
His idea was to proceed slow and cautious until things settled down. Just continue with his landscaping business for a while; then sell it off, admitting he was not the entrepreneurial type, and go back to a regular job. Then after a year had passed, eighteen months at most – off to the Caribbean and a life of adventure! Just unload Sally and the kids and get out.
But what did any of this matter now? Why did that s.o.b. have to spoil everything with a goddam heart attack?
Bert had come to the house during the initial hubbub, seen Frank Armstrong sprawled on the floor with that egg-head doctor attending him and Mrs. Armstrong standing by, shell shocked. He’d got the hell out as quickly as possible, lest somebody associate him with the ‘tragic incident.’
He’d hit the bars hard and late after that, trying to get his head around the baffling turn of events. Then there was the fight with Sally when he finally got home. That had really blown the roof off the house. Imagine, she’d actually accused him of seeing another woman! If she only knew.
Damn!
Bert pulled another beer out of the bucket, wrenched off the cap, and drained most of it in one agonized gulp.
“Whoa there, honey, take it easy!” a feminine voice cautioned.
Bert looked up over to see Angela standing nearby with her signature Piña Colada in her hand.
“You look like you could use some company,” Angela said. “Mind if I join you?”
“Mmm,” Bert grunted noncommittally.
Angela sat down beside him. She was past 40 now, though still fairly attractive. Her hooker days were in the past, she’d said, except for the occasional tumble with somebody she “really liked.” She was something of a fixture in various establishments now, socializing away her days in idle gossip with bar tenders and patrons.
She lived by a simple philosophy; Bert had overheard her express it once to a group of yowling, heavy-drinking women:
“I’m telling you, girls,” Angela had said, “we’ve got the pussy, so we’ve got the power. And if we’re willing to give blow jobs, we’ve got even more power!”
She was quieter and more sober today.
“Drowning your sorrows, are you Bertie?” she asked.
He grunted again and gestured toward the pizza.
“Oh, no thanks,” Angela said, “that looks way too macho for me. I’m more the Hawaiian pizza type, with lots of pineapple.”
Bert flinched at the mention of another tropical paradise he would never get to visit. He drained the rest of the beer and opened another one. Angela might be poor company, but at least she created a bit of diversion in his vast wasteland of loneliness and frustration – if she’d just keep from blabbing too much!
She sat smiling at him, waiting for him to talk, but Bert had gone back to his poisonous musings.
His phone calls to Mrs. Armstrong had gone unanswered, and earlier today he’d been turned away from the gate by some goon with a watch dog and an automatic pistol bulge under his jacket. Hell, Bert had even brought some fresh plants to repair the flower garden. This was all the thanks he got!
He figured that Mrs. Armstrong owed him something – maybe not the whole $625,000, but something substantial. Hadn’t he set everything up, overcome his moral scruples, put himself at great risk? Hell, he’d done his part; he didn’t tell the guy to have a heart attack! And now he was being treated like a total stranger.
But what could he do about it – try to blackmail Mrs. Armstrong, talk to the cops? There had to be some angle.
“You look like you’ve lost your best friend, Bertie” Angela said. “You want to tell me about it?”
Bert looked dully at her through his alcohol buzz. She was smiling at him warmly, sympathetically. Her hand rested on his forearm, and her leg pressed against his.
Damn, she’s coming on to me! Bert realized with a start; she must be in a cash crunch and hoping for a quick score.
The thought was profoundly depressing. With her blond hair, long legs, and coquettish manner, Angela resembled the Nordic bombshell of his Cayman Island fantasy. Hell, she may have been the unconscious inspiration for it, but she was twenty years too late. The waitress approached.
“Can I get you folks anything else?” she asked.
Bert looked up at the smiling black woman standing beside the table. He could tell by her face that she had once been very attractive. She’d since spread out into comfortable middle age, though, and could be overheard talking about her grandchildren. Her presence completed the parody of his island dream. He felt a desperate need to get away.
“Uh ... no thanks.” Bert gestured toward the pizza. “If you could just box this up.”
“Sure thing.”
The waitress hauled away the metal stand with the leftovers. Bert scrambled to his feet, withdrawing himself from Angela’s clutches.
“Leaving so soon,” Angela pouted.
“Yeah ... uh, I’ve got some things to take care of.”
Which was true enough. Bert was going to a funeral.
$$$
Across town in another, far more upscale, establishment, Henry and Patricia Armstrong were commiserating over drinks and appetizers.
“I’m telling you, Sis,” Henry said, “we’re going to have to settle with her, the quicker the better.”
Patricia gazed icily over the rim of her vodka martini at her younger sibling.
“So, the cocktail waitress has won then?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t put it quite that way,” Henry said. “But Hogan’s got things boxed up. The way I see it, the sooner we make a deal the more reasonable he’s apt to be.”
“Never underestimate the power of a cute ass,” Patricia muttered.
“Or a good lawyer,” Henry added.
He didn’t mention Franks’ abrupt dismissal of his law firm from all aspects of his business. Blackjack Hogan would certainly mention this inconvenient fact during any legal proceedings, though. It served to weaken their position.
Face it, Laila was a lot smarter than either of them had thought. Hell, they couldn’t even get into Dad’s home office to see what information might be stored there. Hogan had doubtless hauled off anything of importance, anyway.
And who could tell what other dirt Blackjack might have on him? There was plenty, God knows – the shady deals, the trysts. Hogan was a street brawler, and he’d use every weapon at his disposal if it came to a fight.
“That bastard!” Patricia said. “Why don’t we go to court, anyway?”
“We can either drag it out for years to an uncertain outcome,” Henry said, “or we can settle now and salvage as much as we can. Hogan understands this quite well. I think he’ll deal.”
“As I said, there’s no justice in this world,” Patricia replied.
“Look at it from Laila’s viewpoint,” Henry said.
“Oh, please!” Patricia said.
“She’s not interested in taking over Dad’s business interests,” Henry said. “She wants to sell out and move on to the next rich sucker. She’ll get rid of the house, too, I’d imagine. Why stick around with memories of Dad lying on the stairs?”
“She probably pushed him,” Patricia said.
“Come on, Sis,” Henry said. “How could she have possibly timed something like that? I mean, Dr. Keating was on his way; he arrived only moments later.”
Patricia knew her brother was right. There was no evidence of foul play
; the autopsy had revealed nothing except for some traces of prescription pain medication. The heart attack had been a bad one and might have killed their father, even if he hadn’t broken his neck falling on the stairs.
But she couldn’t shake the idea that everything was, somehow, Laila’s doing. The thought that her blackmail attempt might have overstressed her father and contributed to his demise was much too frightening to entertain. She swiftly redirected the conversation.
“So, now you’re thinking of somebody else’s viewpoint besides your own,” she said. “You’re making progress, Henny.”
Henry speared a raw oyster out its half shell and bathed it in horseradish sauce.
“Those will give you indigestion,” Patricia said.
Henry swallowed the oyster, not bothering to reply.
Patricia was mortified about her failed plot, and she didn’t dare breathe a word of it to her brother. Rest assured Hogan knew plenty, though, and he wouldn’t hesitate to use it against her.
Of all the stupid, amateurish things to pull! She’d foolishly assumed that Dad would fly off the handle and tell Laila where to get off – as he did with any unsatisfactory person he’d hired. The woman was an obvious gold digger, anybody could see that, why couldn’t he? Patricia thought she was doing him a favor, a kind of ‘tough love.’
And she’d wanted to hurt him because of what he’d done to Mom. As much as she tried to deny this fact, it was still true.
She should have done something to make sure that Frost character kept his mouth shut, told him she’d top any payment that Blackjack Hogan offered him. But she hadn’t factored in Hogan at all. She’d botched everything. If only she could undo the whole damned mess! If only she could tell her father how much she really cared about him.
Too late. Dad was an emotional porcupine, always pushing her away, and now he was gone. The final email she’d received from him stabbed at her heart.
The waitress approached.
“Are you ready to order now?” she said.
“I’ll take the prime rib,” Patricia said, “very rare.”