Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? (31 page)

So it was important to Vasco that Chucky not learn about Bounty, Inc. This, however, made it necessary that he talk to Didi during the week, which was when Didi made such remarks as “What goes around, comes around,” remarks intended not to express an article of faith but to irritate. However, at least on Thursday, Vasco was able to warn Didi what might lie ahead Chucky-wise, and Didi began the work he described as establishing an escape hatch.

But we get ahead of ourselves, because at the moment Connor is leaving the Scorpion Bar with a rising sense of dread. He hurries down a hallway as high and broad as an airport concourse with restaurants and shops, but it's glitzier and no one is flying anywhere, except in the Technicolor imaginations that casinos encourage.

Behind Connor and just exiting the barn-board-adorned Scorpion front door is Jimbo or Jasper Lincoln in that apple green sport coat, and while Connor hurries down the middle of the hallway, Jimbo slides forward along the wall. Back in the bar, Vasco still stands by the small table with the half-finished Pellegrino. His usual composure is absent, and, instead he looks thoughtful and perhaps worried. We mention this because Vasco never looks worried. But now he, too, leaves the bar and turns down the hallway after Jimbo and Connor.

Well, we can't describe Connor's entire journey from the bar to his Mini-Cooper. It's a long way, as might be expected in a place that houses fifty-five hundred slot machines, to say nothing at all of the other varieties of noisy fun. The people we pass drift this way and that, stricken with sensory overload, though no one seems to be feeling the good times advertised on TV. Escalators, elevators, hallways with Connor in the lead, and then Jimbo some distance back and Vasco some distance behind Jimbo.

When Connor at last exits the long hallway onto the rooftop level of the parking garage, we rise above him, though we're a little out of breath. It's a cold night with a clear sky and many stars. Behind us we can hear, faintly, a mix of music as various bands in various venues entertain the crowds. From where we look, the tops of the parked cars and SUVs, in their orderly rows, resemble dozing, multicolored turtles. And there's the small blue roof of Connor's Mini-Cooper in the sixth row, tucked between two hulking SUVs near the rooftop's opposite wall.

Connor isn't running, but almost. He's probably seen Jimbo some distance behind him because of his apple green sport coat, but he hasn't seen his brother. What we see that Connor can't is another man standing between the Mini-Cooper and a blue Grand Cherokee Overland. It's not quite the same blue as Connor's car, but there's enough of a resemblance to make the two vehicles look like a father and son waiting for what comes next, just as the man standing between them waits for what comes next. We don't know this man, but we might recall that he's the man who a day ago shot Otto in the arm, a wound from which Otto has nearly recovered, except for a little understandable stiffness. Otto said that the man was about forty, physically fit, and nicely dressed, and looking at him from above we can see this is true, though from our superior position it's difficult to see his face. And he occasionally stamps his feet, not from petulance but because he's cold.

Now the man in the apple green sport coat hurries through the door and onto the roof of the parking garage. We may realize at this point that he, too, was at Otto's, though he did no shooting, and that he's the associate of the man standing between the Mini-Cooper and Grand Cherokee Overland. One man pursues and the other man waits, while Connor hurries along between them. Although we wish him well, we also feel concerned, not to say pessimistic.

Connor is about two rows from his car when he abruptly notices the man who is waiting. He veers to his left, probably with no specific destination in mind, only wishing to escape. But as Connor turns, he sees the man in the apple green sport coat running toward him.

Well, what's left to say? We see Connor zigzagging between the parked cars as the two men draw closer. We could surely drag this out, because the chase goes on for another two minutes, but in the end, sadly, Connor is caught. Worse, the man who was waiting throws himself at Connor and hits him several times—once in the face and once in the stomach—while the man in the green jacket shoves Connor back toward his associate so he can hit Connor more easily without straining. And the two men are shouting. We're too far away to hear the specific words, but they are angry and threatening. Perhaps we can imagine what's being said.

We've mentioned before that Connor isn't a fighter, but he vigorously flails his arms, and—this is important—purely by accident he hits the man in the green jacket, the man called Jimbo, squarely in the nose.

The thugs step back. They're indignant. Just as Chucky felt offended when Linda called 911, so the thugs are offended when Connor refuses to suffer punishment meekly. It seems unfair, though what's unfair to a thug might seem fair to everyone else. “You'll regret that,” says Jimbo as he wipes blood from his nose with the back of his hand. He stares at it in wonder. Perhaps he's never seen his own blood before and he's surprised it's the same color of the blood of his many past victims. But the job the thugs are meant to carry out is to exact punishment, and Connor's refusal to accept it meekly means they must exact greater punishment. Ask the thugs and they'll say that Connor brought this on himself.

With a strengthened sense of purpose, they step forward, grab Connor by the arms, and drag him toward the edge of the rooftop parking garage. Connor protests by kicking his feet at the other men's legs, but this offends them even more. The garage is several stories high, and the thugs mean to throw Connor over the side. To their minds—dim though they may be—this won't inevitably kill him. He might land on the ground or on the sidewalk. He might land on his head or on his feet. It's up to Fate, meaning they don't feel they should be blamed for whatever happens.

Fate, however, intervenes sooner than expected. Just as the men struggle to lift Connor over the side and send him on his way, there's a gunshot, as there's often a gunshot when a hero needs to be saved. We've nearly forgotten about Vasco, who stands five feet away with a small pistol. The thugs drop Connor, who falls to the concrete surface of the parking garage.

A moment of silence follows as the four men do a little heavy thinking. Then Jimbo says, “He won't do nothing. He's too scared of Chucky.” They again pick up Connor, who feels stunned from his short drop, and begin to wrestle him over the side.

There's another gunshot, and the thug in the green jacket yelps. “He fuckin' shot me in the foot!” He hops up and down on his right foot.

“Your knee is next,” says Vasco.

He tells the men to put their hands on the wall; then he tells Connor to check for weapons. Both carry pistols. Connor throws them over the wall, maybe thinking they'll follow the same trajectory he'd have followed if Vasco hadn't arrived in time.

“Get their cell phones,” says Vasco. He sounds a little depressed.

Two cell phones are thrown over the wall.

“Chucky'll kill both of you for this,” says Jimbo. “He'll kill you slowly.”

“Throw their wallets over the wall,” says Vasco. He doesn't need to do this. He does it out of spite.

Vasco marches the thugs to Connor's Mini-Cooper, tells Connor to start the engine, and then, when it's revving loudly, he jumps into the passenger seat. “Let's go!” The thugs disappear in the rearview mirror, and Connor drives toward the exit.

“Where're we going?”

“My hotel,” says Vasco.

Connor drives down Trolley Line Boulevard and very soon pulls up in front of the Two Trees Inn. “What are you going to do?” he asks Vasco.

“Get my suitcase.”

“You're leaving?”

“Didn't you hear what the guy said, little brother? Chucky will kill me. You think he was making that up? I told you to leave me alone. Now I got about two minutes to get out of here, and maybe even that won't be enough. Don't wait till tomorrow, Zeco. Leave now!”

Vasco jumps from the Mini-Cooper and runs for the door of the inn.

“You'll call me?” shouts Connor.

Without turning, Vasco raises an arm. He could be waving in agreement, he could be waving
Fuck you
, or he could be waving good-bye. We just don't know.

S
itting in a lawn chair on the hill between the Winnebago and the ocean, Vaughn ponders a sky packed with stars. Neither moon nor clouds are visible, and it's about eleven o'clock. An overhead light above the driver's seat in the Winnebago twenty feet away seems the only light in a dark world; it settles a dim glow on the back of Vaughn's black sweatshirt and on the late Marco Santuzza's motorcycle cap. In Vaughn's left hand is a piece of cardboard of the sort that comes with a shirt from a dry cleaner's. In its center is a square hole no bigger than a quarter. Vaughn's right hand holds a yellow No. 2 pencil, and on his lap is a yellow legal-size pad of paper. He lifts the cardboard to the sky, keeps it still for a minute, and then writes on his pad. Then he raises the cardboard again, and the process repeats.

Headlights slowly approach along the gravel access road to the Hannaquit Breachway toward the RV campground. They don't belong to Connor's Mini-Cooper or to Didi's gray Ford Focus rental. We expect no one to be surprised when we say they belong to the black Yukon Denali: the ubiquitous vehicle we've seen before. The headlights sweep across the Winnebago as the Denali comes to a stop. Two men get out. One has a limp and walks with a cane. This is Jimbo, whom Vasco shot in the foot. Actually, his middle toe was blown off, and no trace was found when the shoe and sock were removed, apart from a little mush. So Jimbo is in a rage about life's unfairness. He looks for someone to punish.

His associate is a man we first heard about at Otto's house, though we haven't been properly introduced. He goes by the name of Joesy, but again we've no evidence that's his real name. This mix of names is an ongoing leitmotif, the choice of folks not rooted to the quotidian by charge cards, mortgages, and taxes. Maybe the illusion of anonymity makes them think they need not be accountable, letting them slide through life as on a secret errand.

Joesy carries a flashlight and swings it back and forth in an arc. He and Jimbo walk softly, even though they believe no one's at home. This is because they're up to no good, and their silence is due to a transferred sense of disquiet. Joesy pauses to focus the light on something written on the side of the Winnebago:
HERE LIVES AN ORPHAN FROM OUTER SPACE!

The two men study it, and then Jimbo says, “What's that supposed to mean?”

“It means whoever lives here,” says Joesy, “deserves what he's going to get.”

Moving along the side of the Winnebago, they find the front door open. It's then that Joesy's flashlight settles on a vague shape sitting in a lawn chair. Although the shape must be aware of the light, he doesn't turn. Jimbo and Joesy aren't sure how they feel about this. Maybe the person is sleeping.

Joesy approaches the chair, and Jimbo limps behind him. Then Joesy stops and waits to be acknowledged. Instead the figure, who we know as Vaughn, again holds the cardboard up to the sky, mutters something, and writes a number on his yellow pad, now illuminated by the flashlight.

“Whatcha doin'?” asks Joesy. He sounds truculent, but then he always sounds truculent. Perhaps he imagines that Vaughn will be startled by the interruption, but Vaughn is as calm as ever.

“Counting stars,” says Vaughn, again holding up the piece of cardboard. Then he mutters to himself, writes something down, and raises the piece of cardboard.

“Anybody inside?” asks Jimbo.

“Absence makes the heart wander.” Vaughn speaks in a monotone, so his voice sounds robotic. Still, it's the rippling baritone of Vaughn Monroe, and Jimbo, whose parents might have listened to the famous crooner, feels a mild frisson, which he attributes to the likelihood of his getting a cold.

The thugs study Vaughn's motorcycle cap as they consider their options. At last Joesy says, “How the fuck can you count stars with a fuckin' piece of cardboard?”

Vaughn turns slightly. “It's an alimentary conundrum. I spot the platen at the bottom left of the sky, violate the stars within the orifice, fight down the sum, traffic the platen to the next significant area, again violate the stars, fight down the sum, traffic the platen to the next area, violate the stars, fight down the sum, traffic the cardboard—”

“Stop!” say Jimbo.

A long silence follows.

“Maybe he's fucking with us.” Joesy keeps the light pointed at Vaughn's head.

The thugs have, unwittingly, allowed themselves to be sucked into the vortex of Vaughn's inner world and aren't sure how to escape. Of course, they don't articulate this to themselves, and instead they mistake their concern for a slight headache.

“Got any aspirin?” says Jimbo.

“Maybe we can find some inside,” says Joesy.

“So who are you?” asks Jimbo gruffly.

Vaughn smiles up at the intruders. “I'm an orphan from outer space.” He returns to counting stars.

The thugs consider the chance that this might be true. Both, in fact, are strong UFO believers. Then Jimbo says, “Nutcase.”

“Wacko,” says Joesy.

“Come on, we got stuff to do.”

Jimbo and Joesy have three tasks: first, to make sure Sal's gold isn't hidden within the Winnebago—surely a long shot. Second, to destroy everything they can destroy as punishment to Connor for getting in Chucky's way. The third is to bring everyone they can find back to Chucky. For any self-respecting thug, this is child's play.

Vaughn remains in his chair on the crest of the hill, but as crashing noises erupt from inside the Winnebago, he begins to lose track of his counting. He looks back over his shoulder, puts down the pencil and pad of paper, and gets to his feet. Dishes are being broken, heavy objects are being thrown, a window on the slide-out is smashed, clothes are tossed out the door.

With each sound, Vaughn grows more disturbed. He hurries to the Winnebago. “Don't touch my yellow pads!”

Abruptly, a pile of pads is thrown through the door. “Nix, nix, nix!” shouts Vaughn. He begins picking them up; some have sailed a dozen feet or so. He runs from one to another. “Nix, nix, nix!” More pads are flung through the door, and the wind blows several down to the water. Vaughn agitatedly gathers them up until he has a pile pressed to his chest. He puts them on the ground and places the lawn chair on top of them. “Nix, nix, nix!” he shouts again. A TV flies out the door. Vaughn lifts his hands to his head, runs to the Winnebago, and dashes up the steps. Almost as soon as he vanishes inside, he comes tumbling back down. A thug has hit him. He again runs up the steps and is knocked back down. He runs up the steps a third time, but this time Joesy appears at the top, grabs Vaughn, and pushes him away.

“You're as cruel as a cucumber!” shouts Vaughn. His voice trembles.

“Stay outta here!” shouts Jimbo, jumping down to the ground.

Joesy appears at the door. “Maybe we should shoot him.”

Jimbo thinks about this. “We weren't told to shoot nobody.”

“We could shoot him just a little, like you—like in the foot. Nothing drastic.”

“No can do. We can only take him to Chucky.”

“Let's put holes in the RV instead. Chucky said nothing about making holes.”

This seems a good idea. The men take their Glocks from where they're safely tucked into their belts in the small declivity behind their backs. They like Glocks; cops use Glocks, and if Jimbo and Joesy weren't thugs, they might be something coplike. Each slides a bullet into the chamber and begins shooting at the Winnebago, starting with the tires, then windows, then walls. They take gunfighter positions; they spin around with their backs to the RV and shoot over their shoulders; they bend down and shoot between their legs. They reload and laugh and start shooting again.

“Fuck, I like holes,” says Joesy.

“I could do this all night,” says Jimbo.

Vaughn stands back by the lawn chair and says nothing.

“I like it when you can hear the slug smashing something inside,” says Joesy.

“Yeah, like glass breaking. Neat!” says Jimbo.

But at last all great pleasures come to an end. A sense of economy prevails. “We gotta save some bullets for a rainy day,” says Joesy.

“Let's put the nutcase in the truck,” says Jimbo.

They don't ask Vaughn if he'd like to accompany them; they simply grab his arms and drag him. “I'm having a nervous shakedown!” shouts Vaughn. The Denali has three rows of seats, and Vaughn is shoved into the far back. Then Jimbo sits in the middle row and Joey drives.

“I need medical resistance!” shouts Vaughn.

“Shut up!” says Jimbo, but his usual indifference to another's discomfort is somewhat unsettled, as someone's stomach can be unsettled from eating a dubious piece of fish.
Maybe I'm not getting a cold,
Jimbo thinks.
Maybe I'm getting the flu.

The Denali bumps back down the access road to Route 1. Joesy decides the sooner they get rid of the nutcase, the better. Let Chucky deal with him.

“You ever hear of anything called Murderers Anonymous?” asks Jimbo as he imagines a twelve-step program to fit his needs.

“Yeah, man, Murder Incorporated. Great! I saw the movie. Like that, right?”

“Not exactly.” Jimbo decides to keep his doubts to himself.

We should take a moment to recall Jimbo's apple green sport coat. What would possess a thug to wear a garment that would make him stick out in a police lineup like a third tit on a debutante? Dr. Hubert Goodenough, our in-house shrink, might say the apple-green sport coat suggests Jimbo's conflicted nature about being a bad guy. Yes, he's been a bad guy since grade school, but maybe the years have taken their toll. Maybe it's time to quit and join Murderers Anonymous.

It's not easy to be a thug: no heath insurance, retirement, or promotions. They don't get their pick of the most beautiful women; they must make do with molls or worse; they exist on scraps tossed down by the boss. They break their hands on other men's faces and get broken noses in return. They drink too much, smoke too much, eat too much red meat, and in the wee hours of the night they worry about the future.

We're not saying that Jimbo is having a change of heart. After all, he
has
no heart, or at best he has a small one. But he's squeamish about handing Vaughn over to Chucky. It'd be like handing a child over to Chucky.

“I'm having a nervous shakedown!” repeats Vaughn. “I'm suffering from cardinal arrest. Damp weather's hard on my sciences!”

“Shut that guy up!” shouts Joesy, turning south onto Route 1.

“What do you think about gerbil warming?” asks Vaughn. “Will it be a cat's after me? The world's synapsing!”

“Smack him!” says Joesy.

“What're you incinerating?” says Vaughn. “Inflammable language scares me!”

Jimbo can't stand it anymore. He reaches a decision. “Dump him!”

Joesy's surprised. “Shoot him here?”

Vaughn is even more upset. “Deader than a hangnail? Where's close bondage among friends?”

“No, just throw him outta the car!”

“Pheasant rebellion!”

“What about Chucky?”

“We don't need to tell Chucky.”

“Silence makes the heart grow fonder!”

Joesy hits the brakes. “Heave him!” Locked tires screech along the pavement as the back end fishtails.

Jimbo jumps out, grabs Vaughn by the collar, gives him a push to the side of the road, and jumps back into the Denali, which roars away.

“Emaciated at last!” shouts Vaughn. He takes a quick glance at the departing license plate: all that's needed to fix it in his memory forever.

—

I
t's past midnight, and Connor sees the flashing blue lights of police cars as he turns onto the access road to the RV campground. He brakes and puts the Mini-Cooper into reverse; then he thinks about Vaughn. Where is he? Connor has called Didi but gotten no answer. If Vaughn wasn't with Didi, he might have stayed in the Winnebago, which is now surrounded by police. Connor wavers a moment, thinking how little he wants to get mixed up with what lies ahead, but leaving Vaughn with a bunch of cops is inconceivable. He puts the car in gear and moves forward.

When Connor fled the casino two hours earlier, he'd gone to Linda's place in New London: a large house on Cedar Grove that had been broken up into six units with an outdoor covered staircase that led to Linda's second-floor apartment.

Answering the door, she'd asked, “So you're stopping by for coffee after all?”

Connor had forgotten the invitation for coffee. “Maybe decaf.”

“It'll have to be instant.”

He sat down in an armchair next to a bookcase full of travel books as Linda boiled water in the microwave. “Why'd you change your mind about the coffee?”

Connor didn't answer, and when she repeated the question, as she brought the decaf, he still didn't answer. She wore a thick red robe that reached her ankles, and her blond hair stood up at a variety of angles. Connor guessed she'd been in bed and was struck by how lovely she was. Sitting down on a sofa, Linda put on her wire-rimmed glasses and studied him. “Okay, I give up. Why're you here?”

Connor glanced away, but as she left his sight, he again recalled how two men had dragged him to the edge of the roof of a parking garage. If Vasco hadn't saved him, he'd be dead.

Linda pretended to clear her throat. “Connor, you have to say something. You can't just sit there. What's wrong with you?”

He still hesitated. Linda was earnest and concerned. He didn't want to get her mixed up in his troubles, but maybe it was too late for that. Nor did he want to remain silent. “You remember Jasper Lincoln?”

“Apple green sport coat.”

“He and another guy tried to kill me a while ago. My brother saved me.”

Linda studied his face as if it were a page in a book of uncertain seriousness and then put a hand to her mouth. “Tell me,” she said.