Part 5
Saturday Morning, 10 a.m.
Light spilled into the room, causing the newly opened eyes to flinch in pain. He turned, groaned and sat up too quickly, clutching his left side. His loud hiss went unnoticed as he gingerly eased his throbbing body from the bed. He shuffled to the bathroom and thought on his fuzzy recollection of the night before.
He shed his clothes while eying the large purple and blue area on his side. It throbbed and every breath was a burning trial. He turned the shower on, letting the hot water put some life back into his confused state. As he lathered up, he found a few pieces of the jagged puzzle.
The doctor's orders were to rest a few days, keep ice packs on the injury and use the painkillers. The pills. He thought about that while he washed his hair. He'd come back to the office and there was a message from somebody named Jimmy. No last name. Martin had been the principal in the disappearance of an Atlantic City blackjack dealer name Tony Vecchione.
The team had tracked down every lead and followed the calls, but the road led nowhere while their caseload increased. After ten days, Jack put the Vecchione case on hold. Martin was tagged as the point of contact and any new calls would come to him.
That was over two weeks ago, and the new call had been waiting when he got back from the ER. It was short and the caller had been nervous, stating only that he had information on 'the worm' and he'd call back. The reason it caused the aching agent to drag out the files, folders and photos was that they'd never released to the newspapers or public that the missing man's nickname was 'the Worm'. He ran with a bad crowd in both Philly and New York, tied to the mob.
He turned the shower off, climbed out and toweled off. He skipped the blow dryer, combed his damp hair back and slid into a clean sweat suit. Padding to the kitchen, he opened the freezer to get his ice pack. Frowning, he lifted it out, noting that it was on a different shelf than where he kept it.
Dusty images of a car ride and an olive-skinned face returned. Dark eyes found his, hands helping him inside, most likely into bed. That's why the ice pack wasn't on the right shelf. Sighing, he put coffee on, sat at the table and pressed the cold pack to his side. He used his shoulder and neck to hold the phone and dialed.
He was just about to hang up, after five rings, when a voice that was a cross between a croak and a cough slurred something.
"Taylor?"
"Danny, not Liz."
The snappy comeback gave Fitzgerald a brief smile. A series of deep coughs, sounding wet and wild, followed by a series of bangs and curses, took the smile away.
"Bang your head on the iron lung?" Martin asked, when the wheezing, cursing voice came back.
"Something like that," Danny groaned, "My head's about to explode. How you feelin'?"
"Okay," the aching agent admitted, "I can't remember too much, but...thanks. I know you got me home."
"You were makin' like Aladdin," he said of the airborne carpet-rider, "TAKE WITH FOOD!"
"I know. I know," Martin cringed, then sat up, when a decidedly feminine and very sexy voice crooned nearby.
"Baby come to bed, I'm cold."
"Sister?" Fitzgerald inquired, a smile quirking on his lips.
"Nope," Danny groaned as two soft hands massaged the hot flesh on his lower back.
"Aunt."
"Not likely," he hissed when they danced around his hip.
Before Martin could reply, the voice assaulted him again.
"My poor baby's too hot, you need a cool sponge bath."
"Sponge bath?" Martin's throat started to close and he felt hot. "Aw, hell."
"The lovely Denise!" Danny wheezed, coughed and fumbled, "Here, Babe, say Hi to Harvard."
"Hi, Harvard."
"Uh...Mornin'...Ma'am," Martin winced as soon as the words left his mouth.
"Smooth, my man," Danny laughed, "real smooth. Listen, you need anything?"
"No, I'm good," Fitzgerald rose, anxious to get off the phone.
"I'm not, I'm naughty!" Danny wheezed as the pretty woman's hand slapped at him, "I gotta go, my nurse isn't happy with me. You gonna be home tomorrow around four?"
"Should be. Why?"
"I'm comin' over for the four o'clock game," he noted of the football event, "With pizza. We gotta talk."
"Yeah," Martin sighed, eyeing the clock. He had a day and a half to come up with the right answers. He didn't have to see the dark eyes, he knew they were serious and determined. He also knew that his partner was owed an explanation. "Okay."
******************
Saturday Afternoon, 4:30 p.m.
Martin put the key in his lock and opened the door. He let the warmth of the room take off the chill that was in his bones. Feeling hemmed in, he'd taken a long walk. The air invigorated him and he looked at the boxes piled in his spare bedroom in a new light. He'd intended on making that room his study. A place for his computer, shelves for books and a worktable to use for his model ships. But he'd not unpacked all the things he'd brought from Seattle. Until this weekend he'd been working cases and not had time to put into the task.
He tossed his coat on the chair and headed for the kitchen. He placed the box of doughnuts on the table and made a quick supper. He took a can of Escarole soup from the cupboard, poured it into a large ceramic mug and nuked it. Then he tossed some turkey breast, tomato slices and lettuce with some Dijon on multigrain bread. A bottle of diet peach Snapple completed his lateday meal. He kept the ice pack on while he ate, so after he'd be ready to work.
Two hours later, with six boxes unpacked, he stood to use the bathroom and cried out in pain.
"Shit!" he hissed, biting his lip as a jackhammer-like sensation speared his delicate left side. He'd pushed too hard. He'd lifted too many heavy boxes and was now paying the price. He eyed the remnants of the last opened box. It was sitting on the new worktable, under a large window. He pulled out some college photos, putting them in one pile. Next were his track and field ribbons from high school, lovingly kept under glass in frames by his mother. He winced at the photo in the frame in his hand. A very young image of himself, thinner and with longer hair, looked back at him. He was about to toss the box aside, to break it down with the others, when he noticed an oversized gray and maroon folder. Puzzled, he pulled it out and tucked it under his arm. His bladder moved him quickly from the room. He tossed the gray curiosity onto the sofa on his way to the bathroom.
"Take with food," he frowned, not ready to eat yet. "Dessert?" he agreed with the man in the mirror. He made a large mug of coffee and selected three doughnuts. He grabbed his ice pack and padded to the sofa. He switched the television on, catching the last part of a football game. He popped the last piece of cake into his mouth and took his pills. He drained his coffee and was about to settle back into the comfortable cushions when he noticed the envelope and flipped it open.
It was as if all the air was taken from the room. The referee's whistle from the muddy field faded away, along with the cheering crowd. The only sound he heard was the rush of blood to his ears and the drum-like rhythm of his pounding heart. A cold sweat broke out as he sat up, gasping for air. His hands trembled while his stomach churned, threatening to toss the food back. His burning eyes raked over the art paper. The design had been done in painstaking fashion, with all the love a lonely seven-year old could muster.
He sighed heavily, raking his trembling fingers through his hair. Gold leaves, each one hand-crafted of felt, cut and pasted, framed the image. The crooked lettering was done in browns, rusts and dark greens, to capture the heart of autumn. Desperate to get air in his lungs, he took several wavering breaths.
"Nothing...Gold...Can...Stay..." he stammered badly, as pinpoint rifle shots shredded his guts to ribbons. "Jesus," he clenched his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to stop the awful movie from replaying.
The soundtrack came first, loud booms of thunder and gusty winds, rattling the entire building. That icy breath spilling from Mother Nature's cruel lips took the power away and left a little boy cold, alone and terrified. The saucer-like eyes were wet and warm, the undersized body trying to be brave.
"Don't," he warned weakly, "run." But it was too late. The boy ran and ran, terrified in the blackened arena of fear. It was an impenetrable sea of ebony, save the brilliant blue shards of lightning dancing through the tall glass windows. They seemed to choke him, causing the boy to fall. Brother Thunder was jealous and screamed his anger, causing the boy to make the fatal error. "NO!"
He felt the acids in his intestinal track rebel and dropped the poetic picture. While he ran a crooked path to the bathroom, dropping on his knees to lose his lunch, the gift made from tiny loving hands sailed under a wing chair.
The pain from his injury, coupled with the anguishing revisit to that dark time and enhanced by the powerful drugs, was an overload. It was too much to bear, even for a Fitzgerald. Stomach empty, he flushed the toilet, stood and gripped the sink for dear life. He rinsed several times, groaning as sharp pains stabbed through his gut, shoving the red-hot knife harder into his ribs. The room was tilting and he walked a crooked path, collapsing on the bed. With a soft sigh, he dropped into the blackness. A single tear for that lost boy ran a crooked path down his cheek.
While the twilight turned her cloak inside out, putting on a black velvet wonder, the man slept. But it wasn't a restful sleep. His slim body thrashed and moved, fighting for that lost boy. His legs twitched, trying to stop the flight into hell. He gasped and moaned as the thunder and lighting sent the terrified child into the talons of the devil.
Sweat poured from the tortured sleeper. His damp head worked the pillow hard, two fists clutching at the blanket beneath his moving body. No one was there to hear his cries, just like that night. No one was here to reach out and grab his pounding fists, just like that night. There was no one warm to hold him and soothe him, to chase the terror away, just like that night.
The ragged breathing increased -- the head tossed violently trying to stop the boy.
"No...don't..." he mumbled, his face drenched in sweat and twisted in pain, "...no...no..."
Too late, the boy didn't listen -- again. The lad's eyes were burning a hole into his brain again. Wide and a startling shade of blue, they were filled with terror. The small body jerked and moved...stumbling and falling...falling...too late. It hurt...it was dark and cold...he was alone. There was no way out...and then the devil came.
**************
Sunday morning, five a.m.
"Yeah?" Jack Malone grumbled, sitting up and wincing. He flipped the light on and switched the phone to the other hand. He nodded, picked up a pen and began to write. "When? Where? Don't let them leave yet. I'm sending two of my men, Taylor and Fitzgerald. I'll check with division and follow on my own. Yeah, thanks Paul."
Spent and utterly drained, the body had no fight left. The limbs were slack, the lips parted and the ragged breathing labored. His heart was heavy, crushing his chest. The boy was depending on him and he'd failed him again. He saw the boy, unmoving, eyes fixed, the tiny chest rising and falling and he crawled towards him, reaching out. He was almost there, his strong hand reaching for that frail one...just a little closer...'
RING!! RING!!!
He jerked, gasped and licked his dry lips. For a split second, he had no idea where he was. He eyed the unfamiliar room and felt his heart hammering loudly.
"Yeah, yeah," he coughed, then sat up and grabbed the bedside phone. He winced at the red digital numbers on his radio, "Five-fifteen?"
"Martin?" Jack called out, having heard the ringing stop. There was no voice right away, just ragged breathing. "Fitzgerald? You there?"
"Huh? ye...ah..."
"How you doing?"
"Better."
He sat up, took a good breath and flipped the light on, hissing in pain at the bright stab in his eyes.
"Good," Jack relayed, "Get showered and dressed, Danny's on his way over."
"What's wrong?" he croaked, rubbing his dry throat. He squinted until his eyes adjusted, scratching his chest and yawning.
"Vecchione turned up."
"Where?
"Atlantic City. Two witnesses place him outside a bar called Dirty Annie's, not far from the Trop. He had an argument with the bouncer just about two a.m. A loud one. It ended up with a brawl. The bouncer was found dead not far from Bader Field."
"Vecchione?"
"Nothing yet. I'm gonna check his haunts around here. Sam's gonna check with the cops in Philly, see if he headed there. Vivian's checking the state cops in Jersey. You two head down to A.C. and talk to those witnesses."
"Got it."
The click turned to dial tone and the phone was still locked in his hand. He dressed quickly, grabbed some coffee and was gulping down a stale doughnut when the buzzer sounded. He strapped his gun on, grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
Neither man spoke, both were tired and Martin knew Danny was still bearing the brunt of his cold. His dark eyes were rimmed red and his breathing was harsh. As for himself, he felt exhausted, worn to the bone. The nightmares were vivid and clung to him yet. The twin roaring pains in his ribs and head didn't help. He was in a shitty mood.
The trip didn't take long. They exited the Atlantic City Expressway, passing the convention center and bus station.
"Turn here," Martin said, "take Atlantic Avenue to North Albany, hang a right. Jack said they found the body near Bader Field," he noted of the small airport, "That's near Chelsea Heights."
Danny nodded, his head pounding and his sinuses backed up. The whole front of his face was throbbing. He was glad Fitzgerald has been quiet during the ride. Every word uttered felt like another nail in his face.
"That's gotta be it," Martin pointed to a roadblock with yellow tape and a bevy of flashing lights.
Danny pulled up, flashed his badge and the cop indicated for him to roll his window down.
"Taylor and Fitzgerald, F.B.I. Looking for a Captain Murphy."
"Hold on." The cop pressed a button on a radio on his shoulder. "Cap, couple o' feds here for you. Fitzpatrick and Taylor."
"Fitzgerald!" Martin barked, causing his partner to flinch.
"You mind keepin' it down to a bellow?"
"How'd you draw the short straw?" Martin asked, eyeing the pained soul.
"Just lucky," he sighed. Truth was, Jack knew Martin was having a problem and that Danny was tied to it. He'd offered to have Sam go with Martin, but Danny had denied that.
"Okay," the cop waved them onward.
Danny pulled over, parked and exited, sucking in cold air. His body was here but his mind was back in his bed, buried under a comforter with Denise Nardone's lush body pressed close by.
"Whaddya got?" he asked a silver-haired, slight man, "You Murphy?"
"Paul," the other extended his hand.
"Taylor. This is Fitzgerald." He sneezed three times, coughed and took out a tissue, "Sorry..."
"The former Leland "Boogie-boy' Beaumont, twenty-five years old and until about two a.m. a bouncer at a dive near the Tropicana called Dirty Annie's. Your boy Vecchione picked a fight with him outside the bar. It got rough -- before a couple of Beaumont's friends intervened."
"Vecchione?" Martin asked, squatting over the corpse. The victim was about six foot, two twenty and lots of upper body muscle. The African-American male had close-cropped hair and a small crimson hole next to where his left eye should be.
"Last seen staggering towards the boardwalk, that would be just about two- thirty or so," the investigator noted.
"He didn't do this."
"Oh, you're one of those psychic feds I read about in the rag sheets?" The Captain scoffed. He watched carefully as the clean-cut blue-eyed man stood and turned. He eyed the pristine white shirt and silk tie. Hell, that tie alone cost more than his whole outfit. Damn feds -- especially these GQ whiz kids who didn't know squat.
"He uses a blade. He doesn't carry a piece. I studied this guy, I know him. What about him?" he jerked his head to the body, "He got a record? Enemies? Ties to local action? What's his story?"
"You're here to find Vecchione," Murphy steamed, "This is MY house, hot shot. Take your Madison Avenue ass outta my face."
"Great!" Danny sighed, "I didn't even eat yet." He moved from the corner and walked over. "Ease up," he advised the irate cop, "We don't wanna step on anybody's toes. Martin was just trying to -"
"Martin can speak for himself!" The troubled blue-eyed man seethed.
"Knock yourself out. I'll be in the car."
Martin watched Danny walk away, not missing the disgust on his face. He sighed and kicked a can in the weeded, overgrown lot.
"Dammit."
He took several breaths, getting his raging emotions under control. He rubbed his neck, closed his eyes and let out a pent-up breath. He turned back, the glare of the older man still burning into him.
"Do you have addresses on the two witnesses?"
Murphy handed them over and turned back, punching numbers into his cell phone.
As they drove back to the bar in question, to talk to one of the witnesses, Martin's eyes roamed over the streets. Atlantic City was a real mix of rags and riches. On the world famous boardwalk, a string of glitzy casinos drew high-rolling gamblers from around the globe. Just a few blocks away was the shabby stepsister. She housed crime of every facet. Prostitution, drugs, guns, crack houses, pimps, shoddy landlords and other vermin crawled through boarded-up houses, overgrown lots and burned out cars.
His eyes narrowed as a group of skinny teens with hollow eyes passed by. Two of them were supporting a third, a waifish blonde with dirty hair and half-mast eyes.
"Hell, they can't be more than fifteen," he mumbled, "stoned this early."
"This is the real world," Danny shot back, turning up a side street, "not that white bread Bradyland you grew up in."
"You don't know a damn thing about me!"
"I know enough," Danny soured, his face throbbing. It felt like a dozen nails, red hot and tipped with poison, were pulsating in his face, "I know you always had a bed to sleep in, with real heat in the house. You had food on your plate and a school to go to --"
"Excuse the hell out of me for not being born in a ghetto!" Martin growled, then grabbed the wheel, "Watch it! That's a one way street."
Fortunately, the bar was at the next block. Both hot heads had to put their emotions on the back burner. Danny pulled in and appraised the four people nearby. A twenty-something plumpish young woman with a miniskirt, black sheet stockings and pink hair snapped gum at him. Next to her, a pockmarked man, tall and thin with sunglasses and a gray suit, complete with hat, eyed him with disdain. From a window above the grimy sign reading 'Dirty Annie's', complete with an ample drawing of a pair of breasts, there was an older woman. Sweeping the walk in front of the bar was a bearded white male, fortyish.
Danny flipped his badge, "Taylor, F.B.I. I'm here about the fight last night."
"Heard about Boogieboy, damn shame," the pimp-like male noted.
The three people in front of him all stared past him. His mouth formed a grim line and he paused. He felt a body moving, standing just behind him.
"He's cool, he's my partner. We're looking for Charles Alvarez and Kenny Foxe."
"Sorry, Sugar," the pink-haired prostitute snapped her gum, "You come down here a lot?"
"No," Danny made a face, ignoring the eyes mentally undressing him, "So where can I find them?"
"Can't help you," the sweeper paused, then resumed his job.
"You better think again," Martin grabbed the broom, "or you'll be sweeping the pavement in front of the unemployment office."
The pimp snorted and the pink-haired princess laughed and made a face.
"Oh, man," Danny groaned, but the sweeper's eyes inadvertently moved to the open window, "What about it, Ma'am?"
"I mind my own business."
"Mindin' everybody else's business IS your business," the pimp retorted. "Mama don't miss much, catch my drift. Me and the lady weren't here last night."
Danny nodded and entered the seedy dive, wincing as his feet stuck to the floor. He didn't look down, he didn't want to guess what was residing there. Martin was already knocking on the door. After a short shuffle, a whiskered chin and one blue eye regarded him.
"Open up!" Martin stuck his foot inside, "Look, lady, if you know where they are or where Tony Vecchione is, you better start talking."
After several moments, the crack closed long enough for a lock to be undone. They entered the two-room apartment just as the roaches completed a relay race across the kitchen floor. Martin's nose wrinkled at the stench. He couldn't tell if it came from the tenant or the flat, and he didn't want to find out.
"You saw the fight?" he pressed, eager to be out of this place.
"I heard it first." She shuffled to the window, scratching her backside. "Lee tossed this guy out. Tall and mean looking. Dark, greasy hair, mustache, kinda hefty."
"Is this him?" Danny showed the photo of Tony Vecchione.
"Yeah, that's him. They were right under the light. Chooch and Charley jumped in, beat on that man but good. They dumped him up the street."
"Is he a customer here?" Martin asked.
"Not for the booze," she remarked. "He likes dark meat," she noted of the prostitutes who strutted their wares. "I've seen him a couple times. Heard he's rough, but tips good."
"Who?"
"Honey, this ain't a train station, they don't check in with me." She eyed the blue-eyed man and her face screwed up. Ignoring him, she turned to the other one, "Candy might know."
"Pink hair?" Danny asked and the grayheaded crone nodded. "What about the other two?"
"Black guys, kinda like Mutt and Jeff. Chooch wears a red scarf, it's his trademark. Sometimes they hang out across from McDonalds up on the boards a few blocks. You can't miss them."
"Thanks," he nodded, giving her his card, "If you see Vecchione again, you call, okay?"
They spent an hour on the wooden walkway that fronted the casinos, shops and restaurants. It was almost eleven a.m. when Danny eyed a coffee shop.
"Let's take five. I gotta eat."
"Yeah, okay," Martin agreed, not missing the fact that Taylor looked awful. They grabbed some sandwiches and coffee, then went over their notes. Martin drew a tiny timeline on the notepad.
"According to Pink, Vecchione went upstairs with 'Crystal' about midnight. There was trouble and he got booted out. He comes back later, two or so, and picks a fight with Beaumont."
"Chooch and Charley jump in, tear his ass up and toss 'im," Danny added, "Could be old Boogieboy went lookin' for Vecchione to finish him off?"
"Maybe," Martin's phone rang and he flipped it out, "Fitzgerald. Yeah. Nothing so far. Well, hell, Jack it's not like we're out here gettin' a tan!" He rolled his eyes and chuffed out a breath, then handed the phone over.
"Hey boss," Danny's voice was thick and nasal.
"What about it?" Jack asked, pulling off of the Expressway.
"We got another witness, the lady who lives over the bar. She saw the fight and says Alvarez and Foxe nailed Vecchione. Last we got him is three a.m. or so, headed up the boards. We're lookin' for them now. The lady, she says he likes his paid ladies dark. Could be he has regulars, they might know where he's hidin'."
"Vivian and Sam came up dry. I'll check out the stable, you two find those witnesses," Malone paused, "and you tell your partner to watch that mouth of his."
"Yeah," he sighed, handing the phone back.
Martin took both cardboard trays to the trashcan and dumped them. He waited, pulling up his collar against the cold air and shivering. The sun was gone and the gray sky appeared threatening.
"You coming or not?" he asked his pensive partner.
Danny turned, finished the end of his tea and picked at the edges of the cup.
"We need to talk."
"Not here."
"When? After that temper of yours causes one of us to end up in the ER?" He turned, straddling the bench and saw the fists flexing. The handsome profile was turned partially away, eyeing the ocean. "What's eatin' at you? It's tied to that cafeteria, at the school."
"Look," Martin turned, shaken by the words, "it was a long...it's over..."
"Over?" Danny rose, "I look blind to you?" He thought again on when Martin had looked so shaken. The poem...the small boy...that poem. "It's got something to do with that kid's poem... about the dead leaves."
That got a reaction. The other man's face turned ashen and he tried to stifle a choke. Danny looked closer and saw how haggard the other man looked. Like he'd been up all night wrestling those demons. "Is that it? You have some kind of bad memory from when you were that kid's age? At Thanksgiving?"
"Don't!" Martin managed, trying to fight both Danny's bullets and the slashing images replaying again in his throbbing skull.
Taylor paused a few feet away, the wind taking his dark hair off his face. "Whatever shit you got locked up in there," he gave the nearly concave abdomen a pat, "is festering. You don't get it out, you're gonna explode. I don't want to be cannon fodder? You got it?"
"Then stay the hell out of my face!" Martin hissed, eyes hot. He didn't like the fact this man could read him. He'd never let anyone get close, he always kept them at arm's length. This new feeling unnerved him. He turned sharply, heading towards the next stretch of their destination.
"HEY!"
"Look Danny, it's none of your --" He blinked, his partner wasn't there. "TAYLOR!" he called out and then saw the quick moving man flying down the boardwalk. He didn't see the faces, but a long red scarf trailed in the breeze. "Shit!" He took off, following the trio.
Saturday Morning, 10 a.m.
Light spilled into the room, causing the newly opened eyes to flinch in pain. He turned, groaned and sat up too quickly, clutching his left side. His loud hiss went unnoticed as he gingerly eased his throbbing body from the bed. He shuffled to the bathroom and thought on his fuzzy recollection of the night before.
He shed his clothes while eying the large purple and blue area on his side. It throbbed and every breath was a burning trial. He turned the shower on, letting the hot water put some life back into his confused state. As he lathered up, he found a few pieces of the jagged puzzle.
The doctor's orders were to rest a few days, keep ice packs on the injury and use the painkillers. The pills. He thought about that while he washed his hair. He'd come back to the office and there was a message from somebody named Jimmy. No last name. Martin had been the principal in the disappearance of an Atlantic City blackjack dealer name Tony Vecchione.
The team had tracked down every lead and followed the calls, but the road led nowhere while their caseload increased. After ten days, Jack put the Vecchione case on hold. Martin was tagged as the point of contact and any new calls would come to him.
That was over two weeks ago, and the new call had been waiting when he got back from the ER. It was short and the caller had been nervous, stating only that he had information on 'the worm' and he'd call back. The reason it caused the aching agent to drag out the files, folders and photos was that they'd never released to the newspapers or public that the missing man's nickname was 'the Worm'. He ran with a bad crowd in both Philly and New York, tied to the mob.
He turned the shower off, climbed out and toweled off. He skipped the blow dryer, combed his damp hair back and slid into a clean sweat suit. Padding to the kitchen, he opened the freezer to get his ice pack. Frowning, he lifted it out, noting that it was on a different shelf than where he kept it.
Dusty images of a car ride and an olive-skinned face returned. Dark eyes found his, hands helping him inside, most likely into bed. That's why the ice pack wasn't on the right shelf. Sighing, he put coffee on, sat at the table and pressed the cold pack to his side. He used his shoulder and neck to hold the phone and dialed.
He was just about to hang up, after five rings, when a voice that was a cross between a croak and a cough slurred something.
"Taylor?"
"Danny, not Liz."
The snappy comeback gave Fitzgerald a brief smile. A series of deep coughs, sounding wet and wild, followed by a series of bangs and curses, took the smile away.
"Bang your head on the iron lung?" Martin asked, when the wheezing, cursing voice came back.
"Something like that," Danny groaned, "My head's about to explode. How you feelin'?"
"Okay," the aching agent admitted, "I can't remember too much, but...thanks. I know you got me home."
"You were makin' like Aladdin," he said of the airborne carpet-rider, "TAKE WITH FOOD!"
"I know. I know," Martin cringed, then sat up, when a decidedly feminine and very sexy voice crooned nearby.
"Baby come to bed, I'm cold."
"Sister?" Fitzgerald inquired, a smile quirking on his lips.
"Nope," Danny groaned as two soft hands massaged the hot flesh on his lower back.
"Aunt."
"Not likely," he hissed when they danced around his hip.
Before Martin could reply, the voice assaulted him again.
"My poor baby's too hot, you need a cool sponge bath."
"Sponge bath?" Martin's throat started to close and he felt hot. "Aw, hell."
"The lovely Denise!" Danny wheezed, coughed and fumbled, "Here, Babe, say Hi to Harvard."
"Hi, Harvard."
"Uh...Mornin'...Ma'am," Martin winced as soon as the words left his mouth.
"Smooth, my man," Danny laughed, "real smooth. Listen, you need anything?"
"No, I'm good," Fitzgerald rose, anxious to get off the phone.
"I'm not, I'm naughty!" Danny wheezed as the pretty woman's hand slapped at him, "I gotta go, my nurse isn't happy with me. You gonna be home tomorrow around four?"
"Should be. Why?"
"I'm comin' over for the four o'clock game," he noted of the football event, "With pizza. We gotta talk."
"Yeah," Martin sighed, eyeing the clock. He had a day and a half to come up with the right answers. He didn't have to see the dark eyes, he knew they were serious and determined. He also knew that his partner was owed an explanation. "Okay."
******************
Saturday Afternoon, 4:30 p.m.
Martin put the key in his lock and opened the door. He let the warmth of the room take off the chill that was in his bones. Feeling hemmed in, he'd taken a long walk. The air invigorated him and he looked at the boxes piled in his spare bedroom in a new light. He'd intended on making that room his study. A place for his computer, shelves for books and a worktable to use for his model ships. But he'd not unpacked all the things he'd brought from Seattle. Until this weekend he'd been working cases and not had time to put into the task.
He tossed his coat on the chair and headed for the kitchen. He placed the box of doughnuts on the table and made a quick supper. He took a can of Escarole soup from the cupboard, poured it into a large ceramic mug and nuked it. Then he tossed some turkey breast, tomato slices and lettuce with some Dijon on multigrain bread. A bottle of diet peach Snapple completed his lateday meal. He kept the ice pack on while he ate, so after he'd be ready to work.
Two hours later, with six boxes unpacked, he stood to use the bathroom and cried out in pain.
"Shit!" he hissed, biting his lip as a jackhammer-like sensation speared his delicate left side. He'd pushed too hard. He'd lifted too many heavy boxes and was now paying the price. He eyed the remnants of the last opened box. It was sitting on the new worktable, under a large window. He pulled out some college photos, putting them in one pile. Next were his track and field ribbons from high school, lovingly kept under glass in frames by his mother. He winced at the photo in the frame in his hand. A very young image of himself, thinner and with longer hair, looked back at him. He was about to toss the box aside, to break it down with the others, when he noticed an oversized gray and maroon folder. Puzzled, he pulled it out and tucked it under his arm. His bladder moved him quickly from the room. He tossed the gray curiosity onto the sofa on his way to the bathroom.
"Take with food," he frowned, not ready to eat yet. "Dessert?" he agreed with the man in the mirror. He made a large mug of coffee and selected three doughnuts. He grabbed his ice pack and padded to the sofa. He switched the television on, catching the last part of a football game. He popped the last piece of cake into his mouth and took his pills. He drained his coffee and was about to settle back into the comfortable cushions when he noticed the envelope and flipped it open.
It was as if all the air was taken from the room. The referee's whistle from the muddy field faded away, along with the cheering crowd. The only sound he heard was the rush of blood to his ears and the drum-like rhythm of his pounding heart. A cold sweat broke out as he sat up, gasping for air. His hands trembled while his stomach churned, threatening to toss the food back. His burning eyes raked over the art paper. The design had been done in painstaking fashion, with all the love a lonely seven-year old could muster.
He sighed heavily, raking his trembling fingers through his hair. Gold leaves, each one hand-crafted of felt, cut and pasted, framed the image. The crooked lettering was done in browns, rusts and dark greens, to capture the heart of autumn. Desperate to get air in his lungs, he took several wavering breaths.
"Nothing...Gold...Can...Stay..." he stammered badly, as pinpoint rifle shots shredded his guts to ribbons. "Jesus," he clenched his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to stop the awful movie from replaying.
The soundtrack came first, loud booms of thunder and gusty winds, rattling the entire building. That icy breath spilling from Mother Nature's cruel lips took the power away and left a little boy cold, alone and terrified. The saucer-like eyes were wet and warm, the undersized body trying to be brave.
"Don't," he warned weakly, "run." But it was too late. The boy ran and ran, terrified in the blackened arena of fear. It was an impenetrable sea of ebony, save the brilliant blue shards of lightning dancing through the tall glass windows. They seemed to choke him, causing the boy to fall. Brother Thunder was jealous and screamed his anger, causing the boy to make the fatal error. "NO!"
He felt the acids in his intestinal track rebel and dropped the poetic picture. While he ran a crooked path to the bathroom, dropping on his knees to lose his lunch, the gift made from tiny loving hands sailed under a wing chair.
The pain from his injury, coupled with the anguishing revisit to that dark time and enhanced by the powerful drugs, was an overload. It was too much to bear, even for a Fitzgerald. Stomach empty, he flushed the toilet, stood and gripped the sink for dear life. He rinsed several times, groaning as sharp pains stabbed through his gut, shoving the red-hot knife harder into his ribs. The room was tilting and he walked a crooked path, collapsing on the bed. With a soft sigh, he dropped into the blackness. A single tear for that lost boy ran a crooked path down his cheek.
While the twilight turned her cloak inside out, putting on a black velvet wonder, the man slept. But it wasn't a restful sleep. His slim body thrashed and moved, fighting for that lost boy. His legs twitched, trying to stop the flight into hell. He gasped and moaned as the thunder and lighting sent the terrified child into the talons of the devil.
Sweat poured from the tortured sleeper. His damp head worked the pillow hard, two fists clutching at the blanket beneath his moving body. No one was there to hear his cries, just like that night. No one was here to reach out and grab his pounding fists, just like that night. There was no one warm to hold him and soothe him, to chase the terror away, just like that night.
The ragged breathing increased -- the head tossed violently trying to stop the boy.
"No...don't..." he mumbled, his face drenched in sweat and twisted in pain, "...no...no..."
Too late, the boy didn't listen -- again. The lad's eyes were burning a hole into his brain again. Wide and a startling shade of blue, they were filled with terror. The small body jerked and moved...stumbling and falling...falling...too late. It hurt...it was dark and cold...he was alone. There was no way out...and then the devil came.
**************
Sunday morning, five a.m.
"Yeah?" Jack Malone grumbled, sitting up and wincing. He flipped the light on and switched the phone to the other hand. He nodded, picked up a pen and began to write. "When? Where? Don't let them leave yet. I'm sending two of my men, Taylor and Fitzgerald. I'll check with division and follow on my own. Yeah, thanks Paul."
Spent and utterly drained, the body had no fight left. The limbs were slack, the lips parted and the ragged breathing labored. His heart was heavy, crushing his chest. The boy was depending on him and he'd failed him again. He saw the boy, unmoving, eyes fixed, the tiny chest rising and falling and he crawled towards him, reaching out. He was almost there, his strong hand reaching for that frail one...just a little closer...'
RING!! RING!!!
He jerked, gasped and licked his dry lips. For a split second, he had no idea where he was. He eyed the unfamiliar room and felt his heart hammering loudly.
"Yeah, yeah," he coughed, then sat up and grabbed the bedside phone. He winced at the red digital numbers on his radio, "Five-fifteen?"
"Martin?" Jack called out, having heard the ringing stop. There was no voice right away, just ragged breathing. "Fitzgerald? You there?"
"Huh? ye...ah..."
"How you doing?"
"Better."
He sat up, took a good breath and flipped the light on, hissing in pain at the bright stab in his eyes.
"Good," Jack relayed, "Get showered and dressed, Danny's on his way over."
"What's wrong?" he croaked, rubbing his dry throat. He squinted until his eyes adjusted, scratching his chest and yawning.
"Vecchione turned up."
"Where?
"Atlantic City. Two witnesses place him outside a bar called Dirty Annie's, not far from the Trop. He had an argument with the bouncer just about two a.m. A loud one. It ended up with a brawl. The bouncer was found dead not far from Bader Field."
"Vecchione?"
"Nothing yet. I'm gonna check his haunts around here. Sam's gonna check with the cops in Philly, see if he headed there. Vivian's checking the state cops in Jersey. You two head down to A.C. and talk to those witnesses."
"Got it."
The click turned to dial tone and the phone was still locked in his hand. He dressed quickly, grabbed some coffee and was gulping down a stale doughnut when the buzzer sounded. He strapped his gun on, grabbed his coat and headed for the door.
Neither man spoke, both were tired and Martin knew Danny was still bearing the brunt of his cold. His dark eyes were rimmed red and his breathing was harsh. As for himself, he felt exhausted, worn to the bone. The nightmares were vivid and clung to him yet. The twin roaring pains in his ribs and head didn't help. He was in a shitty mood.
The trip didn't take long. They exited the Atlantic City Expressway, passing the convention center and bus station.
"Turn here," Martin said, "take Atlantic Avenue to North Albany, hang a right. Jack said they found the body near Bader Field," he noted of the small airport, "That's near Chelsea Heights."
Danny nodded, his head pounding and his sinuses backed up. The whole front of his face was throbbing. He was glad Fitzgerald has been quiet during the ride. Every word uttered felt like another nail in his face.
"That's gotta be it," Martin pointed to a roadblock with yellow tape and a bevy of flashing lights.
Danny pulled up, flashed his badge and the cop indicated for him to roll his window down.
"Taylor and Fitzgerald, F.B.I. Looking for a Captain Murphy."
"Hold on." The cop pressed a button on a radio on his shoulder. "Cap, couple o' feds here for you. Fitzpatrick and Taylor."
"Fitzgerald!" Martin barked, causing his partner to flinch.
"You mind keepin' it down to a bellow?"
"How'd you draw the short straw?" Martin asked, eyeing the pained soul.
"Just lucky," he sighed. Truth was, Jack knew Martin was having a problem and that Danny was tied to it. He'd offered to have Sam go with Martin, but Danny had denied that.
"Okay," the cop waved them onward.
Danny pulled over, parked and exited, sucking in cold air. His body was here but his mind was back in his bed, buried under a comforter with Denise Nardone's lush body pressed close by.
"Whaddya got?" he asked a silver-haired, slight man, "You Murphy?"
"Paul," the other extended his hand.
"Taylor. This is Fitzgerald." He sneezed three times, coughed and took out a tissue, "Sorry..."
"The former Leland "Boogie-boy' Beaumont, twenty-five years old and until about two a.m. a bouncer at a dive near the Tropicana called Dirty Annie's. Your boy Vecchione picked a fight with him outside the bar. It got rough -- before a couple of Beaumont's friends intervened."
"Vecchione?" Martin asked, squatting over the corpse. The victim was about six foot, two twenty and lots of upper body muscle. The African-American male had close-cropped hair and a small crimson hole next to where his left eye should be.
"Last seen staggering towards the boardwalk, that would be just about two- thirty or so," the investigator noted.
"He didn't do this."
"Oh, you're one of those psychic feds I read about in the rag sheets?" The Captain scoffed. He watched carefully as the clean-cut blue-eyed man stood and turned. He eyed the pristine white shirt and silk tie. Hell, that tie alone cost more than his whole outfit. Damn feds -- especially these GQ whiz kids who didn't know squat.
"He uses a blade. He doesn't carry a piece. I studied this guy, I know him. What about him?" he jerked his head to the body, "He got a record? Enemies? Ties to local action? What's his story?"
"You're here to find Vecchione," Murphy steamed, "This is MY house, hot shot. Take your Madison Avenue ass outta my face."
"Great!" Danny sighed, "I didn't even eat yet." He moved from the corner and walked over. "Ease up," he advised the irate cop, "We don't wanna step on anybody's toes. Martin was just trying to -"
"Martin can speak for himself!" The troubled blue-eyed man seethed.
"Knock yourself out. I'll be in the car."
Martin watched Danny walk away, not missing the disgust on his face. He sighed and kicked a can in the weeded, overgrown lot.
"Dammit."
He took several breaths, getting his raging emotions under control. He rubbed his neck, closed his eyes and let out a pent-up breath. He turned back, the glare of the older man still burning into him.
"Do you have addresses on the two witnesses?"
Murphy handed them over and turned back, punching numbers into his cell phone.
As they drove back to the bar in question, to talk to one of the witnesses, Martin's eyes roamed over the streets. Atlantic City was a real mix of rags and riches. On the world famous boardwalk, a string of glitzy casinos drew high-rolling gamblers from around the globe. Just a few blocks away was the shabby stepsister. She housed crime of every facet. Prostitution, drugs, guns, crack houses, pimps, shoddy landlords and other vermin crawled through boarded-up houses, overgrown lots and burned out cars.
His eyes narrowed as a group of skinny teens with hollow eyes passed by. Two of them were supporting a third, a waifish blonde with dirty hair and half-mast eyes.
"Hell, they can't be more than fifteen," he mumbled, "stoned this early."
"This is the real world," Danny shot back, turning up a side street, "not that white bread Bradyland you grew up in."
"You don't know a damn thing about me!"
"I know enough," Danny soured, his face throbbing. It felt like a dozen nails, red hot and tipped with poison, were pulsating in his face, "I know you always had a bed to sleep in, with real heat in the house. You had food on your plate and a school to go to --"
"Excuse the hell out of me for not being born in a ghetto!" Martin growled, then grabbed the wheel, "Watch it! That's a one way street."
Fortunately, the bar was at the next block. Both hot heads had to put their emotions on the back burner. Danny pulled in and appraised the four people nearby. A twenty-something plumpish young woman with a miniskirt, black sheet stockings and pink hair snapped gum at him. Next to her, a pockmarked man, tall and thin with sunglasses and a gray suit, complete with hat, eyed him with disdain. From a window above the grimy sign reading 'Dirty Annie's', complete with an ample drawing of a pair of breasts, there was an older woman. Sweeping the walk in front of the bar was a bearded white male, fortyish.
Danny flipped his badge, "Taylor, F.B.I. I'm here about the fight last night."
"Heard about Boogieboy, damn shame," the pimp-like male noted.
The three people in front of him all stared past him. His mouth formed a grim line and he paused. He felt a body moving, standing just behind him.
"He's cool, he's my partner. We're looking for Charles Alvarez and Kenny Foxe."
"Sorry, Sugar," the pink-haired prostitute snapped her gum, "You come down here a lot?"
"No," Danny made a face, ignoring the eyes mentally undressing him, "So where can I find them?"
"Can't help you," the sweeper paused, then resumed his job.
"You better think again," Martin grabbed the broom, "or you'll be sweeping the pavement in front of the unemployment office."
The pimp snorted and the pink-haired princess laughed and made a face.
"Oh, man," Danny groaned, but the sweeper's eyes inadvertently moved to the open window, "What about it, Ma'am?"
"I mind my own business."
"Mindin' everybody else's business IS your business," the pimp retorted. "Mama don't miss much, catch my drift. Me and the lady weren't here last night."
Danny nodded and entered the seedy dive, wincing as his feet stuck to the floor. He didn't look down, he didn't want to guess what was residing there. Martin was already knocking on the door. After a short shuffle, a whiskered chin and one blue eye regarded him.
"Open up!" Martin stuck his foot inside, "Look, lady, if you know where they are or where Tony Vecchione is, you better start talking."
After several moments, the crack closed long enough for a lock to be undone. They entered the two-room apartment just as the roaches completed a relay race across the kitchen floor. Martin's nose wrinkled at the stench. He couldn't tell if it came from the tenant or the flat, and he didn't want to find out.
"You saw the fight?" he pressed, eager to be out of this place.
"I heard it first." She shuffled to the window, scratching her backside. "Lee tossed this guy out. Tall and mean looking. Dark, greasy hair, mustache, kinda hefty."
"Is this him?" Danny showed the photo of Tony Vecchione.
"Yeah, that's him. They were right under the light. Chooch and Charley jumped in, beat on that man but good. They dumped him up the street."
"Is he a customer here?" Martin asked.
"Not for the booze," she remarked. "He likes dark meat," she noted of the prostitutes who strutted their wares. "I've seen him a couple times. Heard he's rough, but tips good."
"Who?"
"Honey, this ain't a train station, they don't check in with me." She eyed the blue-eyed man and her face screwed up. Ignoring him, she turned to the other one, "Candy might know."
"Pink hair?" Danny asked and the grayheaded crone nodded. "What about the other two?"
"Black guys, kinda like Mutt and Jeff. Chooch wears a red scarf, it's his trademark. Sometimes they hang out across from McDonalds up on the boards a few blocks. You can't miss them."
"Thanks," he nodded, giving her his card, "If you see Vecchione again, you call, okay?"
They spent an hour on the wooden walkway that fronted the casinos, shops and restaurants. It was almost eleven a.m. when Danny eyed a coffee shop.
"Let's take five. I gotta eat."
"Yeah, okay," Martin agreed, not missing the fact that Taylor looked awful. They grabbed some sandwiches and coffee, then went over their notes. Martin drew a tiny timeline on the notepad.
"According to Pink, Vecchione went upstairs with 'Crystal' about midnight. There was trouble and he got booted out. He comes back later, two or so, and picks a fight with Beaumont."
"Chooch and Charley jump in, tear his ass up and toss 'im," Danny added, "Could be old Boogieboy went lookin' for Vecchione to finish him off?"
"Maybe," Martin's phone rang and he flipped it out, "Fitzgerald. Yeah. Nothing so far. Well, hell, Jack it's not like we're out here gettin' a tan!" He rolled his eyes and chuffed out a breath, then handed the phone over.
"Hey boss," Danny's voice was thick and nasal.
"What about it?" Jack asked, pulling off of the Expressway.
"We got another witness, the lady who lives over the bar. She saw the fight and says Alvarez and Foxe nailed Vecchione. Last we got him is three a.m. or so, headed up the boards. We're lookin' for them now. The lady, she says he likes his paid ladies dark. Could be he has regulars, they might know where he's hidin'."
"Vivian and Sam came up dry. I'll check out the stable, you two find those witnesses," Malone paused, "and you tell your partner to watch that mouth of his."
"Yeah," he sighed, handing the phone back.
Martin took both cardboard trays to the trashcan and dumped them. He waited, pulling up his collar against the cold air and shivering. The sun was gone and the gray sky appeared threatening.
"You coming or not?" he asked his pensive partner.
Danny turned, finished the end of his tea and picked at the edges of the cup.
"We need to talk."
"Not here."
"When? After that temper of yours causes one of us to end up in the ER?" He turned, straddling the bench and saw the fists flexing. The handsome profile was turned partially away, eyeing the ocean. "What's eatin' at you? It's tied to that cafeteria, at the school."
"Look," Martin turned, shaken by the words, "it was a long...it's over..."
"Over?" Danny rose, "I look blind to you?" He thought again on when Martin had looked so shaken. The poem...the small boy...that poem. "It's got something to do with that kid's poem... about the dead leaves."
That got a reaction. The other man's face turned ashen and he tried to stifle a choke. Danny looked closer and saw how haggard the other man looked. Like he'd been up all night wrestling those demons. "Is that it? You have some kind of bad memory from when you were that kid's age? At Thanksgiving?"
"Don't!" Martin managed, trying to fight both Danny's bullets and the slashing images replaying again in his throbbing skull.
Taylor paused a few feet away, the wind taking his dark hair off his face. "Whatever shit you got locked up in there," he gave the nearly concave abdomen a pat, "is festering. You don't get it out, you're gonna explode. I don't want to be cannon fodder? You got it?"
"Then stay the hell out of my face!" Martin hissed, eyes hot. He didn't like the fact this man could read him. He'd never let anyone get close, he always kept them at arm's length. This new feeling unnerved him. He turned sharply, heading towards the next stretch of their destination.
"HEY!"
"Look Danny, it's none of your --" He blinked, his partner wasn't there. "TAYLOR!" he called out and then saw the quick moving man flying down the boardwalk. He didn't see the faces, but a long red scarf trailed in the breeze. "Shit!" He took off, following the trio.
