A.J. pulled his car into the garage and shut off the engine. He was glad to be home, and there was a good reason for it—he was going to have his place all to himself for a few nights. Rick had been raring to go since this morning and headed for south of the border before A.J. locked up the office. Marlowe, Rick's big, good-for-nothing mutt, was at the vet's for observation because he had ingested something nasty and gotten food poisoning. A.J. was looking forward to a date with a couple of rare books he had found at a secondhand bookstore. The only fly in the ointment was the break-in at the office in the afternoon. He and Rick had gone over old case files for hours but hadn't been able to figure out who and why. Rick, preoccupied with his weekend getaway, was dismissive about the incident, saying no harm had been done; A.J. wasn't so sure.
He was still mulling over the break-in when he realized the entrance door was unlocked. It's like déjà vu all over again, he thought humorlessly. For the second time in one day, he reached for his gun in the belt holster. He pushed open the door slowly and waited several seconds before he stuck his head in for a quick peek inside. He counted to three, then, with the gun drawn, he noiselessly slipped into the kitchen. He remained still listening intently to determine where the rustling, stealthy noises were coming from.
The living room, he was sure of it.
Treading softly but swiftly like a cat, he approached closer to the intruder whose silhouette was now visible in the dim. Cocking his gun, he delivered the standard warming as firmly and forcefully as possible. "Hold it right there! Don't make any sudden move. Raise your hands slowly where I can see them."
Gripping his .357 in both hands, he rounded the corner to face the intruder directly.
"Drop your gun."
A sepulchral voice came from right behind him. He felt a cold burst of adrenaline in the pit of his stomach and a gun barrel pressed hard on his back. The trap had been set beautifully, just the way he and Rick would have done. With deliberate slowness, he lowered his hands and dropped the gun onto the floor.
"Now, kick it toward me," ordered the unseen second intruder. His basso profundo, not unlike Gottlob Frick's, sent chills down A.J.'s spine for all the wrong reasons. He kicked the gun backward as ordered. A few seconds later, the lights came on.
His normally tidy living room had been turned upside down. Books and magazines everywhere. The vinyl records of vintage jazz and classical music lay scattered all over, some broken, he sadly noted. He groaned inwardly when he saw how big the man in front of him was—he was built like a Sherman tank. The muscleman made him feel as if he were an undersized fourteen-year-old.
"You're not Richard Simon," the Muscle spoke for the first time. Curiously, it was a statement rather than a question. A.J. kept his mouth shut though his mind was racing to assess the situation he was in. Rick, Rick, Rick. What have you done this time?
"Where is he?"
A.J. shrugged to indicate 'no idea.' The Muscle clearly didn't like what he saw and grabbed a handful of A.J.'s shirtfront with such force he almost lifted him up, forcing him to stand on his toes. The Muscle showed A.J. his clenched fist to intimidate him further—it worked. The fist was enormous, about the size of a basketball.
"We know he lives here," the Muscle hissed. "We're gonna find your brother one way or another. It's up to you if you wanna do it hard way." His angry face came a few inches closer to A.J.'s.
"He's out of town for the weekend," A.J. managed to say as fast as he could. His brother lived on his boat parked in the backyard, but he kept that part to himself because he didn't want to antagonize the Muscle and his pal citing technicalities.
"Where-did-he-go?" The Muscle punctuated each word by shaking his hapless prey.
"Maybe somewhere in Mexico, I don't know," A.J. tried to hedge, but, seeing the Muscle's eyes narrow, he hastily continued. "Hey, I'm telling you the truth! I'm not my brother's keeper!"
The look on the Muscle's face convinced A.J. that he was about to have his lights punched out, and he averted his face wincing and bracing for the impact.
Just then the Bass ordered the Muscle, "Let go of him," which apparently displeased the latter. Grunting in frustration, the Muscle angrily shoved A.J. sending him flying towards the bookshelves. When he collided with the furniture, more records cascaded down on his head from the shelves above. Nevertheless, he was glad to be out of the reach of the big oaf. He looked to his left and saw the Bass the first time. He was a black man just as big as the Muscle, but with an intelligent face. Then A.J. saw his eyes, his dead eyes devoid of any emotions, which scared him even more than all of The Muscle.
"Get up," the Bass told A.J. "On your feet and empty your pockets."
A.J. gingerly pulled himself up without taking his eyes off the Bass. He first removed his wallet from the inside pocket of his jacket and held it up to show it to the Bass.
"Toss it to my partner."
The Muscle examined the contents of the wallet thoroughly. In addition, A.J. surrendered his keys, loose change and a business card case to his captors.
"That's all I have on me," he announced hoping that would satisfy them. "I don't know what you're looking for, but…"
"Shut up," the Bass cut him off. "Search him," he ordered the Muscle.
Rough was too mild a term to describe the Muscle's pat-down. A.J. knew he'd be in pain, covered with bruises next morning. He had come out of some fights in much better condition. After he finished manhandling A.J., the Muscle went out to check the Bel Air.
Perched on the armrest of the sofa watching A.J. watch him, the Bass was a blank canvas—his face revealed nothing; he almost looked bored. A.J., with his hands clasped behind the back of his head, was on his knees and becoming increasingly unnerved by the stretching silence and the uncertainty. When the Bass finally spoke again, he almost jumped with a start.
"Have you been inside the Ford pickup that you and your brother delivered to Golden West this morning?"
The repo! But it was just this morning. "No."
"Did your brother give you anything this morning after the repo?"
Trouble, aggravation, grief and misery for starters. "No."
"To the best of your knowledge, did he take anything from the pickup?"
"No! My brother and I are professionals. We never steal from our clients!"
The Muscle, looking meaner and angrier, returned from outside, shook his head to show his partner the search had turned up nothing.
Seeing the Bass rise to his full length made A.J.'s hairs on the back of his neck go up. Is this the beginning of the end?
"Tell your brother we'll be back for him."
A.J. exhaled his breath he didn't know he had been holding.
"And tell him there's no use hiding," the Muscle chimed in.
"Wouldn't it be easier if you left me your business card just in case?" A.J. was feeling a lot better, good enough to give them a bit of sass.
"If you wish."
A.J. was caught off guard to hear the Bass' improbable response and jerked his head up in surprise—or, tried to. In the corner of his eye, he saw a huge fist, then stars, then nothing.
S&S S&S
When he came to, A.J. found himself lying on the floor and wondered how he had ended up flat on his back. As he blankly stared at the ceiling, he began to recall fragments of the unpleasant encounter with two unknown assailants. Or, was that a dream? No, a pounding headache, blurry vision and the chaos throughout the house told him otherwise. Despite the discomfort and the mess around him, he counted himself lucky. If those two pros had wanted to cause a real serious damage, he would have been all over the floor waiting to be scraped off with a spatula.
His body tensed when the phone started to ring. He hesitated for a few seconds before picking up the receiver. "Hello…" he uttered ever so cautiously.
"Yo! It's me."
He felt relieved to hear Rick's voice, but the sense of relief was quickly replaced with a stab of fear.
"Ri… Where are you? I thought you were heading south." He chose his words carefully so as not to give any specifics over the phone, which might be tapped.
"Well, I forgot to bring something. I'm heading back for the border as soon as I pick it up. So, don't worry—I'm not gonna ruin your boring weekend plan."
"What is it that you forgot to take with you?" A.J. tried to maintain the conversation light.
"Oh, nothing that you have to worry your pretty head, little brother."
A.J. could almost see a smirk on Rick's face. He knew that Rick knew he hated being called pretty, or pretty boy. Every once in a while, Rick called him that in order to rile him up—it was his diversion tactic to change the subject he'd rather avoid. A.J. was too preoccupied to take the bait this time though.
"Hey, listen, Ricardo. Since you're still in town, wanna grab a bite to eat before you take off again?"
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line then he heard Rick drawl, "Sure, sounds good. Got any particular place in mind?"
"Giorgio's Pizzeria? Around…" A. J. glanced at his wristwatch, "…seven…ish?"
"Fine by me. See you there, Andre."
A.J. heard a soft click, and Rick was gone.
S&S S&S
At 6:45, Rick walked into a bar in East Village. He looked around to see if he could find anything familiar. He knew the management had changed hands a few times since his last visit, but he was able to recognize some old framed pictures by the mirror behind the bar counter. This place used to be one of his favorite watering holes and had been part of A.J.'s rite of passage. Many a time, Rick had brought his then-underage brother here to give him some pointers on anything alcoholic. On such occasions, they had always told their mother, Cecilia, that they were going to Giorgio's for some pizza. The ruse had gone on undetected for several months before they'd been busted one night when both of them had gotten plastered and made a rackety entrance into their home instead of sneaking in at two in the morning. A.J. was so drunk—and had a terrible hangover as a consequence—he didn't realize he was being grounded until a couple of days later, recalled Rick, chuckling.
Rick was still skipping down the memory lane when a group of college kids entered the bar. Among this young bunch was A.J. He blended in quite well, but Rick easily spotted him in spite of a black stocking cap and a pair of sunglasses he'd put on to conceal some physical traits. A moment or two later, A.J. found him at the counter and pointed his chin at an empty corner booth. Rick nodded, and they walked toward the booth unhurriedly. A waitress came over and took their orders almost immediately. A beer for Rick, a club soda for A.J. No hard liquor to dull their senses tonight.
"Did anyone follow you here?" Making sure that no one was around, A.J. asked Rick first.
"No. You?"
A.J. shook his head. "Uh-uh. Not any more. I think I saw someone tailing me when I left home, but I ditched him. Just in case, I went to Tory's first, went out the back door and took a cab here."
"So, tell me. What the hell's going on?"
"I was hoping you could provide the answer," A.J.'s reply was cryptic.
"What? I didn't come all the way here to play Twenty Questions, so stop talking in riddles, A.J." As always, Rick wanted straight answers. After a beat, A.J. resumed talking.
"I had two more surprise visitors. This time they came calling at my place. Funny thing is, they were looking for you, but not just you. They wanted something you took."
Rick was now completely baffled. "What? What did I take? When? Where? From who? I don't know what you're talking about!"
"The uninvited guests were under the impression that you removed something from the truck we just repossessed." From behind the dark sunglasses, A.J. watched Rick in silence for a moment. "Did you, Rick?"
"'Course not!" Rick was getting hot under the collar.
"Rick, there's no use getting upset. You have to calm down to think clearly. I want you to… Just… Just retrace what you did this morning, okay?"
He sounds like a goddamn shrink. Rick glared at his brother and jammed his hands in the pockets of his jacket. As his fingers curled around the brand new cigarette pack he had just purchased in the bar, his eyes widened, his body froze. A.J. didn't miss the sudden change in his brother's demeanor.
"What? What is it, Rick?"
Rick slowly pulled his hand out of the pocket and stared at the cigarette pack in the hand as if it were an alien creature.
"Is that what you took? A pack of cigarettes?" A.J. was incredulous.
"No, not this one."
"But you stole one lousy pack of cigarettes?" A.J. was losing his composure.
"I didn't mean to steal it. It wasn't my brand."
"Oh, yeah. That sure negates the intent of theft, doesn't it?"
Rick let his brother's sardonic remark pass now that he'd have to face the fact that he was the cause of the trouble they seemed to be in.
"It was just force of habit—after I took a smoke out, I put the pack in my breast pocket without thinking. I didn't realize I still had it until after we delivered the truck to the bank."
"So, where is it? Do you have it with you?"
What the hell did I do with it? Rick drew a blank—he closed his eyes to concentrate. A.J. was becoming more anxious with each passing second.
"I chucked it," Rick remembered at long last.
"WHAT? Chucked it where?" A.J.'s voice jumped a couple of octaves higher in panic.
"In the back of my truck."
A.J.'s shoulders sagged as some, if not all, of the tension left his body. He couldn't think of any other time when he had been grateful that his brother was a slob.
Rick scooted out of the seat. "Come on, let's go," he urged his brother, but A.J. shook his head.
"No, not yet. You just go on ahead and find the pack, but we need a plan before we leave this place."
"A plan? For what?"
"Think about it, Rick. The repo was just this morning. By noon, someone tried to bug our office. I don't know who or how many people are involved in…in whatever it is, but they know who we are, where we work and live, and I'm sure they know what cars we drive. They also know our physical descriptions, and that you were the last person to drive that Ford…" A.J.'s voice trailed off.
"Maybe the guy who paid us a visit at work sent a couple of his lackeys to scare us," Rick suggested.
"Possible. But the man at the office looked like a white-collar type. The men that showed up at my place were definitely goons."
Slowly but surely, Rick began to understand the nature of this clandestine meeting. For the first time after his arrival at the bar, he scrutinized A.J.'s face for several seconds then reached down and removed his sunglasses. He was sporting one hell of a shiner. His left eye was almost swollen shut. Rick's jaw tightened as he gritted his teeth. He put his hand on his brother's shoulder and gave him a squeeze—hard.
"I'm sorry, A.J."
A.J. looked up at Rick with one good eye and whispered, "Hey, it's okay. Could have been worse if it'd been you they found."
Rick realized then that A. J. was afraid—afraid for that idiot brother of his.