Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) by Jack Getze Read Free Book Online

money and mixing big pitchers of margaritas. Soon as our eyes lock though, my favorite bartender/club owner wipes his hands, slides down the bar my way, Luis jaunty, but tense, too, the swagger contained.
    He grabs my handshake. The restaurant’s atmosphere isn’t the only thing uptight around here. Luis’ shiny black eyes bear the resolute wariness of a big-city cop walking up beside your car. One hand on his holster.
    I ’ve decided to file a complaint. “Bluefish threatened my children. He brought that creep-ass giant with him, too, surprised me, Ryan and Beth at the restaurant. Bastard had me roughed up in front of my kids.”
    Luis’s eyes briefly shut. A long, slow blink. He says, “Did you agree to do him the favor?”
    I nod. “I couldn’t say no with the kids there.”
    “What about this new friend of yours, Tony?”
    “I asked for his help. But I haven’t heard from him since the day before yesterday.”
    Luis reaches low to his left, draws up a half-full bottle of Herradura Gold and pours us two shots. “It is lucky for me I have not yet fathered children. I have only myself and my restaurant to protect.”
    My friend doesn’t know the half of it. Besides Beth and Ryan, my current security responsibilities include Carmela, Shore Securities and Mama Bones. Thanks to my boss and market mentor, Mr. Vic, I’m sworn to protect his, mine and ours. Where’s my badge? My troops? Where’s Tony?
    “I noticed the guy with the shotgun,” I say. “I assume he’s a friend of yours.”
    Luis ignores my implied question. He wraps two fingers around his tequila glass, drinks his Herradura and shoots a glance at the front door. Maybe he thinks, I’m guessing, that his armed pal remains obscure.
    I throw back my own tequila. Tilt my head in the guard’s direction. “Oh, come on, Luis. He pinned me like an owl watching a field mouse when I walked in. And that brown paper package might as well be transparent. About as subtle as a bazooka.”
    He shakes his head. “Then Bluefish’s spy will easily pick him out as well.”
    “Count on it.”
    He pours us another shot. “I must make my friend less visible.”
    I glance at the man beneath the sombreros. “And maybe get a few more of them.”
     
     
    I park in the Martha Washington Inn’s side lot, grab my coat and slide out of the Camry. A putrid, river-bottom odor whacks my nose. Branchtown residents have been throwing nasty things in the Navasquan River for more than four hundred years. The gifts return in spirit every low tide.
    I breathe as shallowly as possible walking to the hotel’s main entrance. The Martha Washington Inn perches on a small bluff overlooking the river, the hotel’s whitewashed wooden exterior molting away like feathers from an ancient seagull.
    The weather is cool and clear this evening in Central New Jersey. A few clouds glow pink in the west. Not a bad night to roost at the Martha’s upstairs brass and mahogany bar, watch the sun go down. After dark, lights pop on in the big river estates, throwing sparklers onto black water.
    Maybe after I meet with the AASD’s Ann Marie Talbot, I’ll have a Bombay martini and check out the lights.
    “Hey, Carr.”
    I let go of the Martha’s front glass door and swivel to see who’s called my name. It’s Tony Farascio, all six feet of him, the stubble on his George Clooney cheeks thick and black as coal dust.
    “Hey, Tony. What’s up?”
    “I decided to help you with that other thing.”
    Tony sticks out his hand. He’s wearing tan cotton slacks, new white sneakers and another extra big, short-sleeve knitted green golf shirt beneath an unzipped Navy blue London Fog windbreaker. I’m familiar with his big hands, that crunching grip, but as he walks toward me I notice Tony also owns exceptionally light feet for a big man. Like a pro football lineman.
    We drop the shake. “Carmela told you I was going to be here?” I say.
    “Yeah.”
    “Well, I don’t need any help with the AASD. But