Big Money (Austin Carr Mystery) by Jack Getze Page A

would be empty. “If you want me to say another word, Jim, explain what’s happened. My lawyer’s phone number is programmed into my cell phone.”
    His intense gaze holds on mine, trying to intimidate me. Fat chance, Jimbo. I watched you throw baseballs all one summer. I’ve se en stronger arms on a sand crab.
    Mallory saying, “Your five o’clock appo intment was canceled, Carr. Ann Marie Talbot is dead.”
     
     

 
    FIFTEEN
     
    Mallory’s words smack me. Not as hard as Max the Creeper did last night, but enough to provoke the physical reaction I’m sure Mallory hoped for. I feel my eyes go big like saucers. When my breath comes back, it’s quick and shallow.
    “Who did you send up there, Carr? Tell me now or I’m taking you in on suspicion of murder. Let the newspapers and TV stations have the news.”
    I labor for a deep breath. I need oxygen. I need the Lone Ranger. The Cisco Kid. Luis. Okay, Carr, think quick. Tony Farascio is Mr. Vic’s friend. Tony’s carrying one hundred thousand dollars in what I assume to be unlaundered gambling money. And anyway you look at it, thanks to me, Tony went to see Talbot on Shore’s behalf. I do not want to give Mallory Tony’s name.
    “Who the fuck was it!” Mallory is screaming at me. “Tell me.”
    But Shore’s troubles can only blossom into full-boat disaster if I start lying during a murder investigation, playing hide-the-truth with Branchtown cops. When you’re sinking in heavy shit, it figures as pure folly to dig yourself in deeper.
    “His name is Tony Farascio,” I say.
    “Spell it.”
    “F-A-R-A-S-C-I-O.”
    “He works for you?”
    “He’s a friend of Mr. Vic’s.”
    “What, he’s a lawyer or something?”
    “I’m not sure,” I say. “Maybe just a friend.”
    Mallory’s eyes narrow. “But he was on Shore Securities business?”
    “Uh...I guess.”
    The tall cop pushes closer. His nose brushes mine. An Eskimo kiss. Gee, Jim, does this mean we’re going steady?
    “Was he or wasn’t he, Carr? I thought you were running the company while Vic’s out of town.”
    I cough to clear m y throat. That backs Mallory up. Maybe I should tell him I have TB. “Mr. Vic told me to call Tony if I had trouble with...” My sentence dies. I’m wandering down a dangerous path here. I keep talking this way, explaining myself, it’s going to sound like I—or Vic, Shore, somebody—hired Tony Farascio to threaten or even kill Talbot.
    “Trouble with what?” Mallory asks.
    “Just trouble.”
    Mallory shakes his head. His jaw sets like black-flecked white marble. “Screw this, Carr. You’re coming back to the station, spend the night answering questions. For now, just tell me what this Farascio looks like.”
    The sun’s long gone. Stars flicker above the Navasquan River. I don’t see Gina the Luscious anymore, and the last stragglers have wandered back inside the Martha. The Branchtown Fire Department rumbles from the parking lot. Everything’s finished. Especially me.
    “Six foot,” I say. “Two hundred pounds. Dark wavy hair and a permanent five o’clock shadow. Handsome as a movie star.”
    “Eye color?”
    “Brown. Like a puppy dog.”
     
     
    “Listen to me, Jim,” I say an hour later. “Every night our back office tells the clearing bank in New York what to do with the money and securities taken in during the day’s business. We send the bank a list of names and account numbers, what cash and stocks are to be deposited in each.”
    Mallory and I are in a twelve-by-twelve-foot police interview room with a wooden desk and two wooden chairs, the furniture coated with multiple layers of brown paint that was old twenty-five years ago. The puke green, chipped-plaster walls haven’t been washed since Richard Nixon was President. The square-tiled floor smells of lemon disinfectant.
    “If the bank goofs,” I say, “leaves one dollar of a client’s funds in Shore’s catch-all account, then technically we’ve co-mingled client moneys.