The Extortionist Read online

  “Maybe you’re right,” he says, through grinding teeth. “I didn’t like this little shit from the moment I laid eyes on him.”

  I close my eyes, wait for the blast. When it comes, I don’t feel a thing. It’s a repeat of what went down in Brit’s apartment. There comes the sound of a body dropping deadweight to the floor followed by a shotgun hitting the concrete. I open my eyes and see the arterial blood pumping out of the nickel sized hole in Nick Anthos’s right temple. I see his wide-open eyes and mouth, the purple tongue protruding from it like a freshly killed lizard.

  Slowly lowering my hands, I turn to Miller.

  “What, the fuck, was that all about?” I say, my breathing so shallow I feel dizzy.

  Miller grips his .45 in his shooting hand.

  “I needed to distract him,” he says, “get him to focus on only one thing and one thing only. That way I could get the jump on him.”

  “That kind of maneuver is most definitely not in the Policeman’s Standard Operating Procedure Handbook,” I say. “Are we through using Steve Jobz as bait for a while?”

  “Sometimes you gotta just make shit happen,” he says.

  Then, the sound of jackboots pounding the floor overhead.

  “That would be the APD,” Miller says. “I texted dispatch as soon as we got here, told them to give us a half hour then send in the troops.”

  “Nice of you to let me know,” I say. “Think I need a drink after that.”

  “How’s the concussion?” Miller says, returning the pistol to its shoulder holster.

  “I forgot about it.”

  He places his arm around my shoulder.

  “Sorry I had to do that,” he says. “Come on, let’s go finish off that bottle in the cruiser.”

  We step out of the secret room and are immediately greeted by a team of uniformed cops dressed in black tactical gear.

  “What the hell happened here?” the first cop says. He’s a big burly, African American man.

  “The homeowner is deceased, Officer,” Miller says. “Call in the EMTs and the coroner. Also call in Albany CSI. There’s some very valuable physical evidence resting on a table in there, including Anita Simon’s murder weapon. We’re headed outside for some air.”

  “Copy that,” Burly cop says.

  We approach the stairs.

  “Oh, and Detective Miller,” Burly cop says.

  “Yes, Officer,” Miller says as he climbs onto the first staircase tread.

  “I’m guessing the murder weapon belongs to that kid they brought in a little while ago. Billy Anthos? If that’s the case, he’s gonna go away a long, long time.”

  “Forever,” Miller says, continuing his climb up the stairs. “He’s going away for the rest of his life.”

  For some reason, I can’t possibly explain how glad I am that Nick Anthos is no longer around to see the legal, media hungry shit show that’s in store for his only son. But then, I guess that’s tough justice for you. How did a wise man once put it? If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.

  FOUR DAYS LATER

  My mother has dressed herself for dinner in her favorite blue pants suit over a white blouse. Her gold jewelry glitters in the white light shining from the overhead cans installed in the Ann Lee Home’s acoustical ceiling tiles. We’re just one of a dozen tables occupied by residents and their family members for Meatloaf Monday Night.

  “I wonder where Brit has been?” my mother asks after a time.

  I cut a forkful of the meatloaf, dip it into the mashed potatoes and gravy, then pop it in my mouth. It’s not bad tonight. Lukewarm, and the potatoes are a little stiff, but otherwise, I feel like maybe the kitchen has upped its game now that no one is stealing from both its stores and its wallet any longer.

  “Told you, Mom,” I say. “Brit’s no longer with us.”

  She eats a small bite of meatloaf, wipes the corners of her mouth delicately with her cloth napkin.

  “You mean she died, Steven? The poor sweet girl is too young.”

  “No, Mom,” I say, “nothing like that. She’s going to prison.”

  This is maybe the tenth time I’ve told my mother about Brit going to prison, and every time I say it, she acts like it’s the very first time she’s heard it.

  “I can’t believe my ears,” she says. “Such a nice young woman. What could she have possibly done to deserve a prison sentence?”

  “It’s complicated, Mom,” I say. “But let’s just say she stole a lot of money from a lot of people.”

  Okay, I guess this is the part where I could tell her that not only is Brit going to prison for a very long time for extortion and grand larceny, but so is Kyle (who is already incarcerated at the Albany County Jail), Cute Brunette Chris, and Frumpy Dorothy. The three women are said to be working on having their sentences reduced in exchange for information regarding Brit’s overall involvement in the Loudonville Elementary School lunchroom extortion racket. Brit, however, is also facing multiple felony counts, including one count as an accessory in an attempted murder. Said would-be murder victim being yours truly.

  I could tell her that it was Kyle who put a knife to my neck that night in the Port. The fact that she disguised her voice with an electronic voice manipulating device only adds to her mystique as a master of disguise. And, let’s face it, she even had Terry Kindlon fooled with her old lady act, not to mention every kid who apparently loved her as the Lunchroom Lady at the Loudonville school.

  If only Terry had thought enough to pay closer attention to the Google White Pages. Kyle also had the IRS and the US Federal Social Security Administration fooled since she was able to cash more than half a decade’s worth of social security checks. How she was able to hide her mother’s death may always remain a mystery, but it certainly must have had something to do with the fact that her mother apparently became somewhat of a depressed shut-in following the 1979 deaths of Kyle’s big brother and her father.

  I could also illustrate a very big irony for my mother. The irony being that Principal Anita Simon is being treated as a hero in all of this, when in fact, she would also be heading to jail if only she’d survived the savage attack young Billy Anthos inflicted on her when he broke into the school one dark night and stabbed her to death. While some local media darlings have been quick to theorize that Anita might have sealed her fate when she ratted out her partner in the Loudonville Elementary extortion ring, the two incidents are entirely unrelated. Or so Detective Miller was quick to inform me. That said, had Miller and me not been working the extortion case on behalf of the APD, we may never have found out who killed Principal Simon. Billy Anthos might be enduring a troubled childhood, but he certainly never fit the bill as a vicious murderer.

  “Well, Brit seemed like an angel to me, Steven,” my mom goes on. “I was kind of hoping you might invite her to the Junior Prom. I don’t like seeing my child so lonely all the time. Maybe if you were taller, the girls would like you more.”

  She winks at me, then eats some more meatloaf. She’s back to normal. But then, I guess she’ll never really be back to normal. She’ll never be young again, that is. Which means, she’ll never have all her faculties from this point out. The faculties will only keep on disappearing like they had never been hers to keep in the first place. We don’t own our lives; we only lease them. From the moment we’re born, we start to die. In the beginning, it seems like such a long life. But then somewhere along the way you turn a corner, and you go from being a young dude to a gray-haired old dude. You never saw it coming. How did one woman describe her entire life while on her death bed? I was born, I blinked, and it was over.

  Mom continues to devour her meatloaf. Could it be possible she’s going to finish her entire meal tonight? Hope springs eternal.

  “You know,” she says, “Chef is really outdoing himself tonight. And to think I thought the Ritz was going downhill rapidly.” She comes up for air and looks at me, looks at my still full plate, then looks at me again. “Why aren’t you eating, Steve
n? I still want to go to Saks after dinner to purchase a necklace I’ve been wanting for forever. You are to say nothing to your father about it. It will be our secret and there will be five dollars in it for you. We’ll have just enough time to catch the nine o’clock Amtrak back to Albany from Grand Central Station.”

  “Right, mom,” I say. “I’ll finish up quick.”

  “Quickly, Steven,” she says. “It’s an adverb.”

  We finish our dinners, and for the first time in forever, even enjoy some coffee and chocolate cake for dessert.

  “We’re running late, Steven,” Mom says, as I wheel her from the table to her room. “Remember, don’t tell Dad about the necklace.”

  “Don’t spend too much money, mom,” I say.

  “Never you mind,” she says. “It’s my money to spend.”

  I kiss her good night and make sure she’s safe for the night in her recliner, and that the remote control is set on the arm rest. My guess is she thinks she occupies her seat in Business Class on board the Amtrak Hudson River Line. Whoever coined the term ignorance is bliss, never knew precisely how right they were.

  On my way out, I say goodnight to the nurses and the receptionist. As I’m walking out the front entrance, I nearly run into Director McCabe. He’s coming back into the building with a takeout order in hand. Chinese takeout by the looks and smell of it.

  “Mr. Jobz,” he says, pleasantly. “I’m so happy to hear that your mom is on the mend. Good to have her back.”

  I look into his blue eyes. His gray goatee and mustache cover his mouth, so I always have a hard time reading his face—a hard time understanding if he’s sincere or not. But I’ll just have to take him at his word.

  “Shame about Brit,” I say.

  He nods, sadly.

  “Never in a million years would I have guessed it was even remotely possible,” he says. Leaning into me, looking over both shoulders. “And I know you had a . . . let’s call it a thing for her. I’m sorry.”

  “My mom thought we might go to the junior prom together,” I say.

  But he just looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head.

  “Well, Mr. Jobz,” he says, “I’ll be seeing you soon, I hope.”

  “Monday Night Meatloaf,” I say.

  “Indeed,” he says, holding up the takeout order like he has no intention of ever touching his own meatloaf.

  Who can blame him?

  He walks into the building and I walk out. As I’m making my way to my Mustang, I can feel the cool late summer breeze on my face. It’s already mid-September. Soon it will be winter, and another year will have passed me by. The life is fading, going fast. One day sooner than later, I’ll turn that corner and all the bright shiny young people will start referring to me as Old Man Jobz. I guess I’ve been called worse.

  I can’t help but think about that old lady on her deathbed. I was born, I blinked, and it was over.

  But not yet.

  THE END

  If you enjoyed this Steve Jobs, PI thriller, you’ll love the pilot novel in the series, The Embalmer and book 2, The Flower Man. For a FREE Vincent Zandri novel, go to WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM

  About the Author

  Winner of the 2015 PWA Shamus Award and the 2015 ITW Thriller Award for Best Original Paperback Novel for MOONLIGHT WEEPS, Vincent Zandri is the NEW YORK TIMES, USA TODAY, and AMAZON KINDLE No.1 bestselling author of more than 30 novels including THE REMAINS, EVERYTHING BURNS, ORCHARD GROVE and the soon to be released, THE DETONATOR. Zandri's list of domestic publishers include Delacorte, Dell, Down & Out Books, Thomas & Mercer, and Polis Books. An MFA in Writing graduate of Vermont College, Zandri's work is translated in the Dutch, Russian, French, Italian, Japanese, and Polish. Recently, Zandri was the subject of a major feature by the New York Times. He has also made appearances on Bloomberg TV and FOX news. In December 2014, Suspense Magazine named Zandri's, THE SHROUD KEY, as one of the "Best Books of 2014." Recently, Suspense Magazine selected WHEN SHADOWS COME as one of the "Best Books of 2016". A freelance photojournalist and the author of the popular "lit blog," The Vincent Zandri Vox, Zandri has written for Living Ready Magazine, RT, New York Newsday, Hudson Valley Magazine, Writers Digest, The Times Union (Albany), Game & Fish Magazine, and many more. He lives in Albany, New York and Florence, Italy. For more go to WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM

  Vincent Zandri © copyright 2019

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Bear Media/Bear Noir 2019

  http://www.vincentzandri.com

  Editing by Bridgette O’Hare of Plot2Published Editing

  Interior Formatting by Dark Unicorn Designs

  Cover design by Elder Lemon Art

  Author Photo by Jessica Painter

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published in the United States of America

  The author is represented by Chip MacGregor of the MacGregor Literary Agency