Veronica couldn’t have sighed more wearily. “It’s the New York Times-dot-com, Helton. No, it’s not a physical newspaper, it’s the newspaper’s website.”
Helton gripped his own head. “Hon. All’a this tek-noller-gee’s givin’ me a blammed headache!”
Veronica’s own headache throbbed. “It’s a newspaper in magicland, all right?” She could’ve screamed. “Anyway, it seems that Paul Vinchetti comes from a long line of alleged criminals. He’s been arraigned a dozen times for everything from racketeering, bribery, and tax evasion to drug trafficking, contract murder, and distribution of illicit pornography.” She shrugged. “But he’s never been convicted. Dream Team lawyers and lots of money. Look. Here’s a picture of him,” and then she read the under-caption: “‘Alleged Mafioso Paul Vinchetti, aka Paulie the 3rd, seen here leaving federal court after his trial. Vinchetti was arrested in June for allegedly producing snuff films for the underground porn market. All charges were dropped when state’s witnesses failed to appear.’”
Helton squinted at the shimmering screen…
“So there he is. Paulie,” he intoned. The smartly dressed man in the digital photo smiled as he was about to get into a waiting limousine. “Rat-faced little bastard, huh? Ya can just tell, Veronnerka. Ya can tell how evil that man is by lookin’ at his face.”
Veronica diddled with some keys. “Here’s another picture,” and she read: “‘Alleged criminal mastermind Paul Vinchetti III having dinner at New York’s premier restaurant, Massaccesi’s, just one week after alleged rival and district mob boss Agostino Pagnatelli was murdered by unknown gunmen. Vinchetti is seen here with his wife Marshie and his mother, Adele.’”
“Yeah, that’s Marshie, all right. Got tramp’n backwoods whore written all over her. And them big tits on her? They’se implants. Bet she’s got almost as much money as him after inheritin’ Thibald Caudill’s fortune.” He chuckled, however grimly. “Hon. That fussy cracker hose-bag is what we call a ‘sperm-GURGLER’, yessir! With money’re without, low-life trash is low-life trash. What she is is like a spittoon in a bar, only it ain’t spit that’s been fillin’ it up all these years. It’s cum.”
Veronica winced. “Helton, please…”
“Oh, sorry. Pardon my coarse language.” But his eyes widened when he looked harder at the photo. “And that there’s his mother, you say?”
Veronica nodded. “Adele Vinchetti. She’s 62.”
“Looks dang good fer a gal her age, huh?” Helton rubbed his crotch without conscious forethought. “Bet she’s got them fancy implants too.”
“And every other kind of cosmetic surgery,” Veronica supposed of the shapely, Sophia-Lorenish-looking woman in the photo. “She’s very, very rich. Owns a brownstone in the Upper West Side according to the city tax records.”
“A brownstone? The hail’s that? Who wants brown stones?”
“Don’t worry about it,” she snapped. “You wanted me to locate some of Paulie’s relatives, so I did.”
Helton scratched the brush-like beard. “These pictures is fine but, hon, we need an address.”
Another jiggle of the keys, then Veronica pointed. “The good old AOL White Pages, Helton.”
“Huh?”
“12 West 75th Street and Dessorio Avenue.”
“The hail?”
“Adele Vinchetti’s address.”
Helton stared fixedly, then:
“EEEEEEEEEEEE-ha!” He leaned over and—
Veronica’s face shriveled.
—planted a big wet halitosis-tinged kiss on Veronica’s cheek.
“Git yer butts back in here, boys!” he yelled out the side door. “We’se going on a trip!” and when Dumar and Micky-Mack re-entered the truck, their faces were full of wonder.
“Gather ’round!” Helton trumpeted. “Veronnerka done struck gold again! She up’n got the address fer Paulie’s mother!”
In unison, Dumar and Micky-Mack railed: “EEEEEEEEEEE-ha!”
“And she lives in…” Helton looked down. “Where she live, hon?”
“In a multi-million-dollar brownstone she inherited from her late husband, Paul Vinchetti, Jr.,” she said. “It’s in Manhattan, Upper West Side.”
Micky-Mack was jumping up and down. “Manhattan? Where the hail’s that?”
“New York City.”
Micky-Mack stopped jumping up and down. He, Dumar, and Helton all traded glances that could only be called ominous.
“New York City?” Dumar inquired. “The New York City?”
“The one and only.”
“Sheeeee-it,” Micky-Mack whispered. “That’s big as even Pulaski, ain’t it?”
Veronica winced. “Pulaski is hardly a big city, Micky-Mack. It’s a town. It’s got a population of ten thousand. New York’s got a population of ten million.”
More ominous glances back and forth.
Dumar stammered. “But we ain’t never…been to any big cities.”
“Well, we’se shore as shit goin’ ta one now!” Helton roared. “And we’re gonna git our proper revenge on Paulie’s Maw!”
“EEEEEEEEE-ha!”
Veronica pressed her palms to her ears. “Helton, please! You’re gonna let me go first, right? You’re not going to make me ride all the way up to New York City with you? Right?”
“Aw, don’t worry none about that, missy. We’ll make the ride comfortable for ya as possible.”
Veronica began to cry.
“Start the truck, Dumar!” Helton ordered in glee. “We’se a-goin’ to New York City, yessir!”
— | — | —
Chapter 11
(I)
But before they’d even gotten out of town, it occurred to Helton and his kin that they didn’t have a clue as to how to drive to New York City. All Veronica had told them was this: “Take West Main Street to Count Pulaski Drive, then merge onto Interstate 81. It’s about 500 miles, an 8- or 9-hour drive,” and after that, still handcuffed to the table, her despair, shock-induced exhaustion, and sheer dumbfoundment as to her predicament had shrouded her in a deep, troubled sleep. “Shit, Paw,” Dumar said at the wheel. “Where the hail we goin’?” And Micky-Mack: “I ain’t even been out the county ‘cept fer couple times in my life.” Helton looked back to see Veronica asleep and curled into a ball. “Well, after all Veronnerka’s done fer us, it ain’t right we wake her up, so…” He spotted something through the windshield. “Pull in there, son. We ain’t dopes. We’ll just up’n buy ourselfs a map.”
“Great idea, Paw!”
It was a Hess station they pulled into, one complete with the ever-present convenience store. Micky-Mack was instructed to fill the tank and check the oil, while Helton and Dumar strode into the store. A bell rang, and upon the toll of that bell, a bosomy, remarkably-figured woman in her mid-‘20s looked up from the register and promptly frowned. “Well, hey there, missy,” Helton greeted. “We’se fillin’ up that big piece’a crap lookin’ truck out there, but what we also need is a map—”
“Are you blind? Map’s up front in rack,” the registress snapped. She had dark, shiny hair, penetrating eyes, and a Russian accent. The stunning body and face, however, took second seat to the glaring frown. A name-tag read KASHA, and she wore a tight t-shirt emblazoned with the face of Vladimir Putin, not that Helton would know who the fuck that was. Nipples like cucumber slices printed against the shirt as the immigrant clearly wore no bra.