Rough Company

by R. A. McGee

  “If you had a time machine, would you change it?”

  “Shit yeah,” Porter said. “I hate when people say they wouldn’t change a thing. They’re lying; everyone has something they would change. I bet Trish and I would still be together if all that hadn’t happened. But I try to put things in perspective. I’m okay where I am right now. I’ve done a bunch of good things for people. Made some money, too, so there’s that.”

  “You know there’s no reward for Trey, right? Kevon doesn’t have anything. There’s no pot of gold at the end of this rainbow,” Badway said.

  “I know. I’m here because you asked me to come. Besides, I never get to see my favorite cousin.”

  “I’m your only cousin.”

  “Semantics. Now stop talking so much.” Porter folded his arms across his chest and leaned his head against the cinderblock wall, closing his eyes.

  Fifteen

  With no clock, watch, or phone, it was impossible for the men to know how long they had been in the cell. Porter tried sleeping, but was jarred awake by the sawing of logs blaring out of Badway’s mouth.

  Drifting in and out of consciousness, Porter’s dreams were vivid and real while he was in them. Then, Badway would inhale and the walls would shake, and Porter would open his eyes and forget what was happening.

  This continued for what felt like days.

  Then, there was the crackle of a radio outside the cell and the hiss of the cell door opening.

  “You boys cozy in there?” Benson said.

  Porter slapped Badway on the arm and his cousin stood with a start, snapping to attention, arms by his side.

  “Let’s go,” Benson said. She stepped away from the cell door and made a motion for the men to walk in front of her.

  Porter stepped out first and followed the jailer down the corridor until they were let into a room where their bags of clothing sat on a table.

  “You guys get dressed,” Benson said.

  “We’re out of here?” Badway said.

  “Looks that way.”

  “What happened?” Porter said.

  “I don’t know. I get the orders and do what I’m told.” Benson lingered for a moment in the doorway as Badway took his shirt off, then stepped around the corner.

  “She looks like she wants to eat me,” Badway whispered to Porter.

  “I may have told her she could,” Porter said.

  “What?”

  Porter smiled.

  “Asshole.”

  The men finished dressing. The shirt Porter put on still had the mascara stain from Erin crying into his chest.

  They left the jail jumpsuits piled up on the table and walked out of the room to meet Benson.

  “Officer, what time is it?” Porter said.

  “Close to nine.”

  “Damn. We’ve been in there all night?” Badway said.

  “We already had shift change. I just stayed on for a little overtime.”

  “That the only reason?” Porter said.

  Benson stifled a smile.

  The jailer walked them through a series of doors, and when the last one opened, sunlight stung Porter’s eyes. Benson held the door for the men, who walked into a lobby at the front of the jail.

  “You boys stay out of trouble,” Benson said. She shook Porter’s hand, pressed a piece of paper into his palm, and let the door slam behind her as she went back to work.

  “What’s that?” Badway said, pointing at the paper in Porter’s hand.

  “I think it’s for you,” he said, passing the paper on.

  “Finally,” said a voice from a chair across the lobby. Cat Castonguay stood and walked toward the men, holding a tablet. She looked nothing like the polished professional Porter had seen in court the day before. Cat was wearing blue jeans, a hoodie sweatshirt, and—despite the chill in the air—flip-flops. Her hair was back in the shortest ponytail possible and she wore glasses with thick black frames.

  Porter liked the look.

  “What kind of magic did you work, counselor?” Porter said.

  “I drove down here and demanded to see the magistrate judge on duty. I told them I wouldn’t leave until they saw me,” Cat said.

  “Dammit, Porter,” Badway said. He had stopped to unfold the note and was now crumpling it up, tossing it in the nearest trash can. “You’re a dick, you know that?”

  “What’s that about?” Cat said.

  “Nothing,” Porter said with a smile. “What did the magistrate say?”

  “Reviewed the facts of the case and decided that while there was probable cause to support your arrest, that there wasn’t sufficient evidence to show that you two were a flight risk or a danger to the community.”

  “So we’re free to go?” Badway said, joining the group. With one smooth motion, he uncorked a right hand that thudded into Porter’s arm.

  “I deserved that,” Porter said, rubbing his arm.

  Cat shook her head. “You two are children, you know that? I signed all your release paperwork, as your attorney. I had some paperwork that had Bobby signing up for my services. I showed them that to prove we had a preexisting legal relationship. The magistrate took my word that I was your attorney, Mr. Porter.”

  Badway tore open the Ziploc baggie and thumbed his phone.

  “If you're trying to get Kevon on the phone, good luck,” Cat said.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Porter said.

  “I’ve been calling him all night. I knew you were supposed to be together, so when I found out you guys were locked up, I figured I’d let him know.”

  “What did he say?” Porter said, rubbing his arm.

  “I never got a hold of him. I haven't heard from him all night.”

  Sixteen

  The trio walked out into the crisp fall air. The sun was bright outside, and Porter had to shield his eyes. He didn’t recognize this part of the jail—it must have been for people who weren’t under arrest.

  “Are you guys okay?” Cat said.

  “Jail wasn’t too bad. Maybe a little chilly,” Porter said.

  “No, I mean…” Cat looked around the parking lot. “With what happened at Bobby’s apartment last night.”

  “I’d hardly call it an apartment,” Porter said.

  “You know what I mean. You… shot a couple guys.”

  Badway put his hand on Cat’s shoulder. “Some people have it coming. Trust me, there was no other way we could have handled that situation.”

  “He’s right,” Porter said. “Those guys would have killed all of us if we’d let them.”

  “All of you?” Cat said.

  “A girl that works for me was there. They had a gun to her head,” Badway said.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Cat said.

  “I didn’t have time,” Badway said.

  “Is the girl okay?” Cat said.

  “Yeah, because Porter shot the guy in the face,” Badway said.

  “Right again,” Porter said, stretching in the sunlight.

  “Then you guys had no other choice,” Cat said, as if that settled the discussion in her mind.

  “Where to?” Badway said.

  “I guess I’ll play taxi and take you guys home,” Cat said. “But we have to go to my office first.”

  “What kind of taxi has a list of demands?” Porter said.

  Cat smiled. “It’s Saturday. I need to fill out a little bit of paperwork and email it to the Clerk of the Court for you two bozos. Then I’m off. So if you want a ride, you gotta come with.”

  “Well, since you put it that way,” Porter said.

  Cat chirped the key fob of her BMW. It was nice, but several years old. A splurge fresh out of law school, before the real world set in, Porter thought.

  “Want the front?” Badway said.

  “Nah. I like the reverse Driving Miss Daisy vibe. I’ll sit in the back.” In truth, Porter found that modern cars had more leg room in the back seats. The cockpits of modern cars were often tight, and Porter wan
ted to spread out.

  “I’m no Morgan Freeman, but I’ll do the best I can,” Cat said.

  The car fired right up, and Porter was thankful to be sitting on something so soft, after the long night in the cell.

  Cat drove away from the jail, taking a route she seemed to know well. Pulling over at a fast food store, she ordered, and paid for, several breakfast sandwiches. Porter hated the eggs on them, but took them off quietly.

  Cat nibbled at a biscuit as they drove. Neither Porter nor Badway nibbled at their food, and instead shoveled the sandwiches in.

  “What are you going to do when I drop you off?” Cat said.

  Porter had a mouthful, and Badway spoke up. “If we can’t get a hold of Kevon, that’s no good.”

  “No shit,” Porter mumbled from the back seat.

  “We need to find him. I think we can go to his place first and work from there. Maybe we won’t need to. Who knows, maybe his phone ran out of juice and he’s just sitting at my place right now.”

  “And if you don’t find him?” Cat said.

  “We’ll go looking for him,” Porter said.

  “How?”

  “Are you familiar with plausible deniability?” Porter said. “Better for us not to say too much to you about it.”

  Cat was quiet for a few moments. “Are you familiar with attorney-client privilege? I’m not allowed to say the things you tell me.”

  “Even if Badway kills someone?” Porter says.

  Cat blinked hard for a few seconds. “You think it’ll come to that? You’ll have to kill someone?”

  “It might,” Porter said. “If Kevon is missing, my guess is Vance and Parabellum did something to him. If they did, we’ll make them tell us what they did. Bet on it.”

  For several minutes there was no talking in the car, only the soft hum of the tires on the pavement. Porter felt it lulling him to sleep. As long as Badway wasn’t snoring, maybe he could catch a small nap.

  “I have a friend,” Cat said.

  “Really? Tell me more,” Badway said.

  “Can I finish, please?”

  “Proceed, counselor,” Porter said.

  “We were undergraduates together at UVA.”

  “Virginia?” Porter said.

  “Yes, Virginia. My friend Amy, she was into journalism. When we graduated, I went to law school and she got a job with the paper. More toward online content, since that’s where everything is heading. She hasn’t been too happy with the fluff pieces they give her to write, so she’s always looking for something that’ll be a big story. A real nosy type.

  “When I first started helping Kevon with his case, I asked Amy to see what she could turn up on Parabellum. She dug around and found some shady business practices. Milking military contracts, sketchy hiring standards. She even dug up all she could on Alex Vance. I could have her tell you guys everything she knows if you want.”

  “Were you planning to tell us you knew everything about these guys, or just keep us in the dark?” Porter said.

  “First off, I don’t know everything, just some of what Amy could dig up. She hasn’t briefed me fully. Second, none of it was relevant until now. I was trying to dig up ammo for the court case, you know? Prove that Vance and Parabellum were bad news, so the judge wouldn’t listen to whatever story Stacy Brown cooked up.”

  “What my ungrateful cousin means to say, Cat, is ‘thanks.’ If we can’t locate Kevon on our own, then any intel we can get will help us out.”

  “What he said,” Porter said, head bumping against the cool window as the tires ran down the road.

  Just as Porter settled in to get a bit of sleep, Cat pulled into the parking spot in front of her office. The brakes jerked the car to a stop.

  The group got out of the car. Bringing his trash with him, Porter followed the others to the entry of the building.

  “When can we talk to your homegirl?” Porter said. “What was her name?”

  “Amy,” Cat said. “We can meet her whenever you guys want to. She doesn’t live far.”

  “Wait a second,” Badway said. “The mail flap is up on your door.”

  Porter moved around Cat and saw for himself. The brass flap through which the mailman dropped letters into the office was in the up position.

  “So? It sticks. I’ve been meaning to oil it for a while,” Cat said.

  “Did you put it down yesterday?” Porter said.

  “I do it every day,” Cat said.

  “When does your mail come on Saturdays?” Badway asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Cat said. “I’m never here to notice.”

  “Mind if I open the door?” Badway said.

  “Why? I’m not incompetent,” Cat said.

  “In the military, we learn to notice when things are out of place. A rock you always see at a certain place along a road suddenly being further up or down the route. A bicycle you’ve never seen before parked next to the road. A person you don’t know staring at you. Call me paranoid, but that sets off my spidey senses,” Badway said.

  “Spidey sense?”

  Porter spoke up. “In comic books, Spiderman has a—”

  “I know who Spiderman is. You’re serious?” Cat said.

  Cat looked at Badway, then Porter. He gave her the why not? shoulder shrug.

  She handed the keys to Badway. Porter ushered her back from the doorway, further down the sidewalk.

  Badway stood to the side of the doorway, slowly turned the key and, with one smooth move, pushed it open.

  Nothing happened.

  “See? Paranoid,” Cat said.

  As the group stepped through the door, Cat bent down and picked up the lone bit of mail sitting on the floor. She turned it over a couple times.

  “Hey, guys.”

  Badway was locking the door behind them, so Porter took the envelope.

  The letter was addressed to ‘Nosy Bitch,’ with no return address.

  “You think maybe they mean your secretary?” Porter said.

  Cat smacked him on the arm.

  “What is it with you guys and my arm today,” Porter said, feigning pain. “Want me to open it?”

  “You might as well,” Cat said. “I’m not a nosy bitch, so it isn’t addressed to me.”

  Porter walked over to the window where people signed in for their appointments. He set the envelope down. It was a little larger than a normal envelope, but not quite printer-paper sized. The were no addresses on it, and the back of the envelope was sealed with clear plastic tape.

  “No chance there’s a security camera out front, is there? Be nice to see who delivered it,” Porter said.

  “No, no cameras,” Cat said. Badway moved from the front door toward the countertop.

  Porter turned the envelope all around, checking it. It was light. That fact, coupled with the size of the mail slot—too small for an explosive to fit through—made him feel confident he wouldn’t get blown up upon opening. Porter thumbed it, feeling something hard nestled near the bottom.

  He reached over the counter and picked up Sandra’s letter opener. He wished he had his Spyderco, but he had left it on the counter at Badway’s before the police showed up last night.

  Sliding the letter opener into the corner of the envelope, Porter ran it the length of the top, slicing it open. He inverted the letter and tapped the bottom. A flat, silver-colored key fell out. Another tap and a three-by-five index card slipped out after the key.

  Porter picked up the index card. “You want to see,” he said.

  “See what?” Badway said.

  “Beats me. That’s just what the card says.” Porter flipped it over. “There’s an address on the back. Anybody wanna look it up?”

  Cat sat on Sandra’s chair, turning on the computer. “Better than my phone,” she reasoned out loud. “Bigger screen.”

  Porter turned the index card over and over in his hands as the computer booted up. Before long, Cat was on a search engine site, cursor blinking in the input field.

&n
bsp; Porter read the address to her. “Four-ten Alton Drive. Unit sixty-two.”

  “What city? There are a couple Alton drives in the drop-down box.”

  “Doesn’t say. Whoever wrote this assumes you’ll know the right one to pick. I say use the Fairfax one,” Porter said.

  Cat clicked away at the keyboard. The soft glow of the monitor reflected off her glasses. “Okay, got it. I’m going to street view to see what it is.” More clicking, then Cat turned the monitor around so Porter and Badway could see the screen.

  “It’s a storage unit?” Badway said.

  Porter scanned the monitor, looking at the red brick façade and green metal roof. “Yeah, it’s a storage facility. The question is, what’s in unit number sixty-two?”

  Seventeen

  “We have to call the cops,” Cat said.

  “And tell them what?” Porter said. “You got a weird letter?”

  “Maybe they can go check unit sixty-two out.”

  “You know better than I do they need a warrant to go into someone’s storage unit. No judge would sign off on that. They could get in if it were exigent circumstances—you know, like an emergency or something,” Porter said.

  “I know what exigent circumstances are,” Cat said. “For a guy who isn’t a lawyer, it’s annoying that you talk about the law so much.”

  Porter smiled.

  “Let's go see what’s in it,” Badway said.

  “Just like that? What if it’s some kind of trap or something?” Cat said.

  “What if an elephant had a jukebox on its ass?” Porter said.

  “Huh?”

  “There’d be sweet music in the jungle,” Porter finished. “Just something my dad used to say. I never really got it, but I tried not to ask ‘what if’ a lot around him.”

  “You aren’t helping,” Cat said.

  “Sarge, help me out here,” Porter said.

  “There’s no telling what’s in the storage unit. Maybe it’s a bribe to pay you and Kevon off. Maybe it’s blackmail documents. Maybe Trey’s in there tied to a chair. We won’t know until we go.”

  “Fine.” She held her keys up to Porter. “You two take my car and pick me up later.”