Short Cut (The Reluctant Hustler Book 2)

by J. Gregory Smith

  “Like the old man coming by my house like you were some sort of pill pusher?”

  “That’s for sure. It was almost like Ryan staged some sort of epic practical joke on me in the event of his death.” But it wasn’t funny and that guy’s tortured expression plagued my dreams.

  “That old timer wasn’t in on the gag,” Rollie said as if he could read my mind. “He wasn’t some junkie. He said his sister needed medicine. And what about the phone calls and hang-ups?”

  “After what the O’Briens said I’m beginning to think Ryan had some bigger ideas for the future.” I was only guessing here.

  “Did you know how tight he was with the Irish?”

  I shook my head. “I knew he dated Meg, of course, and after we met up with her cousin Danny Sheehan, I should have run for the hills right there, but at the time it seemed more of a beginning to his working with that branch of the Irish Mob.”

  “The O’Briens made it sound like a lot more than some random associations.”

  I had to agree, much as I didn’t want to think of my old friend as a mobbed-up guy. He’d always been the life-of-the-party type who knew everybody and could put you with whoever you might need.

  We crossed over East Girard Avenue and I began to look for parking spots. I grew up with the habit but as the area became more popular it got worse every year. Fortunately, it was the middle of the day and until the evening rush hour it was still possible to snag a place here and there. The neighbors knew my truck and as long as I didn’t knock any plastic chairs out of the way to steal an unofficial saved spot, I’d probably avoid getting keyed.

  We found one nearby and I locked up the truck. Rollie walked with me toward his place. I’d never thought of it as home, despite renting from him for nearly two years. Now that the house where I’d been married had been sold, I guess it was the only one I had. If I lost my job at Delivergistics I’d have to see about finding more permanent digs, but with all my travel, usually it was much more convenient to crash at Rollie’s house.

  “You got a long-lost son, kid?” Rollie’s question made me follow his gaze to the small figure sitting on his front stoop.

  “No, I …” The guy noticed us approaching and when he looked up from his phone, I recognized him immediately. “He’s no boy.”

  The guy stood up and removed all doubt. He was five foot three in combat boots and maybe weighed one-fifty soaking wet. At over six feet myself, I always dwarfed him. But mostly, I tried to avoid him.

  “You’re a long way from the Sand Box, Tom,” I said as I closed the distance, glancing around to see if he’d brought any “friends.” “And how the hell did you know where I live?”

  “You ever think of answering the phone?” Tom’s accent pulled my mind right back to Iraq. He sounded British but other accents crept in, reflecting his Irish mother, English education and Kurdish father, who’d dragged him to oilfields all over the Middle East.

  “Why would you have my cell?” I thought for a second, confusion still washing over me at the sight of someone so very out of context here in Philly. “I never got any calls from you.”

  Rollie caught up with me. “Are the one who keeps hanging up on me?”

  Tom gestured to the front door. “You live here?”

  “Who wants to know?” Rollie squared his shoulders and spoke to me. “An overseas number calls the land line and asks for you, when I ask any questions he hangs up. I figured it was a scammer.”

  I stared at Tom. “It was.”

  Tom looked surprised at the remark and he fixed his dark eyes on me. “Do you say that to Ryan, mate?”

  “I haven’t seen Ryan in a while, but I might.”

  “Can you reach him?” Tom looked relieved.

  Rollie and I shared a quick look. “Uh, sorry Tom, I don’t think he’s going to turn up for some time.” I didn’t see how Tom could know the truth about what really happened to Ryan.

  “Then you of all people shouldn’t be surprised to see me.”

  Rollie turned to me, leaving his question unspoken. I wasn’t so polite. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Tom shook his head. “We need to do this in private.” It was clear he intended to exclude Rollie.

  “Where are my manners? Rollie, allow me to introduce Dozan Thomas Sabri, a.k.a. Tom Thumb. We’re colleagues at Delivergistics and he’s one of Ryan’s associates.”

  Rollie shook Tom’s hand. “I’m his landlord. You want to come inside?”

  Tom shook his head. “No thank you, sir. My message is confidential. Kyle do you have somewhere—”

  “I trust Rollie with my life and he can hear anything you have to say. He’s safe.” But I had no idea if Tom was, and I preferred to have the guy outnumbered. He was a bigger sneak than Ryan and just as smart.

  “Get in here and I’ll grab some beers.” Rollie unlocked his front door.

  Tom paused but we were already moving inside. “All right, but if you don’t mind, I’d prefer tea, or water if you have it.”

  Rollie’s modest row-home still bore most of the decorating style from his prior married life. A neat cream-colored couch with simple oak end tables and a matching coffee table dominated the front room. Old pictures of Mary, his deceased spouse, sat in new frames, courtesy of a vicious O’Brien brothers “home improvement” rampage during less cordial times.

  Rollie hollered from the kitchen, “I’ve got some Lipton, kind of old, if that’s okay.”

  “Brilliant,” Tom called back while grimacing.

  Among his other charming qualities, he was a tea snob.

  He looked at me and spoke in a whisper. “This isn’t for outsiders.”

  “The only outsider here is you. What in hell do you want?” I could hear the kettle rattle when place on the stove and began to wonder if a beer was going to improve my mood or make it worse.

  “Ryan never told me about this bloke, but if you say he’s part of your crew then I haven’t much choice, have I?” Part of my crew? His expression looked like he expected me to know what he was talking about.

  I let that hang in the air and made polite small talk until Rollie returned with the drinks. I took a long pull on the icy Yuengling.

  “The cream is fresh,” Rollie said to Tom. “I like it my coffee. Hope the tea isn’t sawdust.”

  Rollie never took his eyes off the guy and I wondered if he’d grabbed more than drinks from the kitchen. His bulky shirt gave nothing away. For certain he didn’t trust Tom, despite the good manners.

  “Kyle tells me you work for him,” Tom said. “Are you also with Ryan?”

  “Ryan is with himself, as far as I can tell,” Rollie said. “We’re acquainted, can’t say we’re close. As for me, I don’t work for anyone.”

  It was Tom’s turn to look confused. “Then I don’t think—”

  “Just spill it already,” I said. “It’s obviously some crap you cooked up with Ryan.”

  “Indeed.” Tom glanced at Rollie. “You’re briefed in on the Mr. Beautiful project, then?”

  “The what?” Rollie and I said in unison.

  Tom’s coffee-with-cream complexion paled to coffee with the whole pitcher. “This is no time to joke.”

  We weren’t laughing. In fact, the beer took on a sour taste in my mouth. I swallowed hard. “How about from the top, huh, Tom?”

  “Ryan is missing, yes?” he said. “Gone to ground, or however the expression goes?”

  Rollie and I shared a quick look.

  “He’s gone dark for the foreseeable future,” I said, “thanks to a caper here that went way wrong.”

  “Right. I wondered about that, but had little to work with from the Green Zone.” Tom took a deep breath and leaned toward me. “But he’s got you and whoever covering for him here?”

  “Covering what? Other than picking up his mail and making sure homeless people don’t take over his house, I’m not in the Ryan business.”

  Tom shook his head as if to clear it. “You don’t have the book
? The list? He said you’d be up to speed. We’re running out of time.”

  “Slow down, Tom. Again, from the beginning. Ryan … left before he told me about any of this. You seem to think I was one of his flunkies over here. We were friends. Are, just friends. The one adventure I tried with him almost got me killed. I lost the taste after that. What did he tell you?”

  Tom rubbed his face. “Bollocks. What a cockup. Ryan said you were the point person for the States’ side of this plan.”

  “When did he say that?” I asked, thinking the little twerp had better not claim a time after Ryan had been killed.

  “On and off for over a year. Mostly before the last time he returned to the States right after you’d been suspended. He said he had big plans for you. For both of us. I gather you already received your great reward.” He even managed to sound envious.

  I lifted my shirt and pointed to the fresh scars from a knife attack that nearly disemboweled me. “This was my big payday, champ. A million stiches, maybe. Things didn’t exactly go as planned.”

  “Are you saying Ryan took it all? I don’t believe that. And he’d never walk away from this project.”

  I felt oddly defensive on my friend’s behalf. “Ryan didn’t rip me off, if that’s what you mean. He screwed up, but we all paid a price. Him most of all.”

  “Then why would he stay away now?”

  Rollie interrupted. “Ryan made the worst kind of enemies, right here in Fishtown. He’s burned all his bridges in the neighborhood and he’ll never come back here. For purposes of this discussion, you need to proceed as if he’s dead.”

  We sat for a few seconds with that punchbowl turd until Tom appeared to accept the situation, however he understood it. I couldn’t tell how literally he took Rollie’s comment.

  “Right. Here’s the situation, mate. Ryan laid a great deal of groundwork into what we call the Mr. Beautiful Project, and he said if he was unable, for any reason, to take care of things in the US, that you were his backup.”

  “And he forgot to tell me about this?”

  Rollie cleared his throat. Right: Ryan hadn’t been able to tell me anything for some time. But who was to say this yarn of Tom’s was even true?

  Tom was quick on his feet. Always was. “Perhaps he waited to tell you until you were ready to hear it, but he ran out of time?”

  His choice of words told me Tom understood the situation with Ryan and didn’t need further detail.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I’ll leave it to you to figure out his motivations, but here is where we are today. For the past several years Ryan and I have cultivated a prospect in Iraq.”

  “What kind of prospect?”

  “Apparently a good-looking one,” Rollie quipped. “Beautiful, even?”

  “Do you mind?” Tom showed a flash of anger and Rollie held up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “The prospect is a native-born Iraqi businessman who ran afoul of the Hussein family and went into hiding along with his fortune.”

  “The coast should be clear now, huh?” Rollie asked.

  “Not exactly,” Tom said. “Once the Gulf Wars toppled Hussein, he’d planned on escaping, but the rise of the extremist factions made retrieval of the bulk of his fortune impossible.”

  “So, what’s changed?” I asked. “Plenty of bad guys still around there.”

  “Yes, but he was able to convert most of his money into a tangible asset that he kept hidden. But he and his family couldn’t stay near it and it remains stashed.”

  “Where?” I had to admit he had my attention.

  “Tikrit. That was Saddam’s hometown, and as you well know, not the safest of places for non-radicals, not to mention Westerners of any stripe.”

  “Coalition forces have liberated Tikrit,” I pointed out. “I wouldn’t buy a home there, but a native ought to be able to get in and out without much trouble.”

  Tom smiled, seemingly pleased he had an audience. “Ah, but out to where? I never said our man made his money legally, and he’s decided he wants to bring his family out of Iraq.”

  “Hang on. I’ve already learned more than I want about Ryan’s dealings, but human smuggling is over the top. For him, anyway.”

  Tom frowned. “I resent the implication. These people all want to leave. At any rate, that is beside the point. Our man already arranged the exfiltration under new identities. His problem is to get out his assets so he’s not forced to wash dishes the rest of his life.”

  “If he can get out okay, why can’t he take his stuff with him?” Rollie asked.

  Tom nodded. “That is the essential question. His cover persona is from humble, even tragic origins. It wouldn’t do to try to escape with luggage stuffed with valuables. The authorities are thorough and he is still a wanted man.”

  “Tough luck for him,” Rollie said.

  “But a cracking fine opportunity for the right people.”

  I began to get the picture. “So, he and his family go one way, meanwhile, while nobody is looking, someone else takes care of smuggling the assets out of the country to somewhere he can be reunited with his dough at a later time. All for a modest fee, of course.”

  Tom grinned. “Precisely. Only there is nothing modest about the fee.”

  Chapter 5

  I sat in Rollie’s living room and soaked in the surreal atmosphere. “Tom, it sounds like you guys have all your bases covered. I appreciate your letting me in on your situation, but as you can see, I’m obviously not your man after all.”

  Tom stared at me. “You don’t believe a word I said, do you?”

  “Some of them.” I lost the fight to keep a straight face. “What’s your angle, man? Where’s the part where you need a small advance to get the ball rolling and that’s the last I ever see you?”

  “Fucking hell.” Tom fidgeted like he was going to jump out of his skin. “Mate, if I could do this alone, do you think I’d be wasting my time here with you wankers?”

  “Now that I believe. Cut to the chase. What is it you really want?”

  “Ryan compartmentalized the operation. My job is to get the goods out of the country. His job was to pick them up and get them to Mr. Beautiful.”

  “So that’s what I’m supposed to do? Newsflash, if you haven’t been keeping up: I haven’t the slightest idea about what those plans might be or even what this mutt looks like. I’m liable to hand off your bag of magic beans to Mr. Mediocre.” I was feeling more agitated by the minute, but Rollie looked like he wished he’d made popcorn to go with the entertainment.

  Tom rolled his eyes. “I know what to do, but you have to make the arrangements. Ryan told all the people along the way to listen to you only and specifically to shut down if I showed up alone.”

  “Really? Sounds like he trusted you as much as I do.”

  “I don’t care at this point. All that matters is that you believe me and will help. You get to hold his share when it is all done, in case you were wondering.”

  “I wasn’t. I have my own problems and no interest in getting Ryan’s or yours or this Mr. Wonderful’s—”

  “Beautiful,” Rollie said.

  “Whatever. Find another sucker.”

  Tom paused. I could almost hear his brain whirring as he sat there staring into his half full cup of tea. “Since Ryan is off the pitch,” Tom seemed to be speaking more to himself than me, coming to grips with the truth. “You’re the starting team, then.”

  “I told you—”

  “Stuff that. The spanner’s in the works for sure. Right. He told me to make sure you saw the box? Does that sound familiar?”

  “Nope.”

  I might as well have told him his house was on fire with his family trapped inside.

  “We’re wasting time. We need to get to Ryan’s place.” Tom wasn’t asking and he spilled some tea when he sprung out of the chair and bumped the end table.

  Rollie pointed to the spill. “Get that, Kyle. I’ll pull the Blue Bomber out front.”

  * * *
<
br />   Fishtown: Ryan’s House

  I unlocked the door and saw with some satisfaction that the bars on the windows were secure. It felt like the last thing I’d done lately that had made any sense at all.

  Inside, the house had a musty, stuffy smell from disuse.

  “You should know the place got tossed when things got heavy six months ago,” I told Tom. “We cleaned it up, but I don’t remember any box, do you, Rollie?”

  “No. Just what kind of box are we talking about, Tom?”

  Tom didn’t answer. He scanned the room and headed right toward the fireplace. He pulled the fireplace grate out and the iron feet left sooty black prints along the clean brick.

  Tom pulled off his white-and-blue-striped rugby shirt to reveal a thin, toned, dark caramel-colored torso. I remembered seeing him scam a former Spec Ops guy in a climbing race to the top of some scaffolding. He’d gotten scarce after collecting on the bet, proving he wasn’t dumb.

  “You going to look for ‘Santa was here’ scratched in the flue?” Rollie said.

  Tom didn’t say but ducked his head and entered the fireplace. A moment later all we could see were his thin legs going up on tiptoes and muffled words I suspect were curses in one of the many other languages he spoke.

  “We gonna have to get him off the roof?” Rollie asked.

  The guy must have wriggled part of his body into the flue. Was that even possible?

  Soot fell like black rain and Tom began to cough, but he let out a whoop when we heard something metallic wrenched free.

  Tom fought his way back into a squat and, despite my curiosity about the blackened metal box in his hands, I couldn’t help but laugh. Ryan must have never cleaned the chimney. Soot coated wide swaths of his exposed body in ebony smudges, especially on his face.

  “I’d get killed in the wrong neighborhood if I made myself up like that on purpose,” Rollie said. “The hot water heater is still working. Get yourself cleaned up and I can’t wait to hear what is in there, assuming it isn’t just ashes.”

  Tom took one look in a hall mirror and agreed. “I’m going to borrow a pair of Ryan’s trousers, unless you think that all this was just a free-clothing scam?”