Mob Rules

by Marc Rainer

  “Oh, shit,” Velasco exclaimed. “He wants to smoke first.”

  And smoke they did. The pile of loose leaves on the table grew smaller and smaller.

  “It’s been an hour since he got there,” Furay said, looking at Velasco.

  “That’s a whole I.Q. point,” Foote quipped. “And we’re across the state line.”

  “It’ll happen,” Velasco assured them. “Look, they’re almost out of weed.”

  “Finally,” Foote said as Jasper Dellums opened the duffel bag and removed two packages.

  Moving slowly and somewhat clumsily after their smoking session, all three of the men in the room pulled plastic gloves and paper masks from their pockets and put them on. Rather than attempt to unwrap the layers of tape and plastic, Jasper just took a box cutter from his pocket and slit the first package from corner to corner. A spoon and a small digital scale were then used to weigh gram quantities of the white powder inside the package, and these tiny piles were then scraped into very small zip-loc bags using a razor blade. The process was tedious and time consuming, and it was made even slower by stoners who had lost both their coordination and any sense of time. After filling a few baggies, Jasper pointed to his twin Jamarcus as if to signal that it was his turn. Jamarcus switched seats with Jasper and began his shift.

  Delroy Dellums crossed the room from his chair next to the couch and switched on the television in the living room. The screen flickered to life. Displayed on the screen, much to the collective horror of the investigators watching a quarter-mile away, was the exact same scene that they were seeing on their monitors across the highway. The Dellums looked at their television and saw themselves looking at their television.

  “Drew!” Furay yelled.

  Henderson shrugged, the palms of his hands rising toward the ceiling.

  “Wait! Look!” Velasco yelled, pointing at their monitor.

  Jasper Dellums grabbed a cheap throw that had been hanging on the back of the couch behind him. He stumbled across the room toward his television and draped the throw so that it covered the television screen. He then turned back toward his cousin and brother and made a motion with his hands indicating that the problem had been solved. He then went back to helping with the measuring and weighing of the heroin.

  Foote fell out of his chair laughing. Furay was still giving Henderson “the look.” Henderson was babbling about why this couldn’t have happened. Velasco was just staring at the monitor, his mouth open.

  “I can’t believe this shit,” he finally said.

  Foote finally caught his breath and climbed back onto his chair.

  “Welcome to the ’Dotte,” he said. He laughed again. “And to Drew-vision.”

  That broke them all up again, including Henderson.

  “What the hell happened there, Drew?” Furay demanded after catching his breath.

  Henderson just shrugged again. “I have no idea. The frequency of the channel they were tuned to must have been too close to ours.”

  “I know one thing,” Foote roared. “I now favor the legalization of pot. Maybe those idiots will sell me some. I think I’ll go over there and ask them.”

  Kansas City, Missouri

  “Your shift, Ronnie.”

  Billy Graham shook her feet, trying to wake her. He had volunteered to let her use the bed in what had been Marylou Monaco’s master bedroom, while he had taken the one in the smaller bedroom—the one that had belonged to her son. Veronica finally stirred.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  “Six a.m. I had the midnight watch, remember.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Coffee’s ready if you want some.”

  “Thanks. You’re not bad for a pretend husband, Billy.”

  “That just means you get to make lunch when I wake up.”

  “It’s a deal. Anything happening?”

  “Nah. The joint’s so sleepy, I half expect to see the headless horseman riding through the parking lot over there. I don’t think there’s been a soul in the place since the bartender left.”

  “They won’t open up again until after lunch. I’ll have an easy six hours.”

  “Just don’t fall asleep on the couch in case the dude comes through to get paid.”

  “I won’t if you’ll let me get a quick shower.”

  “Go for it. Need some help?”

  She shook a finger at him. “You know that if I were one of those women, I could report you for harassment for a remark like that. Hostile environment, you know?”

  “Nothing hostile in my question. I thought it was a friendly question. A very friendly question.”

  “In your dreams.”

  He bit his tongue. He had actually dreamed about that. “Go get your shower,” he said grinning. “I’ll watch the bar.”

  He returned to the seat on the couch from which he had watched all the late night, non-infomercial programs. It had been the usual collection of time-fillers about northern game wardens, the inhabitants of Alaska, and swamp dwellers. He turned to a morning news program.

  She walked into the living room about fifteen minutes later, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hair was wrapped in a towel.

  “I can wait until you dry it and put in all your extensions,” he quipped.

  “Very funny,” she said as she poured her coffee. “You want some of this?”

  “Nah, it would just keep me awake.”

  Motion from the rear parking lot of McElhaney’s caught his attention.

  “Little Dom just pulled in. He’s never there in the morning. Something’s up.”

  Veronica grabbed the digital camera they kept on the table by the couch and walked to the chair they had placed by the window. She snapped a shot of Dom as he got out of the vehicle and entered the back door of the bar.

  “I got this if you want to hit the rack,” she said.

  “And miss the payoff? I’ll hang for a little while. This feels like it might be what we’ve been waiting on.”

  They didn’t have to wait long. Ten minutes later, a silver Toyota Camry pulled into the rear lot and parked next to Dom’s car.

  “Silver Camry, Oklahoma plates,” Ronnie said as she snapped another photo. She read the plates out loud. Graham jotted the information down on a notepad as he stood behind her.

  A tall young man wearing boots and a windbreaker got out of the Camry just as Dom appeared at the rear door to the bar.

  “White male, about six feet, medium build, sandy hair, late twenties,” Ronnie said, looking through the camera’s telescopic viewfinder. She took another picture.

  “That matches the description we have for Cannon,” Billy replied.

  “Dom just handed him a little duffel bag.” The camera clicked again.

  “Payment is made,” Billy said. “I’ll call John and Jose.”

  “I can call them if you want to get some sleep,” Ronnie said.

  “I’m going home to sleep in my own bed. I think we have what we came for. Besides, that mattress in the kid’s room folds in the middle like a taco. I’ll tell the bosses that we’re going away together for the weekend.”

  The look she shot at him made him laugh.

  Lee’s Summit, Missouri

  There was only one car behind Trask in the distance as he passed the country castle, still under construction. Trask was pleased with himself for discovering a reliably uncrowded route home, and he was just as pleased that his team had identified Tyler Cannon’s other load car.

  Trask expected to find Lynn in the kitchen when he opened the door from the garage a few minutes later, but there was no Lynn in the kitchen and no furry faces at the door. Trask heard her laughing downstairs.

  As he turned the corner in the stairwell and looked down into the den, he saw them. She was still laughing.

  “I didn’t hear you come in,” she said.

  “I know. I heard you. What’s funny?”

  “Well for starters, Boo got her cone off this afternoon, and I thought I’d teach
her how to go in and out the doggy door now that she can, but she’s afraid of it.”

  “And … that’s funny?”

  “Just a little. What’s funny is Nikki. Watch.”

  Trask looked toward the dog door, a plastic flap low on the outside wall with magnetic stops at the bottom. Nikki was sitting in front of her larger sister like a frustrated coach.

  “Show her, Nikki,” Lynn said.

  Nikki looked up as if to ask why, but then lowered her head and pushed the flap open, heading outside into the back yard.

  “Your turn, Boo-boo,” Lynn said.

  Boo did not, however, go through the door. Instead she gave Trask a pitiful look and whimpered.

  “Our big guard dog is afraid of the big bad plastic flap,” Lynn explained. “Now wait for it.”

  Seconds later, Nikki poked her head through the door, coming back inside. She looked at Boo with what could have passed for canine contempt, and then snorted. Little Tasha—who had been watching the whole thing—gave her own snort and brushed past Boo through the door and out to the yard.

  Lynn cracked up again.

  “This has been going on for half an hour,” she explained. “She’s used to us opening the regular door for her because she had the cone on.”

  Trask walked over to Boo and picked her up. He carried her to the dog door and pushed her head through it as gently as he could. Then he pushed her rump, and she was outside.

  “I was trying to coax her through,” Lynn said, a little annoyed with him.

  Trask took one of Boo’s favorite snacks off a nearby shelf.

  “I’ll hold the flap, and you can coax her back in,” he said.

  They tried the bait, and the big furry head reluctantly followed Lynn’s hand as she backed up into the room. Boo followed her and accepted her snack. Trask picked Boo up again and pushed her back outside. This time Lynn showed her a treat and then let the flap fall. Boo could still see the treat through the clear plastic, and slowly pushed the flap aside as she came through the door.

  Nikki looked up at them, her face saying, “Really? Where’s mine?”

  It was Trask’s turn to laugh. He took another treat from the jar and gave it to Nikki.

  “You tried, pack leader,” he said, patting her on her head.

  Trask stood up and froze, hearing sounds like a car backfiring. They were just strange enough for him to caution Lynn to stay inside. He walked out the real door onto the concrete patio.

  Trask looked out from the alcove toward the road over the spillway, which ran through the dam that blocked the water flow and formed the cove. There weren’t any vehicles in sight. The sun was setting to the southwest across the water. Trask finally shrugged and went back inside.

  “I didn’t see anything,” he told Lynn. “Probably nothing but an old scooter or something.”

  Boo stuck her head through the doggie door and came inside.

  “One problem solved,” Lynn said.

  “We solved another big one at work,” Trask replied. “Billy and Ronnie got eyes on the other load car. John Foote and Jose Velasco flew back to Dallas to beat him down there. They’ll rent a car and try to meet our mule at the motel where they lost him.”

  “Are they going to arrest him?” Lynn asked.

  “We could, but if our guesses are correct, he’d only be holding the money and no dope. We have another GPS to slap on the new car, and we already have one on his pickup. Our best bet is to follow him back up in the new vehicle once he gets another load to sell.”

  Gladstone, Missouri

  “So, we still got nuthin’? Nuthin’ at all?” Anthony Minelli scowled at his capo.

  “Sorry, Tony.” Paul Beretta said. “It’s like the streets just rolled up and hid on this one. Everybody’s afraid to talk—if they ever did know anything.”

  “They better be afraid not to talk!” Minelli jumped out of his chair and pointed his finger at Beretta. “You obviously ain’t pushin’ hard enough. I want anybody who even thinks they know anything bein’ more afraid of us than they are of whoever did this.”

  “Big Dom hasn’t got anything either,” Beretta reminded Minelli. “He usually pushes pretty hard.”

  “Then he—and you—ain’t pushin’ on the right people,” Minelli growled. “This wasn’t just any dumbass who got hit. It was my little sister and her husband, who was a made guy, dammit all! Any made guy gettin’ hit without my blessing is insult enough, but this was family, Paulie. My family. I told Dom the same damned thing this afternoon. I want answers, and sooner rather than later. Got it?”

  “Yeah. I got it. We’ll spread our nets wider.”

  “You do that. We’re losin’ control of this whole thing if we can’t wrap this up. We gotta keep our control, our credibility.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then do something about it. I always figured you for the smart guy. Dom pushes, alright, but that’s all he knows how to do. If he had any brains or finesse, then that punk kid of his wouldn’t be the pain in the ass that he is. You work this on your own. Let Dom try his muscle stuff, you try your tricks. Let me know if you need any help, or if we need to talk again, but I want answers, Paulie.”

  Beretta just nodded as he headed for the door. He climbed into his car and drove home, with absolutely no idea whatsoever what he could do to answer the questions his don had thrown in his lap.

  He had driven about four blocks when his Bluetooth notified him of an incoming call.

  “Hello, Sammy. What’s up?”

  “I got somethin’ I think you need to hear.”

  “Come see me.”

  Kansas City, Missouri

  Trask sat in J.P. Barrett’s office with Cam and Mike Furay.

  “Now tell me exactly what happened last night,” Barrett said.

  “I got home a little before dusk, and we were playing with the pups for a bit,” Trask explained. “We were teaching the one who just got her cone off how to use a doggie door we have in the basement. The cone kept her from using it before now.

  “Anyway, I heard what I thought was a car or motorcycle backfiring from the road across the spillway, about a hundred yards away. I went outside but didn’t see anything, so I just shrugged it off. The next morning, I went into the back yard to do my morning chore, that being scooping up the dog poop. I turned around to go back inside, and I saw some scarring on our siding that I hadn’t seen before.

  “I went over to the outside wall, and I saw that the scars were actually bullet tracks. Our siding around the finished basement is the old Masonite-style lapboard stuff. You could see the angle of the tracks, and it was obvious the shots had been fired from the spillway. I might have chalked a single shot up to some weird or careless discharge somewhere, but two—with the same directional tracks—struck me as more than a coincidence.

  “I called the Lee’s Summit Police, and they came over and dug two 9mm slugs out of the boards. They kept them, of course. I’m sure they’re running them through the system to see if they get a match on the ballistics to any known weapon.”

  Barrett frowned. He looked at Furay. “Any thoughts?”

  “Little Dom comes immediately to mind,” Mike said. “John Foote has said for years that he’s a certifiable psycho, and we did just spring him on that gun charge after the shooting at his bar. Jeff was the prosecutor assigned and was in court with him. I was in the back of the courtroom when he was released. If he could have gone for Jeff with his bare hands and gotten away with it, he wouldn’t have hesitated for a second. He spent the weekend in Harrisonville before we dismissed the case.”

  Barrett looked at Trask. “What do you think?”

  “As good an educated guess as we can make for now,” Trask replied, “but it’s only that. We don’t have any proof or witnesses, so we can’t do anything official.”

  J.P. nodded. “You weren’t outside when the shots were fired?”

  “No,” Trask answered. “We were inside with the dogs. I think Lynn was angrier about
them possibly getting hit than she was about any danger to us.”

  That drew a chuckle or two.

  “At any rate,” Trask continued, “I appreciate all the concern, and I don’t underestimate the seriousness of this, but I don’t want to overreact, either.”

  “Your house just got shot up,” Barrett said, staring at Trask.

  “Yes, but it happened when we were inside, and the shooter used a handgun from a good distance away. The weapon wasn’t powerful enough to go through some cheap siding. If someone had really wanted to get at us, they’d have fired from close range using something with penetrating power. That makes me believe even more that it was probably Little Dom in a temper fit.”

  “What are our options, Michael?” Barrett asked Furay. “I don’t like it one bit that one of my prosecutors is getting targeted.” He shifted his gaze back to me. “You can’t ignore the fact that he—they, the whole mob for all we know—now knows exactly where you live.”

  “We have several options,” Furay said. “We can ask the locals to put a car on Jeff’s house for a while, and we—the Bureau, I mean—can rotate that protection detail with them. We could also send John Foote out to have a sit-down with Minelli. The mob knows him, and the Mafia is at least an organization. They have a hierarchy, and some rules. We’ve had an understanding with them for years. They don’t go after us or our families at home, and we leave their wives and kids alone unless they’re directly involved in something. They know that if they violate those rules, we can come down hard on their businesses. You know, mess with every license they need in order to operate, that sort of thing.”

  “What do you think, Jeff?” Barrett asked Trask. “It was your house that got hit. What does your wife think? Does she want to leave town for a little while?”

  Trask smiled. J.P. Barrett hadn’t had enough time yet to get to know Lynn.

  “Lynn can handle herself,” Trask said. “She used to be in the business, both with Air Force OSI and with the Bureau as an analyst in D.C. She still shoots better than I do, and she’s had to deal with a lot worse than this. We’ll be fine with a patrol car in front of the house for a few days. I would like to make one request, given what Mike said.”