The Yards

by The Yards (epub)

  That would be Frankie Thomas, who takes out a new loan the second he’s paid off the old one. Frankie’s been late a few times, but he’s not a deadbeat.

  “Check it out, Augie. Like careful, all right? We’re hot just now, in case you haven’t noticed.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  Maybe I’m paranoid, but my biggest fear right now is that Gidget’ll run to the cops. Fear can do that to ya. I know because it’s happened before with deadbeats. It’s not right, because they knew the deal when they came to me, but there’s no suin’ deadbeats, no garnishing anyone’s pay or freezing their bank accounts. I know it, and they know it. So if you welsh, you should live with the obvious fact that I have only one way to collect.

  Two men went to the cops, two I know about. Lucky our guy in the department gave me a heads-up and I backed away. And I think that’s what I’m gonna do here. I’m gonna convince Gidget to return my eighteen large. I’m gonna tell her, no harm, no foul. Then I’m gonna back away until everything cools down. Until Mariola buries herself in someone else’s crimes. Until Gidget believes that I’ve forgotten all about her. Until it’s Augie time, and I have an unbreakable alibi.

  One thing’s sure, you don’t steal from Connor Schmidt.

  Mom caught an early flight to Denver, where her sister lives, and I’m alone in the house. I wanted her far away in case my old man has resources I don’t know about. She didn’t take much convincing, but it still feels completely weird. The house is ridiculously big for one person, and I don’t know how she’s gonna live here by herself. I could always move in, of course, but that doesn’t seem right, either. So, what to do? Sell the house, find a smaller place for Mom? Meanwhile, I don’t even know whose name is on the deed. Or the bank accounts, or any other legal document. That’s why I asked Lorimer Taub—Dad’s former lawyer, now Marjorie Carver’s—to pay a visit.

  I didn’t have to ask twice. Lori’s a coke addict, and addicts dance to their supplier’s tune. And I’m not surprised, either, when he rings my bell at eight thirty. Right on time.

  Lorimer’s not lookin’ all that great. He’s always been skinny, like he’s waitin’ for the big, bad wolf to blow him over, and the owl-eyes glasses only make it worse. Today, though, I’m thinkin the coke’s getting’ the best of him. Rich druggies can hold it together for a long time, but not forever. Lorimer’s got maybe six months before a stint in rehab. His third.

  I seat him at the kitchen table, pour him a cup of coffee, and settle into a chair on the other side of the table. “Marjorie holding up?” I ask.

  “Solid as a rock. You worried?”

  “Not really.” I lean forward. “I asked you here for a different reason. With my old man in prison, I need to get a handle on my mother’s finances.”

  “That’s quite a coincidence, Connor, because I’ve been meaning to have a conversation about finances with you.” He waits for me to wave him on before speaking again. “Nissan’s coming to Baxter.”

  “What?”

  “Nissan’s gonna build a plant right here in Baxter. In the Yards, after the packing plant closes down. This is comin’ straight from the governor’s office. Believe me, it’s happening. It’s happening, and it presents a major opportunity for anyone smart enough to take advantage. That means early, Connor, before everybody and their grandmother figures it out. We’ve already got the big chains—Gap, Nike, Starbucks, Nordstrom—scouting locations. That’s because there’s gonna be a lot of white-collar money on the table.”

  “Like who?”

  “Like the plant management, like the engineers and machinists who’ll keep the robots running. And the workers, too, earning the kind of wages this town hasn’t seen in decades. And the owners of all those new businesses sure to spring up.” Lorimer takes a handkerchief from an inside pocket of his tan suit and coughs gently into it. “Any event, there’s a bunch of us taking a hard look at the property around City Hall Park. The money to rehab the park’s already been allocated, and the city’s looking for the right landscaper. The idea is to surround the new park with restaurants and shops, with antiques and boutiques, to create a destination zone. Add new apartments with the right appliances and the right view, and there’s real money to be made. Legit money, Connor. Money you don’t have to hide.”

  I glance at the clock on the wall. It’s nine o’clock, and I need to get moving. “You inviting me to join this—”

  “Corporation.”

  “And what’s that gonna cost me?”

  “Minimum, fifty thousand.”

  “And the maximum?”

  “There isn’t one. But if you can put a quarter mil together, you’ll own enough voting shares to have real clout.”

  I nod and tell him I’ll think about it, but I’m not stupid enough to get in bed with a coke junkie. Especially when the payoff’s at least five years down the line. Still, Lorimer’s got me thinking. If he’s not full of shit, Baxter’s gonna be flooded with out-of-town construction workers a few months from now. They’re sure to have the kind of needs that only a man in my business can satisfy. Plus, if I wanna go legit, there’s an offer already on the table. Jimmy Santini’s lookin’ to sell a piece of the Dew Drop, which is where I mostly hang out anyway. And I trust Jimmy.

  “So what about my mom? She gonna have to file for bankruptcy?”

  Lorimer shakes his head. “There are bank accounts, savings and checking, in both their names. Maybe thirty-five total. The big money, the working capital, is stashed.”

  “And you know where?”

  “Yeah.” He doesn’t have the balls to ask what’s in it for him. But I know I can’t scare him into talking. Lori’s practice covers three counties, and he’s represented some of the most violent criminals out there. The man’s been threatened many times.

  “An ounce, Lori, to show my appreciation.” I hesitate before adding. “Of the best.”

  “Excellent. Okay, your old man wanted me to know in case he got busted and needed to make bail. There’s a major pile hidden beneath the floorboards in Marjorie’s bedroom.”

  “He trusted her? Marjorie Carver?”

  Lorimer finally smiles. “He told her if a single dollar vanished, he’d kill her kids while she watched. And from what I could tell, he meant it. One thing about your old man, he was tight with a buck.”

  I get rid of the lawyer a few minutes later. I’m anxious to put Gidget and the stolen money in the past. Between dealin’ with my old man and the rest of the bullshit, I’ve been stuck in neutral. No more. I’m startin’ to think ahead. That’s because Lori’s right. I need to be ready when the money pours in, ready to collect my piece.

  I lock the door behind me when I leave the empty house and walk over to the Lexus. I’ve got a gun stashed under the driver’s seat. Not because I’m worried about Gidget. I’m packin’ the gun for the same reason I sent Mom to Denver. I don’t think my old man’s got anyone he can ask for help, but you never know.

  I transfer the gun to my blue Toyota, slide behind the wheel, and start the car. But I don’t put it in gear, not right away. Instead, I lean back in the seat and close my eyes for a minute. I’m remembering the video from Randy’s, the girl in the hat and the green dress. Remembering the red light flashing in those sequins, remembering how the hem of her dress rose halfway to her crotch, remembering the red mouth and the green eye shadow. And now I’m thinkin’ it’d be appropriate if Gidget paid a little interest on her debt. Or even a lot of interest.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  GIT

  The red Lexus is nowhere to be found, despite a nervousness that has my eyes moving from the windshield to the rearview mirror to the side mirrors. My mistake, as it turns out. That mistake is remedied when I turn onto Poplar Street, a road that leads to Baxter Park, and a blue Toyota sedan follows. There are no cars between me and the Toyota, but when I deliberately slow, the Toyota slows as well.

  An urge to slam the gas pedal to the floor seizes my body and my brain. But it’s too early to pan
ic. The last thing I need is a confrontation while Charlie is in the car. It doesn’t come. I pull to the curb behind a long line of cars at the camp area and get out. Charlie unbuckles her seat belt and joins me at the curb. She takes my hand, which she tends to do when she’s excited, and we stroll over to join the line at the registration table. I chat with the other mothers, those I know. Our conversations alternate between Carl Schmidt’s arrest and the departure of Baxter Packing. The talk isn’t pleasant either way, but I’m barely paying attention. It’s taking all my self-discipline not to check on Connor.

  Charlie gives me a final hug after I attach a name tag to the front of her T-shirt. Then she’s off to join Samantha, who’s waving to her.

  “Goodbye, Mom.”

  “Have a good time, honey. I’ll pick you up on Sunday evening. Maybe we’ll have a pizza.”

  And maybe you’ll be motherless.

  An illegal U-turn takes me right past Connor’s parked Toyota, but I don’t turn my head. I work my way to Baxter Boulevard, then south to a strip mall anchored by a Walgreens. I’m too pissed off to be afraid, but still not stupid enough to park at the edge of the lot. I find a space almost in front of the entrance and head inside. When I’m certain that Connor’s not going to follow me, I take out my phone and call Mom.

  “He’s on my tail,” I tell her. “Only he’s driving a blue Toyota instead of the Lexus.”

  “If he doesn’t want to be noticed, he’s gotta be serious.”

  This I already know. “You ready?”

  “Yeah. But take care, Git. You have a little girl to get home to.”

  Mom’s referring to our shared belief that Connor’s armed. His father’s threats are common knowledge. But Baxter’s not an open-carry city. You need a special permit to go about armed. How likely is it that Connor’s obtained the permit? Or that he’d carry a gun on his person if he hasn’t? Close by is one thing, but not on his person.

  Still, there’s always the chance.

  Outside, I walk to my car, press the button that unlocks the doors, then look around as I pull the door open. When my eyes land on Connor, still sitting behind the wheel of the Toyota, I flinch. Not too obviously, but enough for him to draw a simple conclusion—that I know he’s there and I’m scared.

  The car’s been sitting in the sun for the past fifteen minutes, and my air-conditioning isn’t functioning. No big deal over the winter, but now I’ll have to find the money to fix it. Not today, though. I let the windows down, all of them, start the car, and head off.

  I head north on Baxter Boulevard, my speed gradually increasing, then finally turn onto Route 74, a state road. The speed limit here is 55 mph, and I blow past the limit almost immediately. Connor follows, not hesitating even when I weave in and out, passing cars on either side. I imagine him enjoying the chase. I imagine him imagining a terror I don’t remotely feel. No, what I’m feeling at the moment is rage.

  Would-be gangsters like Connor haunted my teenage years, mine and every other fatherless girl longing to be loved. They used us and abused us and threw us away. I should know. I ran with a dozen of them and actually married one. Well, Connor’s attitude, if I’m right about it, is all to the good. He’s thinking that I’m still one of those hapless fools. He’s thinking that he found me on his own. He’s thinking that I’m defenseless.

  Or so I hope.

  I make a quick (but not too quick) move to the right, onto an off-ramp. Connor follows. We’re almost in corn country now, on a two-lane road, speeding past a series of ranches. Buffalo, not beef cattle. I can see a small herd grazing in a long meadow. The grass they rip from the ground is bright green and rises to their knees. For a moment, I’m envious. Their world seems utterly peaceful. But then I see them led along a chute to the killing floor, hear them bellowing as their nostrils fill with the scent of blood. Not me, not me.

  With Connor on my tail, I take four sharp turns, to the right, then the left, a small animal desperate to escape. Only when we’re far from any main road do I make a quick left onto a hard-packed dirt road. Long abandoned, the single-lane road is studded with small rocks making their way to the surface. It runs straight between cornfields for thirty yards, then curves sharply to the left, the fields now screening me from view. A final curve to the right feeds into a small clearing, with no way out except the way I came in. The trailer’s long gone, the place where it rested overgrown with grass and weeds. My tree cave, its branches now in pieces, has fallen to the ground and begun to rot. Even the cornfields seem closer, and there’s just enough open space in the clearing to accommodate Connor’s little sedan.

  I’m out of my car, half stumbling toward the edge of the nearest cornfield, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast. An utter waste of time as the dust settles behind me to reveal an empty road. My heart drops. Connor hasn’t followed. My gamble has failed. I touch the Czech .32 jammed behind my belt. If Connor had trailed me in, he would not have driven back out.

  A few seconds later, Mom barrels up the road in a borrowed pickup. We’d planned to box Connor in, to allow him no room to escape, even if he stayed in his car. Now we’re left staring at each other. Mom doesn’t speak, but I know what she’s thinking. That’s because I’m thinking the same thing. We took a big risk going to Connor. Sure, he would almost surely have discovered the identity of the girl on that video from Randy’s. Eventually.

  But eventually is eventually, and now is now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  DELIA

  The woman who answers my knock doesn’t seem very surprised by my appearance. More dismissive. Her name is Celia Graham, and she’s the mother of Bridget O’Rourke. I know this because I conferred with Vern after my visit to Henrietta’s Hattery. He remembered Celia because he once arrested her for an assault that came to nothing when the victim OD’d a few days later. But though he’d probably come across Bridget in high school, he couldn’t place her. But he knew her by reputation. A straight shooter, she’d never been arrested, never accumulated so much as a parking ticket.

  “Detective Mariola, ma’am.” I display my shield, to no apparent effect. “I’m looking for Bridget O’Rourke.”

  “I know who you are.” Celia Graham’s smile reveals tobacco-stained teeth and a tongue the color of pea soup. Sick doesn’t describe her condition. More like walking dead. “Whatta ya want?”

  The single-story house is surrounded by a small yard. The grass, though far from lush, is neatly trimmed and the narrow flower beds of alyssum are well tended. Except for the windows, the house mirrors the homes of many hundreds of respectable Baxterites. The difference here, despite the heat, is that every window is closed and the shades have been drawn behind them.

  “I already told you, Celia. I need to speak to your daughter.” I stop for a moment to stare into her eyes. My knowing her name hasn’t fazed her. “I need to speak with your daughter, and you’re annoying the fuck out of me.”

  But Celia’s not giving up, or maybe a bad attitude is the only attitude she has. “You got a search warrant?”

  “For what? You have something you need to hide?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Last chance, Celia. Is your daughter home?”

  “Last chance? Wha’cha gonna do, hit me?”

  “Exactly right. I’m going to punch you in the face, then charge you with assaulting a police officer.”

  Bridget herself rides to the rescue, appearing behind her mother before I have to make good on my stupid threat. “Can I help you?”

  Bridget’s no longer the party girl who displayed herself on that bar stool in Randy’s. A trim woman about my height, I’d describe her as housewife-next-door—she’s wearing a pair of jeans and a violet T-shirt with the sleeves rolled up—yet her eyes are as cold as her mother’s.

  “You should’ve paid cash for the hat,” I tell her.

  “You don’t have to talk to the cops.” This from her mom. “You have rights.”

  “True,” I admit, my eyes focused
on Bridget, not her mother. “You’re a material witness, not a suspect. That means I can take you to headquarters and ask you for a statement, making sure every cop in the house, not to mention every civilian employee, gets a good look at you. But it won’t matter, right? Because Connor Schmidt’s already found you. That’s why the shades are drawn.”

  “Mom, catch a smoke outside.” Bridget waits until her mother disappears around a corner of the house, then steps back to let me pass. I walk into a small, cozy, and very hot living room. Well-worn but obviously comfortable, a pair of couches and two upholstered chairs almost fill the small space. I’m tired and would like nothing better than to settle my butt onto one of the seats. No go. Bridget leads me to a dining room table with two straight-backed chairs on either side. She points to the closest one.

  “You want some iced tea?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Bridget turns without a word and walks into the kitchen, her gait assertive. I’m left to look around, and I take advantage, being nosy by nature. A pair of travel posters, one of Yosemite and one of Grand Teton National Park, grace the windowless wall before me. Both are of snowcapped mountains, and I read a kind of flatlander yearning into them. Beyond the pair, my eyes are drawn to a pile of toys in a corner of the living room, which instantly raises the stakes. A frame house like this will allow a 9mm round to penetrate every wall before exiting. It’ll penetrate flesh as well, the flesh of a child as easily as the flesh of an adult.

  “You have children, Bridget?”

  “One,” she calls from the kitchen. “She’s at camp.”

  “Is that a matter of convenience? Her being away?”

  “Call it whatever you want.” Bridget walks out of the kitchen bearing two glasses on a tray. She hands one to me, then says, “I didn’t kill Bradley.”

  “I know that.”

  “And I didn’t steal his money.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Do you know who did?”