They bent down to the unconscious man and each grabbed an arm. “This dude is heavy,” said Cheryl.
“Yep,” said Diller through gritted teeth.
The man’s face hit the tow bar on the van.
“Oops,” said Cheryl. “Where did you get the chloroform from anyway?”
“I made it.”
“You’re kidding?”
With a heave they got his upper body in the back of the van.
“You just need some acetone and a gallon of six per cent sodium hypochlorite bleach. I’ll get the rope and tie him up. I’m good with knots.”
“Right,” said Cheryl. “And remind me again why I’m the one who’d make a good serial killer?”
Like the Fella Once Said…
Jonny stood to the side, out of view of the peephole, and then knocked politely on the door.
“Amazon delivery.”
He waited. He’d been careful to disguise his voice, going for an inoffensive Midwestern accent like all those companies used in their adverts. Apparently it was the most trusted – they’d done a study or something. He’d read a thing in a magazine once while waiting in a doctor’s office.
Nothing happened. There was no sound from within the apartment. He had checked the windows from the street; there had definitely been lights on.
He knocked again, more loudly this time.
“Amazon delivery for a Helena Martinez.” He knew she had changed her name. It should be Risbury, but even if you accepted this bullshit divorce the judge had granted, her maiden name was Ortega. She had changed it again when she’d run and taken his son away from him. It had made finding them harder, but not impossible. Not when you knew the right people.
There was still no noise from inside. Jonny reached inside his jacket and checked the Glock holstered under his left armpit. Then he stood and listened for a full minute to make sure nobody was coming. He glanced up and down the hallway. He could hear a TV from across the hall, and a selection of festive tunes sung by a choir could be made out playing elsewhere in the building, but there didn’t seem to be many people moving about. He put his hand in his inside pocket and pulled out the picks. This had never been his greatest skill, even in his early days, but the lock didn’t look like much. As long as nobody disturbed him, he’d be fine.
He placed his hand against the door and was surprised to feel it give. The crazy bitch had left it open. She’d never been the smartest. Jonny slipped his picks back into his pocket and then discreetly withdrew the gun. He took a deep breath and moved inside, closing the door behind him. The apartment was now in darkness save for the wan light spilling in from the street outside. He listened but he still couldn’t hear anything.
“Hey, baby. Daddy’s home.”
He was about to reach around for a switch when the lights came on.
“Howerya, Daddy.”
Now illuminated, Jonny could see it was a studio apartment. There was an open-plan kitchen to his left and a bunk bed pushed against the far wall, with a small dining table and chairs beside it. A raggedy couch faced an old-looking TV to his right, behind which sat a small Christmas tree. At the far side of the room, about twenty feet from where Jonny stood, a large man in a Santa Claus outfit was sitting in an armchair giving him an amused look. Jonny pointed the gun at him.
“Who the fuck are you?”
The man raised his eyebrows. “Really? Jolly fat lad, red suit, beard? You’re not exactly the world’s greatest detective, are you?”
“Hilarious. Where’s my wife?”
“You don’t have a wife.”
Jonny stepped forward. “You’ve got a hell of a mouth on you for the man who ain’t holding the gun.”
The man shrugged. “Well, I’ve been standing on a street corner for a lot of the day and I may’ve had a couple of nips against the cold. Sure, ’tis Christmas.”
“She’s picking up drunk Scottish bums now?”
“Scottish? Scottish?! I’m Irish, ye cloth-eared gobshite.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Where is my wife?”
“If you mean your ex-wife, then she and her son are miles away.”
“Our son. I’m his father.”
“Only in the sperm-donor sense.”
Jonny looked around. There was a door that presumably led to a bathroom. Maybe they could be in there?
“And what are you doing in my wife’s apartment?”
The man stretched his arms out and yawned expansively. “Well, appropriately enough, you’re on my naughty list.”
“Who do you work for?”
The man gave Jonny what he may have thought was a smile. One of his eyes was messed up, making him look more than a little crazy, even before you factored in the suit. The beard was real, although it looked like he’d made a half-assed attempt to make it whiter. “I don’t work for anybody. Think of me as a freelancer.”
“Well, I ain’t and believe me, you don’t want to mess with who I represent.”
“What? Amazon? Just leave the card saying you tried to make the delivery and feck off, there’s a good lad.”
“You got jokes. Ain’t that sweet. You really need to shut up now, old man.”
“Ohhh, there’s no need to be hurtful, ye drug-peddling, wife-beating shiteburger.”
“Your mouth is gonna get you into a world of pain.”
The man shrugged. “To be honest with you, it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I don’t know what she told you, but my wife…”
“Ex-wife.”
“Has put you in the middle of somewhere you shouldn’t be. You’re in my way. Bad things happen to people that get in my way.”
“Yeah, I read the hospital report. You left her with a broken collarbone and a cracked—”
Jonny raised his voice. “You better mind your goddamn manners.”
The man scratched at his beard. “Fecking weird moment to break into a lesson on etiquette there, fella.”
“I’m done with your bullshit. You either tell me where my wife and son are or the first bullet goes through your leg. And that’s just the first one.”
“They want nothing to do with you. This is your last chance to walk away.”
Jonny looked around. This fat a-hole seemed inexplicably confident, given the circumstances. Either Jonny was missing something or the guy was straight-up insane.
“My last chance? My last chance?” repeated Jonny. “There’s a word for someone who comes between a man and his wife.”
All pretence of jollity left the Irishman’s voice, which dropped to a low, growling register. “And there are lots of words for someone who raises his hand to a woman, and none of them are ‘man’.”
“Alright, that’s it. Which leg do you want first, motherfucker?”
“Yeah, you’re a big man with a gun, aren’t you, Jonny? You only go toe to toe with women, is that right? Macho. Why don’t you dance with someone your own size for a change?”
“You are one dumb son of a bitch.”
“Tell you what there, John-boy. You beat me one-on-one and I’ll tell you the exact address of where they are.”
“Like I can’t get it out of you anyway?”
“Yeah, but where’d be the fun in that?”
Jonny was twenty years younger, sixty pounds lighter and in considerably better shape. He’d gone to the state championships as a boxer in his teen years, and since then his fast hands had ended a lot of fights quickly.
“Stand up.”
Santa Claus did as he was told, rising slowly from the chair.
“Show me you haven’t got any weapons.”
“Only my dazzling wits.” The Irishman opened the stupid red suit and lifted it up as he turned slowly around. As he did so, he hummed ‘It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas’ happily to himself. Jonny wanted to wipe the smile off this idiot’s face. Rotation completed, Jonny pointed at the legs of the Irishman’s Santa Claus outfit. He raised each of them in turn to show there was nothing strapped
down there either. Then he rolled up his sleeves.
“I’ve also got nothing up me arse, but you’re welcome to check?”
“No, thank you.”
“Suit yourself. People have made that mistake before.”
Jonny stood and looked at him for a long moment before placing the Glock down on the kitchen island. He could take this asshole easy, and if something went wrong, he still had the 22 strapped to his ankle. It’d feel real good to smash his face into the floor. He deserved a little Christmas treat.
The Irishman gave a sarcastic clap. “Fair play, Jonny. I would say I misjudged you but I haven’t.”
Jonny took his jacket off and tossed it on the floor. “Let’s do this,” he said, moving forward.
“Hang on a sec,” said the Irishman, raising his hands. “Before we do – no knocking over the Christmas tree, it’s bad luck.”
Jonny cracked his knuckles. “Whatever.”
“And, as it’s Christmas, what do you say to no bollock shots?”
“Stop talking.”
“Also” – the Irishman pointed back over towards the counter – “any disputes will be decided by the referee.”
“What the…?”
Jonny glanced behind him. Standing beside the counter was a dwarf, holding Jonny’s gun and pointing it at him.
“Fuck!”
“Yep,” said the Irishman, before addressing the dwarf. “You owe me ten bucks, by the way.” He turned back to Jonny. “I bet him I could make you give up the gun, and bless your fucking stupidity, you did. It was either that or he’d have used that stun gun thing he has. Thing is, that’d make you have a muscle spasm – never the cleverest thing to do to somebody holding a gun.”
Jonny prepared to dive for his ankle holster.
“Don’t,” said the dwarf. “Just don’t. I will if I have to.”
Jonny looked at him and then relaxed his body. Nothing about the little guy indicated he was bluffing. “You better let me walk out of here. You think I came alone?”
“No,” said the dwarf. “But the big dude outside in the car has already been dealt with. I got a text. Looks like you’re having a bad day.”
Jonny looked between the two men. “What’s the plan here? You want me to leave Helena alone? Fine. You have my word.”
“Well,” said the Irishman, “if you can’t trust a wife beater.”
Jonny was just about done with this nonsense. “Who the fuck do you people think you are?”
The fat man held his hands out. “Sure, didn’t I tell you. I’m Santa and he’s my…”
“Don’t say it,” said the dwarf.
“I’m not. I didn’t say it.”
“You said you wouldn’t say it.”
“I haven’t said it,” pleaded the Irishman.
“You both need to listen to me,” said Jonny, “and listen good. Anything happens to me, the people I work for will come for you. You’ll meet your end begging for death. I’ve seen it. They get real creative.” He pointed at the Irishman. “Believe me, they’ll come for you, Santa Claus.” He said it with a sneer. “And your little helper.”
“That’s it,” barked the dwarf.
“I didn’t say it. He—”
Jonny didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. He watched as the dwarf pulled a yellow device from his pocket and fired it at him. Time slowed as Jonny watched the two metal probes arc through the air. He tried to run, but that just meant he got hit in the back. He went down hard. The last thing he remembered was seeing Santa’s boot heading straight for his head.
Christmas at Bernie’s
They’d be fine.
Cheryl sat behind the wheel of the van and looked up at the apartment window. The light had come on a few minutes ago. She looked at her phone again: no message from Smithy. She’d give it another five minutes and then she would go and check. If it had gone south, she’d ring the cops and they would just have to deal with the consequences. She’d felt OK about her part of the plan, but now it was over, she was starting to realise just how many flaws were in the other half of it. If she had to explain to a cop why some hired muscle was hog-tied and unconscious in the back of the van, then so be it. OK, it wasn’t her van, which was awkward, but her friend Carol could just say she hadn’t known what Cheryl was using it for. She drummed on the steering wheel and looked at the clock on the dash, trying not to think of Smithy and Bunny bleeding out on the floor of an apartment. Smithy hadn’t wanted her involved in this, but Bunny’s little side project being what it was, he needed a woman more than he needed Smithy or Diller, not least because Diller was a non-combatant. Although the guy certainly had his uses.
Cheryl jumped as Diller’s face appeared at the window right beside her. “Jesus, Dill!”
He waved apologetically as she wound the window down. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”
“Any sign of…?” started Cheryl.
“What? Oh, no.”
Diller didn’t seem worried. He appeared to have complete faith that Smithy and Bunny would be fine.
“Y’know how you said to take the keys and check their car?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I found something in the trunk.”
“What did you…?”
Cheryl never finished the thought, as the door to the apartment building opened and three drunks exited. At least that was what it would look like to any passers-by. Santa Claus and a dwarf messily carried an unconscious man between them. They passed a female jogger making her way back into the building.
“Sorry, m’darling, sorry there. Jonny here is a bit worse for the drink.”
“I told him,” added Smithy in a slur, “you can’t go drink for drink with an Irishman.”
The jogger gave them a tight smile as she moved past them.
As she watched them make their way down the steps, Cheryl laughed, as much from relief as anything. Diller, for his part, applauded appreciatively. “They’re Weekend at Bernie’s-ing it. Gotta respect that. Quality touch.”
Gifts of All Kinds
Sergeant Marlon Watts punched his fist on his chest and issued a resounding belch. He didn’t know when this obsession with baking had hit the precinct, but it was reaching epidemic levels. Since two weeks before Thanksgiving, people had been bringing in all manner of homemade cookies and confections and it was becoming a nightmare, albeit a delicious one. Everybody knew he had a sweet tooth and that he was in charge of setting rotas, and this had led him to eating his own weight in baked goods over the last month. It was getting to the point that he had found himself craving a salad earlier. Well, craving may have been too strong a word; he hadn’t been moved enough to actually go and get one. Still, as the doctor had said at his last physical, his feet problem was really a weight problem, and every other problem he would have in later life would end up being a weight problem too. Looking at life from the wrong side of fifty, Marlon couldn’t take such things lightly anymore – not when his stomach was so large that he could lean it on his desk to get a little relief. His belt was also digging into him more and more. Damn it – come January first, he would go back to that gym he had been paying for every month for two years now. Marcia joked that he went religiously, in the sense that like church, he went a couple of times every year, usually around Christmas.
The doors flew open and Marsden and Gianelli came charging in. “Sarge, Sarge, Sarge – you gotta come outside!” insisted Gianelli.
Marlon didn’t look up from the arrest reports he was scanning through on his desk. “I don’t know if you’re familiar with the chain of command in the sainted New York Police Department, Officer Gianelli, but I, like everyone else on the force, do not have to do anything you say.”
Marlon didn’t like Gianelli. Not even an Italian family could have as many uncles as he’d had ‘die’ over the last two years. If even half of them were real, he should have set up his own undertaking firm.
“C’mon, Sarge,” chimed in Marsden. “I’m telling you, you do
not want to miss this. It’s a little Christmas treat.”
On the other hand, Marlon actually did like Marsden; she was a good kid. She once judo-threw a tweaker across the receiving area after he’d lost it and tried to fight his way out. The woman was a pocket rocket.
“If it’s carollers, then I’ll give it a hard pass.”
“It’s better than that,” said Gianelli. “I swear, Sarge.”
Marlon stopped and looked at both of their faces. He’d not seen such eagerness since his own kids were youngsters on Christmas morning.
“Alright then, what is it?”
Marlon Watts stepped out of the back doors of the Precinct and into the car park. He didn’t need to be directed as to where his attention was required. Two men sat tied up and gagged in the back seat of a yellow Mustang. The Mustang was wrapped in a massive bow. “Well, I’ll be. There’s something you don’t see every day.”
Unsurprisingly, the two men looked less than happy with their lot in life.
“There’s a note, Sarge, there’s a note!”
Marlon turned to Gianelli. “Yes, thank you, Officer Gianelli – having not lost the use of my eyes, I can see there is a note.”
Marlon took two steps down to look at the note displayed on the Mustang’s front windscreen, because, while he hated to admit it, his eyes weren’t as good as they once had been.
He read the note aloud.
“Hello, I am Jonny Risbury, a lieutenant in the Los Zetas Cartel. I am a wanted man after skipping bail in Miami on two assault charges. Odds-on my colleague here is also of interest to the authorities. A merry Christmas and God bless us each and every one. Yours sincerely, Santa Claus and his merry men and/or women. PS There are about ten kilos of cocaine in the trunk of this car.”
Marlon Watts looked around the car park. “Is this some kind of Christmas prank?”
“No, Sarge.”
“Because if it is, Gianelli, then you should know the rumours of me having a sense of humour have been greatly exaggerated.”
Good Deeds and Bad Intentions Page 3