by Brian Drake
Wolf ducked against a crate. The smoke stung his eyes. A door clanged open. He looked around and saw Ace slipping out to the street. Wolf followed through the door. The loud growl of the green SUV’s engine came from the left. The speeding vehicle screamed toward him and Wolf squeezed the trigger, the pellet blast shattering the front passenger side fender and part of the windshield.
Wolf ran after the SUV. Ace continued down the block, tires shrieking and billowing smoke as he turned left. Wolf ran to the Camaro and followed.
Wolf kept the throttle down and his eyes open as the road started to curve. The dull throb of the engine decreased as the sharp turn forced him to slow. He floored the pedal coming out of the turn, felt his body press back into the seat, and saw the taillights of Ace’s SUV ahead.
Wolf reached Ace’s bumper. The SUV took the next corner too fast, passenger side digging against the curb. The wheel grinded against the cement and a shower of sparks jumped high. A burst of speed pulled the SUV back onto the pavement.
Wolf moved into the opposite lane, hitting the switch to lower the passenger window. He drew his .45 and fired out the window. The green SUV’s rear tire exploded, and the SUV shifted across the Camaro’s front end.
Wolf jammed on the brakes and watched the SUV spin, then bounce onto the sidewalk and crash into a storefront. The front window shattered, the wrecked display rocketing deeper into the store. An alarm blared. Wolf pulled over.
Ace jumped out. He raised one of the military-issue M-4 carbines and opened fire. The stingers ripped into the Camaro’s hood, shattering the windshield, crawling along the driver’s side.
Wolf dived for the floor as glass rained down, covering his neck and eyes. The bullets struck like steel raindrops and the car rocked with each hit.
Wolf tightened his grip on the .45. He pushed open the passenger door, rolled onto the hard pavement, and dashed around to the trunk.
Ace ceased fire. Wolf listened to the other man’s approaching footsteps.
Wolf dropped on his left side, extending the .45. He wanted a leg or shoulder shot to put Ace out of commission, but before he could set his sights Ace raised the M-4. Flame flashed from the Colt’s barrel. Ace stopped short, stood a moment, his stunned face blankly contemplating Wolf. Then he fell over. His head made a loud clack as it met the asphalt. Wolf jumped up and ran to the man.
Ace’s wide eyes stared up at the night sky. The gun runner’s breath came out in short gasps, his body convulsing from the open chest wound. Blood bubbled up from his throat. He managed half a bloody grin as the light behind his eyes faded.
Wolf, breathing hard, turned to the SUV, but sirens wailing in the distance stopped him.
He gave the Camaro a sad glance. The car had been faithful, but no simple fix would get the machine back on the road. He had other vehicles. The cops would have fun trying to determine the owner. The registration led to an abandoned brownstone downtown.
Wolf grabbed a spare overcoat from the trunk, throwing it on to cover his combat garb. He lifted a piece of carpet, revealing an electronic panel with a single red button. Wolf pushed the red button, turned and ran away. Within two minutes, charges hidden in the Camaro would ignite, flame would gut the interior, and wipe out any fingerprints.
“You’re kidding me.”
Ben Regan regarded the big white-haired man on the other side of the table with raised eyebrows.
The big man said, “So whoever O’Shea hired killed him and took off with the disk.” The big man, Teddy Gambolini, swiveled his chair left to look out a window. He and Regan sat in a long trailer set up as an office. Outside, construction crews assembled the frame of a building. A bulldozer rumbled passed. The trailer shook a little. A cloud of dust followed the dozer and pasted residue on the window.
Gambolini knew construction better than anything—except making money for the mob. Various construction sites had always made good front operations for mafia activity, and he’d certainly been in charge of many back home in New York City, where something was always under construction, and always provided a good spot to drop the body parts of somebody who offended the family and needed to disappear.
But what can work for you, can also be used against you. Gambolini had worked for crime boss Vito Scarlatta, who’d been like a brother to him, until Gambolini “offended” the family by trying to kill his “brother” for missteps in a drug operation that cost Gambolini a ton of start-up money. His attempt failed, and he’d had to run away with his tail between his legs less somebody “disappear” him in one of his own building projects.
Gambolini’s number two, Ben Regan, had stayed with the big man because he’d been marked for death too. There was an open contract for both of them, for whoever made the kill, from the sharpest mob marksman, to the lowest street thug who wanted to make a name for himself.
Unless, of course, they could find a way to bring back a peace offering, something Gamoblini’s old bosses would love to have, such as the location of a rival mobster also marked for death, whom the syndicate had been unable to find for over a decade. If Gambolini could bring back the man’s location, all might be forgiven.
That wasn’t asking too much, right?
Which is how the caper surrounding the stolen DVD started.
But now that looked like it was going to hell too.
Gambolini swiveled back to Regan. The chair squeaked. Sunlight caught the gold watch on his wrist. The hand connected to the wrist had half an index finger. “Did I make a fair summary?”
“Perfect. Couldn’t have said it better.”
Gambolini’s mouth twitched a little but he controlled his response to Regan’s sarcasm. “Who is this guy who thinks he can run off with what we paid for?”
“We still have the money.”
“But we don’t have the goods. I’m asking you what’s the deal with this guy.”
“Don’t know.”
“You don’t know.”
“Am I not speaking clearly, Teddy?”
The big man’s cheeks puffed a little. He pressed his lips together. He and Regan had worked side by side long enough for the smart talk to become common between them. Teddy just wasn’t good at firing back.
“I hear you,” Gambolini said. “What’s the guy planning to do?”
“If I find him, I’ll ask, just before I put a bullet in him.”
“Everything depends on that disk, Ben.”
“No.”
Gambolini frowned. “Explain.”
“We want something from Palakis, and using the DVD gives us leverage against him. Who says he has to know we even have it? He doesn’t have it. The threat is there. That’s all we need.”
“And our thief?”
“We’ll swat that fly, no problem. He said to wait for a call but my phone ain’t buzzing. He has no idea how to proceed. He’ll probably hide the disk which means he won’t tell me where it is and that’s okay. Once he’s dead the disk can stay lost.”
“What if he goes to Palakis and tries to sell back the disk?” Gambolini said.
“Wouldn’t that suck?”
Gambolini pulled Chapstick from a shirt pocket and dabbed his lips. Another bulldozer shook the trailer. Shouts from a foreman made Gambolini turn toward the window again. He scratched the small scar on his left cheek and said, “What if this guy took the disk because he knows what’s on it? What if the whole bag of peanuts is spoiled by this?”
Regan blinked a few times and offered no response.
“Where’s your snappy comeback, Ben?” Gambolini went “heh-heh” as Regan stared back.
“You want we should just let the guy go and forget the whole thing?”
This time Gambolini said nothing.
“Let’s quit talking,” Regan said, “and I’ll get to work. ‘Kay?”
“Why are you still sitting here?”
5
The ache in his neck finally woke him.
Freddie Webster groaned as he shifted his stiff body. The driver’s seat
hadn’t been made for sleeping, and the springs in the backrest poked through the thin cushion, causing further discomfort. He couldn’t stretch his legs and felt a cramp. He had been waiting for Sheila to leave so she’d never see the blood on his clothes. The dashboard clock read 10:15. He’d been asleep about 90 minutes.
The skin under his bandage itched. He scratched against the bandage.
He’d parked a block from the apartment and twisted the key. The engine sputtered. He turned the key again and the engine fired. He drove up the block to his apartment.
Inside, he dropped the nylon bag by the door and landed on the couch. At least the cushions were softer than the car, even if he sank down too far for long term comfort. He put his face in his hands, shut his eyes tight, and tried to block out the image of O’Shea’s bulging eyes and gurgled scream. The image remained as bright and colorful as anything around him.
He left the couch for the bathroom and tore off his clothes. They’d have to be trashed. After splashing cold water on his face, he leaned against the counter and stared at his stubble-jawed reflection. His blood-shot eyes stared back.
What could he do now?
Sell the DVD back to the people he’d stolen from? Or maybe shake down the man who hired O’Shea? All he wanted was the whole fifteen thousand. His shoulders sank at another realization. O’Shea’s client would already be looking for him.
Had O’Shea mentioned anything about him?
Sheila.
He bolted from the bathroom, snatched the phone from the kitchen wall and dialed her cell. Straight to voicemail. He dialed the restaurant and asked for her.
“Freddie?”
He let out a long sigh. “Hey.”
“Are you okay? I guess we missed each other this morning.”
“I was so tired I had to pull over and fell asleep in the car.”
“Oh, poor thing. You’re worrying too much.”
He said nothing a moment; then, “Yeah.”
“Go to bed. I’ll try and get out of here early tonight, okay?”
“You have to see the doctor later, right?”
“That’s not for another hour or so,” she said. “Go to bed.”
He swallowed. “I love you, Sheila.”
“Of course, you do.” She laughed. “See you tonight.”
Freddie said good-bye and hung up. He couldn’t go to sleep yet. He had to toss the bloody clothes. And get the nylon bag to their safe deposit box where it would remain secure until he decided his next move.
Somebody tapped on the door.
Freddie hit the mute button and the soap opera went silent. His whole body froze. He stopped breathing and heard pounding in his head. Another knock. It’s nothing, he told himself. Sheila ordered something on-line and UPS was delivering.
It hadn’t been an easy couple of hours since returning from his errands. Sleep was impossible. Finally, he rose and watched TV in the living room, but had no focus on any program, so he flipped stations.
Another trio of taps. Light, quick. Not the heavy knock of a delivery man.
Freddie’s pulse raced.
Two heavy kicks splintered the wood door at the lock. A silenced gunshot finished the job, the deadbolt breaking in two and dropping on the floor. The door squeaked open. The man stood about an inch taller than Freddie. The mop of hair on his head covered the tops of his large ears. He had a touch of gray in his mustache.
The man said, “My name’s Ben Regan, and you’re in big trouble.”
Regan approached. Freddie jumped up and drew a fist back, but the intruder moved faster and punched Freddie in the jaw.
Regan dragged Freddie across the carpet to the couch, resting the silencer-fitted nine-millimeter Beretta automatic on his right knee.
Freddie groaned, rubbed his jaw, eyes on Regan. He said, “Didn’t take you very long, did it?”
“Nope.”
“And you’re gonna kill me.”
“Yup.”
“You also talk too much.”
“Then get ready for an earful,” Regan said. He stood, started pacing across the carpet with the nine-millimeter at his side. He stopped at a metal shelf next to the T.V. stand and scanned the framed pictures of Freddie and Sheila. He picked up a framed sonogram photo of the baby.
“Isn’t technology neat?” he said, put the picture back.
Freddie’s eyes never left Regan, but the man didn’t open himself to attack. Regan sat down again.
“O’Shea never told me your name, but he told me enough about you that I was able to ask around and a lot of guys know who you are. Mistake one, you’re too well known to hide.
“Mistake two,” Regan said, “you really don’t have anything to bargain with. My employer and I don’t need the disk, just the threat of it being exposed, to get what we want.” Regan examined a thumbnail, continued: “Mistake three, you should have kept your promise.” Regan smiled. “When I find your wife? Well, never mind.”
Regan raised the nine-millimeter as Freddie’s right hand swept up to the couch cushion, grabbed the remote, and flung it at Regan. The remote tumbled end over end as it covered the distance and smacked Regan in the forehead. The killer yelped, recoiling. He fired in reflex and the bullet punched into the couch.
Freddie scrambled on knees and elbow as Regan rose. Regan stabbed the gun at the crawling man and fired. The shot cut into the carpet as Freddie gained his feet and pounded down the hallway. Regan fired again and the bullet thunked into the hallway wall. Freddie reached the bedroom and the dresser drawer where the Taurus .38 was hidden. He grabbed the gun, spun around. Regan fired three times and Freddie jumped with each dead-center hit. He fell to his knees, put a hand out to stop his fall, raised the revolver again and started to squeeze the trigger. Regan stood still, watching. A rush of breath left Freddie and his trigger finger slackened and his body pitched forward, lay still.
Regan sniffed the sharp scent of exploded gunpowder and put away the nine-millimeter. He made a quick search of the apartment, starting in the bedroom; tearing through cabinets, cupboards; closets, under the couch. No sign of the DVD. Webster had already stashed it. The location died with him.
Regan filled a glass with tap water, drank it down, wiped sweat from his brow. A notepad adhered to the wall, beside the telephone, caught his eye. His shoes squeaked on the tiled floor as he went to look. The scrawl said, “Dr. Kwong, 12:30, Lakeshire Memorial.”
He checked his watch. Forty-five minutes. He took a picture of Sheila from the metal shelf and locked the door using Webster’s key. He whistled part of “Hey, Jude” as he strode down the hallway.
Traffic delayed Regan’s arrival. His watch showed 1:15 when he parked his Cadillac CTS. The sun beat down hard, the hot air uncomfortable. Across the way people wandered in and out of the hospital via an automatic door on one side of which someone had taped a missing person poster. Regan leaned against a tree that blocked the sun, but the rough bark scraped through the fabric of his shirt. He watched people go in and out and wondered who the face on the missing person poster belonged to. Every few minutes he glanced at Sheila’s picture to keep her features fresh in his mind.
Around a quarter of two the vigilance paid off.
Slinging her purse, the bulge of her belly visible under her blouse, Sheila Webster exited the hospital and headed across the lot to the tree where Regan stood. He let her pass and fell in step behind her. He pulled the nine-millimeter and snatched her right arm and shoved the gun into her ribs. She stiffened; he said:
“Not a word or I’ll spill the fetus all over the concrete.”
He dragged her toward the CTS. “Your hubby broke his promise, sweetie. I hate to do this, but we can’t have any loose ends.”
Sheila’s feet skidded on the ground, creating a bit of space between her and the faster-moving Regan, but he yanked her closer. The sharp front sight of the nine-millimeter pierced the fabric of her blouse. She winced.
They reached the middle of the parking aisle and a Maxima slowe
d. And that’s when Sheila let out a scream that shook the world. She threw her weight at Regan, jostling him, and balled her left hand and struck his chest, face. Regan recoiled, dragging her back between two cars.
The man in the Maxima jumped out, yelled, “Hey,” and Regan aimed over Sheila’s back and shot him in the chest. He had no silencer this time and the shot echoed like a crack of thunder.
Sheila twisted free. Others stopped and stared as she scrambled back toward the hospital building. Regan raised his gun and fired once. The bullet shattered the sliding door as Sheila ran through and the missing person poster fell amongst the broken glass. Regan took off running for the street. He’d come back for the CTS. Too many faces looking his way.
6
Wolf awoke a little after noon and lay in bed staring at a trio of red spots on the ceiling. They’d been there when he moved in. He often wondered how the spots had gotten there, picturing somebody with a squeeze bottle of ketchup blasting upward. Like a kid fooling around. The idea made him smile. He hoped it was true. He could hear the child’s laughter at the initial blast followed by the “uh-oh” feeling hoping mom or dad never noticed.
With a grim set to his jaw he rolled out of bed, scraped whiskers off his face, splashed around in the shower and ordered breakfast from the hotel kitchen.
Wolf occupied a two-room suite at the Carlton Hotel, located in the sprawling downtown area of the city. Towering buildings, beyond which were hills that sprouted homes in some mutated act of nature, were visible out the bedroom window. A shade covered the window. He remembered when the city hadn’t been so urban. Seeing that view first thing ruined what memories of youth he did have. When he wanted to get out of the city altogether, he had a cabin at Lake Wyatt waiting for him.
While waiting for breakfast, Wolf sat at the writing table, the open window beside him letting in the noon breeze along with the echoing rumbles of motors, horns, and street trolleys far below. He scrubbed the Colt pistol with solvent, wiped it clean, oiled the mechanism. He finished the task and put the weapon in a metal case and the metal case on the top shelf of the hall closet.