by Les Edgerton
Life was good. Life was particularly good this evening. He’d disposed of a nettlesome problem and enjoyed doing it. He’d never liked St. Ives from the first time he’d met him. The man had money, dressed well, talked in a cultivated manner, but from the start Castro had seen through all that, seen the man for what he really was. A pig. A pig all prettied up, but still a pig.
A dead pig.
He leaned back his head and laughed heartily. The two employees that were riding with him in the back of his limousine glanced at each other and smiled. El patron laughed much of the time like that. Whenever he did, they usually benefited, for he was a generous man with those who labored for him, and when he was in a good mood, there were usually bonuses and other gifts. For instance, he was sharing his good Cuban elixir with them, filling their own glasses whenever they got low.
“Senòr Castro,” one of them, a small, pockmarked Cuban from Miami said to his employer. “You got that gringo good, eh?”
“Si, muy bueno!” They all laughed. “Vasta macoule,” he said, and pretended to spit and they burst out laughing even harder.
El patron was about half in the bag. And as high as he could get. All the way from New Orleans he and his men had snorted thick lines on the solid silver serving tray he kept in the limo for just that purpose. This was the good stuff, the uncut product. As his driver turned up the lane, he wiped the last of the powder off and ran his finger with it inside his gums, smacking his lips in satisfaction.
“Ah,” he said, a big, fat, satisfied sigh. Life was indeed good.
And there was the Big Boss. The one who’d called him several days before to tell him their old arrangement was back in place, that C.J. St. Ives was no longer in charge of anything.t his bank, not his wife, not even his life. It was unsaid during their conversation, but Castro knew it was his duty to eliminate the man. That should be accomplished by right about now, he thought as the limo braked in the drive before the main house.
His driver ran around and held open the door and Castro swung his feet out. Ah, there was the good senòr now. He was trundling down the walk from the mansion in his wheelchair, his hand lifted in welcome.
Wait till he hears how I have performed, Castro thought, standing and stepping forward to greet his long-time powerful friend and ally, Senòr Titus Fuller Derbigny.
If his brain hadn’t been slowed by the recent effects of at least a quarter-gram of top-grade cocaine...if the buzz born of swilling almost half a bottle of the best Cuban rum in less than an hour hadn’t obscured his thinking...or if the glow of self-satisfaction wasn’t clouding his vision, the sight of the crippled man in the wheelchair swiftly rising to stand might have registered on Fidel Castro’s consciousness a little bit sooner than it did. His reflexes and reaction time might have been sufficient to speed up the synapses and electrical connections slogging through his brain and he might have been able to make the movie that was unfolding in slow-motion before his redlined eyes speed up enough to bring his own gun up to answer the problem of the machine gun that magically appeared in the other man’s hands.
Or maybe not.
The Cuban drug lord’s last mortal act was to throw his hands up in front of his face and cry out a word so queer and out-of-place that it seemed to hang in the air long seconds after the last burst of .45-caliber bullets had torn through his and his associates’ bodies.
Mama!
Castro’s mouth froze forever in the last syllable of his cry and Reader Kincaid tore off the white wig that was beginning to itch, walked over and poured another fusillade of lead into the dead drug czar’s body, his teeth bared in what Eddie Delahousie had called his “Dr. Death” face.
CHAPTER 32
“SCOOT OVER,” GRADY SAID, urgency in his voice. He threw an armful of papers and other things into the back seat and handed her his cellular phone.
Whitney had scarcely moved over and let him behind the wheel before he tromped hard on the gas pedal, throwing crushed oyster shells behind him as he whipped her Taurus back out onto the highway.
“Those fucking new-fangled spares aren’t worth a shit. They’re not good for more than ten, fifteen miles,” he said, before she could ask why they were taking her car.
His face was grim. Whitney fumbled with the seat belt and tried to watch the road ahead.
“There!” she exclaimed. “Up there! Go left!”
She felt herself pulled hard to her own right and up against the door as the car slewed into the turn. The back right tire found the shallow ditch alongside the road and they heard the whistle of its spin before it caught pavement and they shot ahead.
“You’re going to kill us!” She straightened back up, brushed her mussed hair back out of her eyes and looked wild-eyed at the moonless black they were plunging through.
“Just get me there,” he said, hunching down to concentrate on the unfamiliar road, a two-lane blacktop.
“I’ll...I’ll try,” she said, in a shaky voice. She bent forward to study the piece of notepaper with the hand-drawn map in her hand.
“Whitney,” he said, his eyes briefly catching hers before he turned his attention back to the road. “We don’t get there in time, it’s all over. We have to get there.”
“There’s another turn coming up,” she said, breathily. She took a deep breath. “About two miles. Watch for it because it looks like it’s one of those small parish roads. Probably dirt. The house is a mile past that.”
“I won’t miss it,” he said, and then he reached over and put his hand on her arm. “I can’t.”
CHAPTER 33
READER TOOK A MOMENT to enjoy the fruits of his labor. Ten years of planning had gone into this and he was going to savor it.
But not too long. There was no telling if someone had heard the gunfire, even way out here in the boonies.
He shoved Castro’s body out of the way and leaned into the limo.
“I thought so,” he said, talking to himself and reaching for one of the cigars in the special humidor by the wet bar. He drew in the rich aroma and then licked it all over. Lighting a match, he inhaled deeply, savoring the feel of the smoke as it reached deep into his mouth.
“Nothing like a good Cuban cigar, eh, Castro?” he said, looking down at his dead foe.
He took another slow drag and then quickly got to work. The money was right where it was supposed to be, in the false bottom. He walked swiftly to behind the house where his Cavalier was parked and drove it back, parking it next to the limousine. Working methodically, but with a deliberate speed, he transferred the bundles of greenbacks. They were all hundreds. He’d hit the jackpot. There was even more than he’d counted on. More than six million, it appeared, by his quick estimate. It took up the whole of his back seat where he had his own false bottom rigged. The back seat lifted out easily. It should have--all it was was a balsa frame with a seat cover stitched over it. Not something you could sit on. A piece of art, courtesy of Bobby, just another of his gifts. He’d switched it with the regular one just before driving over from New Orleans. It was a tight fit, but he was able to get all the money in and get the seat back in place. Looking at it, no one would ever guess that there was a king’s ransom beneath it.
The next thing he did was pop open the trunk of the limo. It would have been a chore to get at the jack if someone needed to fix a flat. First, they’d have to move over fifty bags of cocaine.
It was tempting. Reader stared at the coke for long seconds and then he just shut the lid. Fuck it. He had what he wanted. No use being greedy. He got stopped with that stuff, it was all over. No, the money was enough.
Reader took a last puff of the cigar and threw it down, opened the door to his own car and climbed behind the driver’s seat. He was just about to turn the ignition key when a voice spoke from the open window of the passenger side.
“Hold it right there, Kincaid. Hands on the wheel. Now!”
“You!”
That was all he said. For a second he thought about trying for the gun nestled against his bac
k but knew that was fruitless. He’d think of something.
***
Sitting in one of Titus Fuller Derbigny’s overstuffed chairs in the drawing room, Charles “Reader” Kincaid looked up at his captor and snarled, “So, how’d you figure it out, fucker?”
He was handcuffed in back and his feet were tied as well.
“Watch your mouth, punk,” Grady said. “There’s a lady present.”
“Where?” he retorted, cocky as a mallrat teenager, even though he was helpless.
Whitney looked over at Grady and smiled.
“Let him talk,” she said. “He doesn’t bother me. When he opens his mouth all I hear is a slug with a limited vocabulary.”
“Fuck you, bitch,” was his reply.
“See?” Whitney said. “That’s half his vocabulary, right there. And he wonders how he got caught.”
They weren’t the only ones in the room. They were just the only live ones. The owner of the mansion was sitting in his wheelchair, over by the big bay window, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. Over in a corner, a middle-aged woman in a blood-covered maid’s uniform lay sprawled with her throat cut. In a quick search of the house, Grady had found two other bodies in similar circumstances. One in particular was interesting. Another middle-aged woman, but this one was dressed in clothes that would have covered Grady’s annual salary when he was on the force. The other dead person looked to be the handyman.
“You’ve been a busy boy, haven’t you, Kincaid? Who’s the lady back in the bedroom? Looks like you had a little fun with her before you finished her off. Could that be the old guy’s granddaughter?”
“Yeah, maybe,” he said, sullenly. “Like I said, how’d you figure it out?”
Grady walked over, pulled up a chair and straddled it backwards, facing the criminal.
“A newspaper article.”
“What?”
Grady looked at Whitney, standing in the doorway that led to the kitchen. “How long did they say?” he asked.
“Half an hour,” she replied.
“And the stuff?”
“They’ll bring the stuff.”
Satisfied, Grady nodded and turned back to Reader. “A newspaper article. A very small article. Not more than three, four lines.”
Reader gave a derisive snort. “What the fuck you talking about, Popeye?”
Grady stared at the man.
“This isn’t the first time you’ve been in this house, is it?”
Whitney came up to stand beside Grady, her hand on the back of the chair.
Reader’s eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “No shit. Who you think killed these assholes?”
“I’m not talking about today, Kincaid. I’m talking about thirty years ago. Thirty-three to be exact. That lady back there--if I were a betting man, I’d say that was Sarah Derbigny.”
Reader stared murderously at the ex-cop. Then, he looked away and his shoulder slumped.
“It wasn’t about the money. It was never about the money.”
“I know.” Grady lighted a Marlboro medium, and extended it to Reader who looked at him oddly, then took a drag.
“How’d you figure it out?”
“Research,” Grady said. “Being a bulldog. It’s what I’m known for. Actually, it was Whitney here who’s responsible for finding it. Titus Derbigny was your foster father, wasn’t he? After you killed your father.”
Reader got a strange look on his face. He was staring at the doorway that led into the kitchen, but it was obvious he was seeing something else.
“Bastard fucked with me.”
“I kinda figured that,” Grady said. His voce was soft. “Beat you, didn’t he?”
“He did more than that. He did things...” His voice trailed off. All of a sudden, he didn’t seem like the big, bad genius criminal. He sank into himself, became smaller. “Fuck him. I got even.”
Grady rose. “Yes, you did. Whatever he did, I’d say you got even. Was it worth it?”
Reader looked over, caught his eyes and held them. “Yes. A hundred times over. It was worth every fucking scream that motherfucker made. My only regret is that I couldn’t keep him alive longer. At least he got to see his precious granddaughter die.”
“Oh!” Whitney’s hand rushed to her mouth.
Grady began talking to the man, his voice easy, almost tender.
“You almost got away with this. If Whitney hadn’t found that article, I would’ve kept following the trail you put out for everybody. The one everybody else that got involved in this deal followed. As soon as I read about a boy who took a baseball bat to his foster father and who got turned in to the police, it all started to make sense. Five years for assault. That’s a lot, even for down here. Especially for a kid.”
“Yeah. I think of it as college.”
“But you killed your own father,” Whitney interjected. “Before that. You weren’t some choir boy.”
Reader’s lip curled. “You’re right, lady. I killed my father. I guess I got tired of him fucking up my mother. And me. He wasn’t no different from Titus. Just had less education, less money.”
“You know what?” Grady said. “I kind of figured that out, Kincaid. It almost made me feel sorry for you. Almost. But then, I thought about my brother. My brother never did anything to you. You just killed him to cover your tracks.”
“So sue me,” Reader said, his eyes hard again.
“Naw,” Grady said. “I got a better idea.”
“I guess the cops are coming, huh?”
“Yes and no. There’s some cops coming, but not to arrest you. Maybe later. That’ll be up to you.”
“What the fuck you talking about?”
Grady ignored the question. “I kinda feel sorry for you, Kincaid,” Grady answered. “You had a rough time when you were a kid. I thought I’d give you an option. You’ll see. You might be able to save your ass after all. Besides, I don’t think I want to turn in this money you went to all this trouble for.”
“You’re taking my money? What kind of a cop are you?”
“A smarter one than I used to be,” Grady said. “I got to figuring. Well, me and my lady friend here got to figuring.”
“You see,” Whitney said, taking up the conversation. “We talked about how scum like you are always getting off.”
“Finding some loophole in the law,” Grady said.
“Getting out on a technicality,” Whitney resumed. “So we came up with kind of a solution to all that. A way to let the good guys come out on top.” She paused. “We’re the good guys here, Reader, in case you were wondering.”
Before Reader could say anything someone knocked on the front door.
CHAPTER 34
“CHRIST!”
Sally held two large cardboard boxes in his arms and surveyed the room. Veronica came in behind him, her sawed-off at the ready.
“Loks like the St. Valentine’s Day massacre,” she said to Grady. “You got, what, four bodies outside, two in here? And looky here--there’s ol’ Reader!”
“There’s two more in the back,” Grady said, taking the boxes from Sally and setting it down on the rug. “One of them is Sarah Derbigny.” He began poking through them, inspecting each item.
“My God!” Sally exclaimed. “You mean this guy killed the old man and the granddaughter? He’s not ever gonna get out of Angola. We’re looking at a dead man for sure.”
Veronica walked over and sat on one of the overstuffed chairs. “Man! Must be nice to live like this.” She leaned forward, stared at Reader. “Hi, Babe,” she said, emphasizing the “babe.” “How’s it hangin’?” She laughed at the sight of his lip curling.
“Fuck you, you fat bitch,” he said.
She laughed again. “Yeah, well I may be fat...but you’re fucked!” She cackled and everyone else in the room except the one who was handcuffed smiled.
“You the one caused Castro to send a couple of guys after our friend Grady here?” She addressed Reader, who just looked away, giving her h
er answer.
“Is it all there?” Sally said to Grady.
“Looks like. Thanks.”
“Sure.” He reached in his shirt pocket and got out a toothpick and put it in his mouth. “What now?”
“Go home. I’ll take care of everything here. Take Whitney with you. My car’s in Covington. She’ll show you. Take it back to the rental. Here.” He handed Whitney a credit card. “Use this. There should be enough left on it to cover what their insurance doesn’t. I’ll bring yours back later, honey.”
Veronica stood up. “Well, then, that’s that. What about him?” She jerked her head toward Reader.
“Give me a couple of hours. Then, call your friends, tell them you got a tip. Tell them they might want to check out the Derbigny place.”
“And don’t mention you.” Sally switched his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
“And don’t mention me,” Grady said. “I don’t exist. Whitney can fill you in on the ride back.”
“So,” Veronica said, as they all walked toward the door, “This was all just a showdown between the bad guys, eh?”
Grady pulled Whitney to him at the door and hugged her. He stepped back and answered Veronica. “Looks like that, doesn’t it. After all the bullshit, it was all about revenge. Think your buddies will buy it?”
Sally held his hand out and Grady shook it, then grabbed his friend and pulled him to him in a bear hug. He stepped over to Veronica and embraced her too. She smelled like lavender. He hadn’t smelled that since his mother died.
“Yeah, except for the mystery guy. It’s gonna be obvious Kincaid didn’t handcuff himself.”
Sally said, “I don’t think the boys are going to look too hard for any mystery guy. In fact, I can just about guarantee it.”
Grady clapped him on the back. “I’m counting on it.”
“Good guys win,” Sally said, going through the door behind the two women.
“Good guys win,” Grady echoed softly to himself, watching the three climb in Sally’s car. He gave a wave as they turned around in the drive and headed back down the lane. He closed the door and went back into the sitting room.