The Wolf Lake Murders (A Bo Boson Adventure Book 1)

by Henri Jenkins

  Out of work and often times out-of-pocket, Gunner Baranski waded through a swamp, drowning in alligators.

  An odd pair they were.

  Known for doing so, Gunner had turned invisible a few months earlier. Bo believed he was living in his car again. Gunner had a local body shop spray his ’76 Nova in flat olive drab. The paint he sourced from a misdirected military shipment. It appeared a misfit from the Mexicali Army.

  His given name Jake, he acquired the moniker riding Hueys with 1st Air Cav in Vietnam. He described his time in the Army as, "glory days."

  Bo's diverse background had provided him many friendships and acquaintances. He reached out to a Chicago Police Captain for assistance in locating Gunner.

  Southwest of the city, in Tinley Park, a local officer came across the noticeable green car. It blocked a loading zone and Gunner was fast asleep in the backseat. When instructed to move the vehicle, Gunner said he was out of gas, and money.

  On his way to find Gunner, Bo stopped for a can and some fuel. An additional penance for Bo, he expected Gunner would consider it another discomfort.

  "I should be doing for you," Gunner had stated about previous assistance.

  Bo held no obligation and respected Gunner's desire to find his own way. Still he would have liked to do more.

  Bo found the beater in a patch of bald dirt next to a loading dock. Crushed granite and random strands of grass littered the area. The car sat before an opposing silver fence. Nestled between a three-story red brick building and a white Town Car, the Nova appeared stuck. Behind the Lincoln, two delivery trucks filled the cargo bays of the tight dock.

  He pulled alongside expecting Gunner to pop up in the backseat. With no response, Bo drove to the street and parked. He retrieved an open cardboard box from the trunk, leaving the gas can. Loosely packed with clothes, sneakers, some books and food items, the box was an easy carry.

  Bo despised lies but their long-held rules of engagement demanded such to soften Gunner’s fragile ego. He would describe the attire as toss-outs, books on permanent loan, and food over purchased sale items or nearing their shelf life. Juvenile and petty, it usually worked.

  He sat the box on the Nova's trunk and tapped a knock. No answer. Bo walked to the driver's door and opened it. "Gunner?" he questioned leaning into the vehicle. He stood and searched the alley, left and right. There was no sign of Gunner and it was unlike him to leave the car unlocked.

  Bo walked to the rear of the car and checked the alley in both directions once more. He pulled a ravaged copy of Faulkner's Sanctuary from the back jean pocket and flipped through it. He tossed it in the box and started back for his own car.

  Two steps and he stopped. Bo turned and walked back to the trunk. He retrieved the paperback and ran the pages through his fingers again. His lips spread flat and he slid the book back into its own denim sanctuary.

  He thought of the gas and turned again for his own trunk. Two steps and he stopped. There was talking. It was near. The alley had been empty and silent when he last scanned. He checked for Gunner. There was no one. He picked up the voices again. They were to his left. He looked through the rear window of the Town Car. No one was inside. Walking between the Lincoln and a truck, he walked to the loading dock. It too was empty.

  He heard the voices again. They came from a storage area beyond the eight-foot tall chain link and razor wire. In the center were two wide gates. The chain securing the opening hung in two as if pigtails looped through both gates.

  A lock held two sections of chain together on the left. A hacksaw lay on the ground near the right gate. The scene appeared as if someone with scrupulous intent were caught mid-entry. Bo wondered if it were Gunner.

  Through the fence, Bo saw storage racks filled with various crates and loose equipment. The visible items appeared to be commercial restaurant appliances. He stood still, only his eyes moving. The voices came through again. One sounded like Gunner. His head turned to listen with greater intent. It was Gunner. He was certain.

  He wondered why Gunner would rob the storage yard with his getaway car out of gas. It made no sense. Bo's mouth opened to call out. He considered the chain and saw. He returned to listening. It sounded more like an argument than casual conversation. Bo bobbed and weaved trying to find a view.

  Bo heard Gunner say the word, "gun" and became much more concerned. He examined the fence and chains. He realized it would be all but impossible to access the yard in a quiet way. The gate would make noise and he could see no way to keep the chain from rattling.

  He hoped there would be an access door from the warehouse. Bo sprinted for the loading dock stairs, climbed two steps at a time, and walked to the door. A window provided a view inside. The space looked empty, closed for the day.

  He couldn't see a door to the storage yard but a square of sunlight sitting on the floor showed there could be one. Bo tried the door. It was open. He thought then pulled a small spiral notepad and pen from his pocket. He copied the business address from a sign, purposely writing the wrong street number. Stepping away, he opened the door and walked in as if he had an appointment.

  "Hello," he said in a casual voice.

  "Hello," he repeated as he walked toward what he figured to be a door. He stopped. It was a door. Bo turned checking the warehouse for any signs of life. There was none. He bent and passed under the window.

  From that perspective, he had a good view outside. Gunner faced the door. Two Italian suits and a Beretta mobbed his friend. Gunner appeared cornered and tense. It was not the first time Bo had witnessed someone pointing a gun at his friend. He could only hope it would be the last time.

  Bo dropped to a knee and retrieved a chrome-plated, snub-nosed .38 revolver from his ankle holster. Holding the gun with one hand, he concealed the cocking sound with the other. He stood, stepped left of the door and filled his lungs with a deep breath. He opened the door.

  The metal of a man steels his actions.

  While polished stainless the goal, a tarnished silver spoon was the most I, Jay "Fitz" Fitzgerald, could expect. And that is exactly how I appeared in the "cheap" clothes picked up at a recycling store - tarnished. A worn baseball cap, ragged runners and scratched mirrored aviator sunglasses completed my disguise. The three-day mustache and soul patch would prompt Mother to disown me.

  More akin to Walter's alter ego than myself, I looked the part. At the least, the disguise worked fooling the ordinary citizenry. Maybe more if they failed to notice manicured hands and a twenty-dollar haircut. I reminded myself to speak simple and with the fervor I perceived appropriate.

  I had been trolling the neighborhood since early morning. It was an area I knew better than anyone from my social circle. Even those who went slumming did not go there. A donut shop breakfast, passing time on an empty storefront stoop, lunch from a tamale cart: all devices meant to blend me into the fabric of the street.

  I was searching for someone- someone special - special for Walter - special for me - special in a different way from the others. I needed a man - a particular man - a Hispanic man of average height, average weight and average looking in an average suit. What set the man apart was the woman.

  The woman who peered into my soul and judged me in an instant. Walter was the only other person I knew with the ability to do so. It both scared and intrigued me. I did not want to know who they were - I needed to know. Especially her. I was afraid of revealing my truth and jeopardizing Walter in the process.

  Hoping to find him, without her, I imagined how a junkie craved and hurt sometimes waiting days for their fix. Raw nerves lessened my hope. The six escape routes I had planned and walked before coffee and a cheese Danish were congealing in my brain. Sitting on an unattended stoop, I wondered if the clothes did make the man. And if they were somehow draining my mental faculties.

  “It’s him!” blasted within my skull with the level of enthusiasm equal to the first time seeing Santa as a child. I was giddy with excitement. My legs bounced with anticipation. I rub
bed them into quiet submission watching. I had to be certain. Hawk-like eyes scanned the crowd searching for a camouflaged predator lying in wait. I had every expectation of not being her prey.

  A woman’s voice from the opposite direction startled me into action. Hands jumped to my face. The tattered brim of the baseball cap slid deeper across my forehead. My head lowered and hands came to rest as obtuse blinders. I turned slow to check my exposed flank. The voice was closer than first interpreted. If her, she would have me for an easy meal. My heartbeat thumped in my ears deafening me.

  Fight or flight, fight or flight, fight or flight. The decision process pulsed.

  Stay or move, stay or go, stay or run.

  “Run!” the answer came.

  “Run!”

  “Run where? Which route was closest? Which would best provide an escape? Which?”

  It was too late. My body frozen in fear, I was incapable of movement. I sat there – still as a brown rabbit trying to appear invisible in a snow covered field. My ears went silent.

  The woman stood at my feet; toned, black-stocking legs like the bars of a jail cell entrapping me. A navy blue linen skirt capped as a valence.

  “Excuse me,” she said.

  I gulped.

  “Excuse me.”

  My face rose to meet hers. I went flush.

  She spoke but I heard nothing of it.

  Her face jolted me back to life like a defibrillator restarting my heart. It was not her. Air filled my lungs.

  Her mouth continued moving like an image on a muted television.

  A drop of sweat rolled from my brow. My right hand found my chest. The heartbeat felt wonderful. Her hand snapped in my face. I shook the deafness from my ears, blinked back to reality and saw her anew.

  “A long day and I’d like to get out of these heels if it’s not too much to ask,” she said.

  “What?”

  “My apartment.” She pointed. “You mind?”

  “Oh. Oh! OH! I am so sorry lady.”

  She smirked. "Mm-hmm."

  My eyes fell. Her left foot tapped at the concrete.

  “Well?”

  I jumped to my feet startling her. She drew away, clutching at her purse.

  “I, um, my apologies,” I said, my hands acting as a barrier between us.

  She huffed and squeezed past. I stepped away, my hands providing unneeded directions. Realizing the lack of necessity, they retreated to my pockets.

  “Whatever help it is you need,” she said over her shoulder in the doorway, “I do hope you find it.” She skirted inside and leaned against the door assuring its closure.

  “Help,” I considered, “I wasn’t certain.”

  “Excuse me,” a man said to the left interrupting my thought.

  My head turned to him.

  “Could I bother you for a minute of your time?”

  My eyes traced the length of the figure and back. A Hispanic man of average height, average weight and average looking in an average suit. It was him. I almost shit my cheap, recycled pants. My head swiveled with such force it dragged my entire body around in a circle searching for her. She was not there. I breathed and returned to the man. “Me?”

  “Yes,” the man chuckled, “you.”

  “Um, sure, I guess, wait, what for?” I didn’t know how to stand or what face to present so I moved and stammered like a child who had to use the restroom.

  “Would you happen to know any of these boys?” he asked, pulling a sheet of paper from one of those vanilla folders. “They’re all around your age.”

  Three rows of three photos. I knew everyone of them. Manny, Tony, Jesus, Eddie, Jose, Jorge, Miguel, Alejandro and Petie. “Nope,” I said handing the paper back.

  “You sure,” he asked pushing it in my face again.

  I looked a second time. They were in random order. There were nine. One was missing, missing from being missing. A quick role call clicked in my mind. Francisco, Francisco was absent. “What do you want with them?”

  “I’m a detective - with the State Police.”

  “Oh really.” My heartbeat clumped in my throat drawing a cough. “That’s cool. They bank robbers or something? Gang members?”

  “What? No, no they aren’t criminals. They’re missing.”

  “Missing you say? Hmm.”

  “Does that surprise you?” He drew close to the aviators as if trying to peek through.

  “Well, it’s, it’s just they all seem old enough so how do you know they’re missing. Maybe they’re traveling. I want to backpack across Europe after I graduate. That is I, um, I’d like to, to backpack. I don’t imagine I’ll be able to afford it. I might hitchhike to California or Oregon or somewhere though.”

  “I’d like to think it’s what they are doing but I don’t believe it is. Their families haven’t heard from them and are concerned something terrible has happened.”

  “Whoa that’s heavy. Sorry I can't help but I have to bolt.”

  “Thanks for your time.”

  “For sure. Good luck with finding them Detective.”

  As I started to walk away, he grabbed my shirtsleeve. “You be careful young man,” he said in an authoritative voice.

  I yanked away from his grip. My eyes grew wide behind the glass. I stopped breathing.

  “If you go off hitchhiking, be careful, there are some crazies out there.”

  The statement took a moment to seep in. “Oh. Oh. Yes sir." My breath returned. "I will, I will do that. Thank you.”

  "You don't want to wind up missing." He waved his folder of boys in the air.

  I walked away certain I had to protect Walter.

  The best way to look danger in the face is head-on.

  The sunlight reflecting off the glass ran across the opposing warehouse wall. It grabbed the attention of all three men in the yard. Bo stepped onto the landing.

  "Gentlemen," he said. The revolver in his left hand, Bo pointed the gun.

  The fat Italian on the right startled. He moved to a position to see both Gunner and Bo. The thin man stood firm. The fat man pointed at Bo still watching Gunner.

  "Whoever you arer, ‘tis isn't none of your affair." He glared at Bo and saw the gun.

  "I'm afraid he is you see," said Bo.

  The fat man moved the gun to Bo then back to Gunner as if unsure who was the bigger threat.

  Bo eyed Gunner.

  Gunner shrugged.

  Bo's face turned cold.

  Gunner's head fell. His eyes raised to meet Bo. He inched toward the wall and away from both guns.

  "If it's to be a funeral," Bo said, his gaze returning to fatso, "I hope your affairs are in order."

  "Do you know who I am? Who I work for?"

  "No, I don't. Nor do I care."

  "They call me Slim Sal. The name mean anything to you?"

  "That your parents should have named you Francis?"

  "Keep up the jokes there Chuckles. We'll see whose laughing last."

  "Well we know it won't be your chatty cohort here."

  "Oh yeah, they gunna call your buddy, 'Gunned,' after I’m through with him."

  "I told you that won't be happening."

  "You think you can shoot Giorgio and me before I cap the both of yous? I'm a pro."

  "Well professional, why don't you lower your weapon and we can discuss the fate of Mr. Baranski."

  "Mister? Hell, I ain't never heard anyone call this punk Mister."

  "Maybe I'm speaking to the wrong end of this snake. What do you say there, I can't really call you Slim, what did you say his name was, Giorgio I believe. Giorgio, are you the brains of this operation?"

  "Ha! Shows how dumb you are. I'm the brains and the brawn of this crew." Sal slapped his chest with pride. "Giorgio here, he's a whole snake; he'll kill you with nothing more than a hiss."

  "A black hat type, I can respect that."

  "Black hat like an undertaker."

  "Well if the snake is into the silent arts, he likely isn’t carrying a gun
which would explain his own silence."

  "He has a gun alright. One with a silencer, nice and quiet-like. You put that piece down and I'll have him show it to you, the business end."

  "I'm good here."

  "At two to one, I'm afraid the odds are against you pal."

  "Who says I only have one?"

  "If you're talking about the backup piece strapped to your ankle, you may as well have left it home. It won't be doing you any good here."

  "Well I guess you are the brains after all."

  "Brains? I'm a fucking genius."

  "And I'm ambidextrous."

  "Ambi-what? What the fuck is that?"

  Gunner chuckled drawing the ire of the fat man.

  He pushed the Beretta closer.

  Gunner leaned away.

  Bo reached into his jacket. His Colt .45 leapt from the holster. It stared dead at Slim Sal.

  "What the? Fuck me." Sal exclaimed.

  "What were you saying about the odds?"

  "Pretty fucking clever. Ain't never seen no one use their ankle piece as their primary before." He leaned closer. "I'm gunna have to remember that one." He winked a fat eye.

  "I'm clearly the brains of this crew," Bo said in an angered tone. "Now I mean neither of you any harm, but I'm telling you - this isn't happening. Do you understand me?" He pushed the Colt closer. "If there is going to be one body bag needed here, there may as well be four as far as I'm concerned."

  "Sal, put it away," the thin man said deciding to join the conversation.

  Sal lowered the Beretta, but kept it in front of him.

  Gunner grabbed the thin man's suit and searched for a weapon. He pulled a silenced pistol exactly as the fat man described. He threw the man against the wall and pushed the tip of the silencer into the man's neck beneath his left jaw. "Guess the wheels have turned now, haven't they G?"

  "Gunner!" Bo barked.

  Giorgio waited.

  "Give him the gun back."

  "I'll give it back to him, one fucking bullet at a time."

  "I told them to lower their weapon and we would talk. And we're going to honor their effort."

  "Fine, but I'm holding on to this for now." Gunner lowered the weapon and climbed to stand beside Bo. Bo's Colt disappeared into his jacket. The Smith and Wesson .38 fell to his side.