by Paul Knox
Rocking back and forth, the chair she was zip tied to swayed right, and then left, finally falling sideways, crashing to the ground.
She rubbed her body against the floor the best she could, pitting the side of her waist against the ground, wriggling like a worm, trying to work it free from the pocket.
It was stuck. The pocket was small and the razor just wouldn’t budge the right way.
Exasperated and completely worn out, Jessie started crying—or at least, her body went through the motions. She had never cried dry tears before. In that little, bare, empty room, her hope had ruined.
Lucky came back to check on her.
“Why are you…what did you do? Is that a better way to sleep?” he asked.
Jessie stayed silent, afraid he would discover the razor and do something horrific to her.
“Whatever. I’m here to keep you alive…at least until Shanahan finally kicks the bucket.” Lucky ripped the tape off her mouth. “Maybe I’ll get that fifty grand out of this before he dies. I had Shanahan beat up pretty bad. He’s not going anywhere right now.”
“Tommy?” Jessie didn’t want to believe what he’d said. “Never—”
“He’s a determined individual, I’ll give him that. He’s not dead, but immobilized is good enough for today.”
“You couldn’t—”
“I will. He killed one of my guys in the latest attempt. But that’s probably for the better, anyway. Let’s get you your bathroom break.”
While on the toilet, Jessie turned her body, attempting to hide herself from Lucky. He seemed uninterested in her, probably thinking she was weak, even comical. He wouldn’t suspect what she was really doing.
She lifted the shaving razor from the pocket of her robe and nonchalantly, slowly, slid it up her sleeve.
Afterwards, Lucky re-tied her to the chair, and gave her a little water and another energy bar. Then he taped her mouth shut again.
He didn’t find the razor.
Twenty-Three
Thursday’s sun rose, but not before Reece had already arrived to the sheriff’s department. On her computer, she attempted to look busy doing other things, but really did nothing but search old news reports and prior criminal records for any information about a man with six-fingered hands.
Her phone rang. It was Kevin.
“Someone called the hotline, Reece. I have information about the man with strange hands. Apparently, everybody calls him Frankie Two-Fingers. Go figure.”
“I’m listening.”
“He and his girlfriend, Candy…”
Twenty-two minutes later, Reece and Gomez knocked on the door to Frankie Two-Fingers and Candy Wallace’s apartment.
“Can I help you?” said the woman who answered the door.
“Candy Wallace?” Reece asked.
“Yaasss. Is there a problem?”
After introductions, Candy led them inside and sat on a fuzzy red living room couch with little wooden legs that perched atop a white shag rug. Reece sat beside her, amazed at the oddness of the glittery, plastic decorations strewn everywhere.
Gomez inspected the small unit. It only had one bedroom and one bathroom. Hardly big enough to hide a kidnapping victim. Gomez stood by, keeping watch, while Reece began questioning Candy.
“Frankie’s not home?”
“I don’t know where the devil Frankie is. He left a couple hours ago without saying a word. He hasn’t been back since. It’s not like him to leave me for very long. But I assure you, he’s innocent in whatever captoozy it is you think he did.”
“I didn’t say anything about him doing a captoo…or, whatever that means, yet.”
“It was just a wild guess.” Candy half-rolled her eyes, pausing at the top like she was looking at the ceiling or had something in her eye. “Crazy me!”
“Why do people call him Frankie Two-Fingers if he has twelve?”
“Oh, honey bunches, it’s not obvious? He has one extra on each hand.”
“Two extra fingers. Got it.”
“Yeah, they’re cute little extra pinky fingers that don’t work so good. They just kinda hang there and look sexy.”
Reece furrowed her brow. She had no idea what kind of ‘sexy,’ Candy could be alluding to.
“Candy, I need to speak with Frankie immediately. I need his help in catching a criminal.” Reece bluffed. “I’m sure he’s innocent in everything.”
“Oh, he would love to help you catch the bad guys, Ms. Detective Cannon. Would love to.”
“Is there anything here that I should know about? Anything that might help my investigation?”
“I haven’t got a clue, but you and your friend can inspect every nook, cranny and crack. Be my guest.” Candy smiled at Gomez, who returned her look with genuine confusion.
They did a walk-through, and opened a few desk drawers, but besides a pair of furry pink handcuffs that Reece didn’t dare pick up, she didn’t see anything that looked suspicious. And no Jessie.
Reece handed Candy her card upon leaving and asked her to call when Frankie came home.
“I’d hate to get a warrant and arrest you, Candy, for being an unwitting accomplice, if someone broke the law. Please help me out. I just want to talk to him.”
Candy’s eyes popped open and her mouth dropped. “Me? Heavenly heavens. I’ll call you as soon as I hear from my man.”
◆◆◆
The man with strange hands, Frankie Two-Fingers, hadn’t been home because he was currently preoccupied—with being repeatedly punched in the face.
“I didn’t tell no one, Lucky, I swear.”
“I know you’re lying, Two-Fingers. I need to know everyone involved.” Lucky punched him again, twice, once on each side of his swollen face.
“I swear it. Please, man, please. I ain’t told no one, no one!” Frankie Two-Finger’s left eye had swollen shut and his right eye would soon be in a similar situation.
“Did you see the news? Someone ratted you to the Heatmaker and told him about your hands. And you didn’t kill Shanahan.” Lucky gripped Frankie’s broken shoulder and squeezed. “Again.”
Frankie Two-Fingers hollered in pain.
“Your goddamned fingers are a liability.”
“I was born this way, Lucky. Please.”
Lucky took a deep breath and stepped back. “I understand.”
“You do?”
“Sure. You can go.” Lucky grabbed a large pocket knife from the kitchen table, the kind that a hunter might use to skin a deer.
“Frankie,” Lucky said as he moved closer, “I need Shanahan dead. He can’t testify against Don Rico.”
“C’mon, Lucky, just give me another chance. Third time’s the charm.”
“You see, Frankie, the truth is…I can’t get caught. I can’t get found out. Especially not now. As luck would have it, I’ve come up on some big money. I’m very close to escaping to paradise. But people like you keep messing everything up for me.”
“Lucky, stop. Let’s just talk about this, man. I did everything you asked. Don’t kill me!”
Lucky bent down and cut the zip ties that fastened Frankie’s hands and feet.
“Oh, thank you, Lucky, thank you. I’ll get Shanahan. And I’ll catch the Heatmaker if you want. I’ll nail his ass to the ground.”
“The Heatmaker isn’t my problem.”
“He ain’t?”
“No.”
Frankie backed away. “Ok, well, uh, call me when you need me. This doesn’t change anything. I understand your position. I’m still your guy.” He pointed at Lucky and attempted a bloody, broken-toothed smile. “Your guy.”
As Frankie Two-Fingers whirled around to leave as quickly as possible, Lucky picked up his trusty baseball bat. The same bat he used to kill El Hijo Rico.
“You’re my problem, Frankie.”
“Huh?” Two-Fingers turned with just enough time to notice the wood-grain details of the Louisville Slugger. That was the last thing he ever saw.
◆◆◆
Jail didn’t sound fun at all. Not one teensy-tiny bit.
A thousand times over she’d told Frankie to get out of the crime business and be a respectable man. But he couldn’t pass up the easy money. Not that she hated the money or anything, but he could’ve done something else instead of sit around all the time and wait for M. Knight to call.
Her once slushy margarita had turned into a warm, watery dilution that needed to be slammed. She slammed it.
Frankie—that bastard.
Now she’d rot in jail because of him.
She could find a new man if she wanted. Everybody at the salon said so. All the businessmen looked in her direction when she wore her sparkly sequined miniskirt to the bank. Married or not.
She’d better tell that detective or else she’d regret it.
And where is Frankie? He’s been gone for hours, now. He’s probably cheating on me.
So, naturally, Candy did the right thing. She plucked Detective Reece Cannon’s card from her little black purse and called. Candy came clean, telling Reece all about M. Knight and his cocaine business.
“Frankie still isn’t home, Ms. Detective Cannon, but I’ll call you as soon as that two-timer comes back!”
◆◆◆
Tommy Shanahan’s body had had enough healing. He was ready.
Then the sound of his phone vibrating atop the wheeled hospital tray caught his attention. It was Reece, and she had news about Frankie Two-Fingers and his connection with M. Knight.
Shanahan scowled. “First you find out that M. Knight’s connected to a Rico, and now to the kidnapper. Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Unfortunately, M. Knight has disappeared. Probably knows he’s in for it. I’ll find him, Shanahan. I’ll make him talk. I’ve been waiting for proof like this for a long time.”
“Sandy?” Shanahan asked, treading carefully.
“I don’t know. His name hasn’t come up once, from anyone. I have no allegiance to him, don’t you worry about that. He left for twenty years without ever calling or saying a word. If he’s dirty, he’s got a cell with his name on it.”
“I have to go, Reece. I need to find M. Knight.”
“In your condition? You need to rest and—”
Shanahan hung up. He ignored her subsequent calls. Although he valued and respected Reece like no other friend in this world, there was something he had to do.
And no one else could do it for him.
◆◆◆
After Lucky dragged Frankie Two-Finger’s body to his pickup, he made an interesting call.
“This is Kevin.”
“Kevin, hello. I have some information you might like to know.”
“Who is this?”
“That’s not important. What is important, is you verifying what I’m about to tell you, which you’ll be able to do by contacting the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. This is the biggest news story of your life.”
“Okay. Let’s have it.”
“There’s a detective by the name of Reece Cannon. I think you know her. She’s responsible for the abduction of Jessie Shanahan.”
Twenty-Four
Reece Cannon headed back to the sheriff’s department after leaving Frankie Two-Finger’s apartment.
No matter how many times she tried, she couldn’t get back in touch with Shanahan. He wouldn’t answer the phone, which deeply worried her.
After another failed attempt at calling him, Reece dialed Kevin Kelvin.
The Heatmaker’s news reports had resulted in the discovery of Frankie Two-Fingers. Maybe someone would know who drove the green Lamborghini, or be able to tell her where Two-Fingers or M. Knight were hiding.
Kevin answered. “Reece, I would love to get an interview with you.”
“Great, because I have more information.”
“About how you are the one responsible for the abduction of Jessie Shanahan?”
Reece paused for a second, wondering if she just heard Kevin accurately. “Excuse me?”
“I got a tip and just followed up on it. Have you really been lying this whole time?”
“That’s not funny, Kevin. Jessie is a personal friend.”
“Is it true you didn’t answer any calls for hours, before and after the abduction?”
“I was kayaking.”
“Right, that’s your story. But you’ve been in contact with M. Knight, one of the cocaine smugglers. Your phone records show an incriminating text message, telling to, I quote, ‘get rid of Jessie.’”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just got off the phone with the sheriff’s department. Someone there pulled a copy of your phone’s text message transcripts and call record.”
Reece pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it like a stranger she’d never seen before. She opened her text messages. There weren’t any messages on her phone to any numbers she didn’t recognize. And certainly, none of them said what Kevin had claimed.
“Kevin, I don’t appreciate this kind of humor. I could use some real help, though.”
“I can’t put any more fake news out, Reece. Either you tell me the truth or nothing. My viewers deserve the truth. The charade is over.”
Dumbfounded, Reece echoed, “The charade is…over?”
“If you give me the interview, I can spin you in the best possible light. I mean, it’s bad enough that your father is Sandy, the owner of the Galaxsea club that M. Knight works for. A positive or remorseful interview might help you—when you go to trial.”
Reece couldn’t believe it. Kevin knew about Sandy.
Until now, Shanahan was the only person who knew Sandy had moved back to town. Or so she’d thought.
Now everybody would know she was connected—very unfortunately—to the shady club drenched in drug and prostitution rumors.
And then a second call beeped through. Penny Gray.
Reece hung up on Kevin without saying another word. “Penny? Did someone there talk to Kevin Kelvin about me?”
“Reece, the entire department is abuzz with the news of your text message.”
“It’s true?” Reece whispered.
“What did you just say? It’s true?” Penny yelled.
“No, no, of course not. I’ve been set up.”
“I didn’t believe it for a second, Reece. It should be easy enough to prove Sandy isn’t your father. Ludacris, I tell you. But don’t come back here, they’ll arrest you at first sight.”
“He is my father.” Reece cringed. “But not by choice.”
“Oh, no.”
“Penny, I need your help. Be my eyes and ears at the department. Tell me anything and everything.”
“Do you think I could do otherwise? Catch whoever did this, Reece.”
Reece hung up and made a U-turn. If Shanahan wouldn’t answer his phone, she’d go to the hospital and talk to him in person. She had to tell him she’d been framed.
He’d believe her. Right?
◆◆◆
Shanahan quietly put his street clothes on and walked out of the hospital room. His shirt had blood stains on it, but a couple rooms down he found an ugly mustard-colored, department store sweater that belonged to an elderly gentleman.
“Thanks,” Shanahan whispered to the sleeping man, before pulling a couple twenties out of his wallet and leaving them on the table next to where the sweater once hung.
Jessie will kill me for overpaying.
Banner Hospital was huge. Navigating the hallways, Shanahan hurried, hoping no one would notice his exit. He headed for a side door instead of leaving through the main entrance.
But he stopped, dead in his tracks, when he heard a familiar voice from inside one of the rooms he passed.
It couldn’t be. There was no way Shanahan could be so fortunate. A man who somehow played a part Jessie’s abd
uction was right here in the very same place as he? Was this the type of coincidence that people talked about when they used the words divine intervention?
“I’m still a little dizzy, but I’m gonna be up and outta here, real soon-like. Just give me some more of those pain meds, won’t chu?” said the low voice from inside the room.
A nurse responded to the man, “I highly advise you stay here for a few days. Bullets ripped apart the inside of your chest. If you get up and move around, you’re risking further injury.”
Shanahan had found M. Knight in the most unlikely of places.
And now, M. Knight would pay.
◆◆◆
Lucky walked through the large hospital, headed for the room where patient John Doe recovered from his surgery.
Chuckling at M. Knight’s lack of pseudonym creativity, Lucky neared the room and rounded the last corner before M. Knight’s hallway. As he did, he looked behind him to double-check that no one followed.
Looking over his shoulder was a habit, something he routinely did.
And then he bumped into a nurse, also rounding that same corner, headed in the direction he’d just come from.
“Excuse me, sir, are you all right?” The nurse asked.
“Fine.” Lucky continued on.
There was no one else around, except the blur of a man on the other end of the hallway who vanished in the hospital’s labyrinth. Lucky noted the man’s ugly mustard-colored sweater.
Lucky paused for a moment, listening by M. Knight’s room. No one else was there. Lucky opened the door and went inside.
◆◆◆
M. Knight looked up, expecting that another nurse had just walked in the room.
Nope.
“Sorry about what happened, M. Knight. I shouldn’t have done that.” Lucky shut the door behind him.
M. Knight tried to sit. If he could’ve moved better, he’d have jumped up and pounded Lucky. But with the current morphine dose just kicking in, and the pain of bullets and surgery making it hard to even breathe, he was stuck.
“How d'you find me?” M. Knight asked.