Corridor Man: Auditor

by Nick James

  He had counted the days. Every day, one thousand four hundred and ninety eight of them in the Duluth Federal Prison Camp, FPC for short, just a little over four years, each day about twenty-eight hours long. Then these last sixty days of “reintroduction.” A hell of a price to pay for a minor dalliance with a trust fund. Add to that the heavy fine, loss of all financial support, loss of his license to practice law, his divorce, estrangement from just about everyone he ever knew and last, but not least, his disbarment. It was probably a safe bet the Minnesota Bar and every other state Bar would be in no rush to talk with him anytime soon.

  “Everything okay, Bobby?”

  He had been focused on the empty street outside and hadn’t heard Baker waddle up behind him. Baker was one of the counselors, not that he was ever much help to anyone. Worthless might be a more accurate description. He slurped from a white coffee mug stolen from a near-by restaurant. The mug seemed to be permanently attached to his right hand. He had at least a half dozen Oreo cookies crammed in his left hand, with another two or three already stuffed in his mouth. He wore his usual sandals, shorts and the black t-shirt emblazoned with the moniker ‘Got Change?’ that served as the staff uniform. He had a gleaming bald head surrounded by a fringe of graying shoulder-length hair all pulled back in a wispy ponytail.

  “Think maybe your ride forgot?” Baker actually sounded serious. Then he crammed another Oreo into his mouth.

  “No,” Bobby said staring out the window.

  “Weren’t they supposed to be here this morning? Early? It’s after lunch,” Baker said, swallowing to make room for another Oreo.

  “It’s my brother, he’s got kids, little guys, twins actually so he’s always running a bit late.”

  Andrew didn’t have twins. As a matter of fact he didn’t have any children. You’d have to have sex with your wife before you could bring children into the relationship. Bobby didn’t think Andrew’s wife Fern was interested in sex, it might mess her hair.

  “All right. ‘Course you know our policy,” Baker droned, then paused to slurp more coffee. “We really can’t release you unless a vetted, qualified individual integrates…”

  Bobby tuned him out. Baker quoting chapter and verse policy in between tossing more Oreos into his mouth was not what he needed just now. He checked his watch, Andrew was now four hours and fifty minutes late, but who was counting?

  “Think we should make a phone call, maybe reschedule?”

  “No, I’m sure he’ll show up in just a couple of minutes.”

  “Got your key to the new place?”

  “Yeah, I got the key.” He’d been clenching the damn thing in his pocket for the past three hours.

  “Any problems, you know we’re always available.”

  “I don’t plan on any problems.”

  “If you say so,” Baker shrugged, not sounding all that convinced. He tossed the last of the Oreos into his mouth and absently wiped his hand across his beer belly. “Well good luck, man,” he said, spitting bits of Oreo in Bobby’s direction, then slurped some more coffee before he trundled off to the kitchen. No doubt ravenous after the counseling session he’d just provided.

  Chapter Three

  Andrew’s red Subaru pulled to the curb just as Baker pushed through the steel security door into the kitchen. “He’s here, he’s here,” Bobby shouted excitedly, sounding like a six year old waiting for Santa Claus. He quickly gathered his possessions, pulled the front door open and raced out to the street.

  Andrew sat behind the wheel looking more grim-faced than usual. He gave the slightest of nods and pushed a button on the dash. There was an audible click as the back hatch unlocked and Andrew nodded again indicating the rear of the car. Bobby placed everything in the rear, then climbed into the back seat directly behind Andrew and as far away as possible from his sister-in-law Fern.

  Her hair looked perfect, her face betrayed no emotion. She wore diamond stud earrings about as big around as a nickel and what looked like the latest fashionable top. A fragile silver chain hung around her shapely neck and no doubt some diamond pendant dangled temptingly on her surgically enhanced chest. If he had to guess, Bobby would have said she’d been clenching her jaw for the past week, ever since she learned they were going to serve as his designated driver this morning. Her door was locked and she stared straight ahead, not that you could really tell behind the pair of designer sunglasses.

  “Need to sign out or anything? Maybe turn in a key?” Andrew asked. He eyed Bobby cautiously in the rearview mirror.

  “No. I’m good to go.”

  “You’re sure? We really don’t need you doing something stupid again. Creating some sort of incident this afternoon,” Fern said as she continued to stare straight ahead. “God knows we don’t want to have to come back here.”

  “Thanks for coming to get me. I really appreciate it.”

  “We really didn’t have much choice now, did we?” Fern replied.

  Andrew exhaled audibly, put the car in drive and pulled away from the curb. Bobby buckled up for safety. No one spoke on the way to the efficiency apartment as Fern silently stared out the window, oozing toxic displeasure.

  Bobby felt like telling her he’d been locked up with rapists and murderers for the last four years and if she didn’t put a smile on her Botoxed face he was going to get a couple of them after her. She probably wouldn’t have been intimidated. Besides, he didn’t really know any. The Federal Prison Camp he’d been held in was a minimum security facility, about the worst he’d be able to conjure up would be something like an irate financial adviser with a penchant for spanking.

  They sped across town in almost complete silence, the exception being Fern’s occasional sigh reminding everyone she was less than happy. Fourteen very long minutes later Andrew rounded a corner and screeched to a stop a good half-dozen car lengths from the front door of the apartment building. Fern glanced over at her husband and Bobby felt the heat from her glare stab all the way into the back seat.

  Andrew pressed a button and unlocked the rear hatch.

  Bobby climbed out into the fresh air. Placed his suitcase on the sidewalk, gathered his grocery bags and closed the hatch.

  Fern leaned over toward Andrew and said something to him. Her lips curled into a sneer but Bobby couldn’t hear what she was saying. Then Andrew motioned him over and lowered the window.

  “Thanks for signing for me, guys. I really appreciate…”

  “Bobby, I think it would be best if we didn’t hear from you,” Andrew said.

  “Ever again,” Fern added looking over the top of her sunglasses.

  Then Andrew raised his window and they quickly drove off.

  Chapter Four

  At about the same time and no more than six blocks away, a burgundy Escalade colored pulled alongside Sexton’s, a neighborhood institution known since the dawn of time for cheeseburgers, homemade fries and free-pour drinks. Directly across the street a woman cutting lilacs along her chain link fence gave the vehicle no more than a passing glance.

  Later, when interviewed by the police, she could only describe the vehicle as large and guessed the color incorrectly, insisting it was black. She was unable to describe any of the individuals or even tell the police how many there had been.

  The driver remained behind the wheel, shielding the three small teardrops tattooed on his left cheek with his hand while he pretended to talk on a cellphone. His two passengers, brothers Dubuque and Mobile, quickly entered by the side door and casually approached the bar.

  Mobile was the taller of the two, ginger-haired and neatly dressed in casual clothes. He ordered a couple of tap beers, buying time to get the lay of the place while they waited. Kevin O’Brien, their intended target, sat on his usual stool at the far end of the bar with his back to the door. He was involved in a phone conversation and casually scanned yesterday’s newspaper as he talked.

  There was a bartender, which was to be expected, and unfortunately a table with two, thirty-something siste
rs lingering over a late lunch and a second glass of wine. The brothers couldn’t see any wait staff as they glanced around, and they completely missed Kate Clarken passed out in the corner booth next to the front door.

  The bartender placed their beers on two round coasters and slid the frosted pints across the bar. “You fellas interested in some lunch menus?” he asked as he pushed his bifocals back up the bridge of his nose.

  The brothers looked at one another for a long moment as if weighing their options, then nodded in unison and pulled out the Glocks. They looked overly large, the Glocks. Of course the four-inch silencers screwed onto the barrels would have that effect. Dubuque, the brother sporting dark, curly hair and a pug nose calmly raised his weapon. Before the bartender could voice an objection Dubuque placed a round into the bartender’s forehead from a distance of no more than two feet. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the bar’s selection of twenty-one different whiskeys as he crumpled to the floor.

  At the far end of the bar, O’Brien remained involved in his phone conversation, oblivious. He casually turned on his stool as his ginger-haired assailant leisurely strolled toward him. Mobile’s Glock spit a round through O’Brien’s cellphone ending the conversation before exiting out the far side of his head.

  Before they had the chance to scream Dubuque had turned from the bartender and shot both women. The bleached blonde was dead before she hit the floor. Her sister sort of jumped backwards in her chair as a slug slammed into her chest so Dubuque fired a second round into her forehead just to be sure.

  Both men quickly walked to the rear of the place, leisurely checked the kitchen area and both restrooms, but didn’t see a soul. They calmly walked to the bar, clicked their frosted mugs together and took a celebratory sip. Dubuque took a couple of French fries from one of the women’s plates, ran them through a puddle of ketchup and tossed them into his mouth before he exited out the same door they’d entered just a few minutes earlier. The brothers climbed into the burgundy Escalade and leisurely drove off down the street.

  The woman across the street was just bringing her lilacs in through the back door, lost in their lovely fragrance.

  It would be close to twenty minutes before the police were called and another four or five minutes before they actually arrived. Kate Clarken was still passed out in the front

  booth when the cops finally entered the gruesome scene.

  Chapter Five

  It was probably a good thing his brother Andrew and Fern hadn’t come up to the third-floor efficiency since there wouldn’t have been enough room for the three of them. Fortunately, Bobby didn’t own any furniture so there was some space to move around in.

  The efficiency apartment was basically one room, barely three times as large as the cell he’d been confined in for four-plus years. Through a grimy cracked glass window it offered a nice view of the dumpster and three recycling containers. There was a bathroom and a closet in one corner and a kitchen area with a stove, an antique refrigerator and a sink in the opposite corner.

  The kitchen counter was a sort of dingy-white Formica with a gray spot worn through on either side of the stainless steel kitchen sink. A protective coating of crumbs that looked like very old burnt bread or maybe chocolate cake were scattered across the counter. Bobby didn’t plan on doing a taste test to find out what the crumbs actually were.

  The kitchen faucet had a drip pattern that dinged audibly as the drops hit the aluminum sink. The former tenants were kind enough to leave half a tomato and some milk in the refrigerator for him. At least he thought it was a tomato, the light didn’t work in the fridge so he wasn’t quite sure.

  Whoever the last person in the bathroom was, they’d forgotten to flush, maybe because the door didn’t close completely and they were just embarrassed. They’d left an open tube of eyeliner and some lip gloss on the bathroom sink, neither one in Bobby’s color palate.

  The linoleum on the bathroom floor was in a paving brick pattern. It almost looked real except where it had curled up and away from the tub. The shower head dripped in time to the kitchen sink and had left a rust-colored stain on the tub that directed ones eye to the drain. Home sweet home.

  Still, it was bound to be better than counseling sessions three times a day at the halfway house. He wasn’t going to miss lights out at ten and living with a dozen other men with a recidivism rate hovering right around ninety percent.

  It took him just a moment to unpack. He placed the three paper bags side by side, then unzipped his suitcase, pushed it against the wall next to the bags and he was finished. All settled in.

  He learned later that night that the large front burner on the gas stove didn’t work so he grilled his dinner over one of the smaller burners. He had snapped a branch off a dead bush back by the dumpster and used it to impale two hot dogs. He slid the gourmet treats onto the buns sitting on the counter, squirted a line of nuclear yellow mustard along the length of the dogs and voila! Dinner was served.

  He sat quietly on the floor opposite his suitcase and paper bags with his back against the wall. He slowly ate the hot dogs and tried to tune out the steady drip coming from the kitchen sink. He didn’t have to listen to fantasies about women, talk about basketball, hear complaints about the system or comments about the man. There was no reminder of a group session starting in ten minutes. It seemed like heaven.

  As the sun began to set he realized he’d forgotten to buy light bulbs. Shortly after that he was sitting in the dark, alone in his thoughts. No one whistled, made cat calls, sang off-key or shouted “Shut-the-fuck-up.” He sat alone in the dark relishing the peace and quiet.

  He woke before sunrise, wide awake on the worn carpet. He felt his way to the bathroom, showered in the dark and dripped dry looking out the window at the dumpster before he got dressed.

  After a breakfast of another grilled hot dog, he walked two and a half miles to the Ramsey County Courthouse. Built in the midst of the great depression it served not only as the St. Paul Courthouse, but as the City Hall as well. Although his purpose was to simply apply for a driver’s license he was worried about who he might possibly run into. His apprehension grew as he approached. By the time he could see the twenty-story building just a few blocks away he was seriously considering turning around.

  Chapter Six

  Meyer’s was a dingy working-class bar known for strong drinks and agreeable women. It served a daily private breakfast to the very limited clientele of one customer and one customer only.

  “So let me get this straight,” Morris Montcreff threw the newspaper back on the table and glanced up at the barroom ceiling in an attempt to collect his thoughts. He ran his tongue over his teeth extracting the last of the blueberries and a hint of maple syrup.

  “You take out the intended target, O’Brien along with three other individuals and you miss some broad sitting all by herself in a booth next to the front door?”

  The brothers, Dubuque and Mobile, glanced quickly at one another, each one silently blaming the other for the error.

  “Well?”

  “We checked the place out, Mister Montcreff, honest,” Mobile said.

  “Checked behind the bar, the kitchen, men’s room, women’s can. We didn’t see shit,” Dubuque added.

  “Isn’t that just wonderful. Great job, except you two jackasses just happened to miss this bitch sitting by the front door, no doubt watching everything happen.”

  More worried looks between the brothers.

  “Listen here you two morons. You find out who she is and where she is and you take care of her. Jesus Christ, a simple job and you screw the thing up. Headlines for the past two days, now this,” he pointed at the front page of the Pioneer Press. “She was sitting in there apparently watching the whole thing go down and you two just couldn’t be bothered. Honest to God, what the hell am I paying you for?”

  “You ain’t got to pay us none, Mr. Montcreff, leastwise till we make this right by you,” Mobile said.

  Dubuque shot a quick
glance at his brother but didn’t say anything.

  “You’re right about that. Let me make you two a little promise. You get this situation taken care of quickly, and need I remind you quietly, or I’ll have someone else tie up all the loose ends. And I mean all the loose ends. Do I make myself clear?”

  The brothers nodded in unison.

  “Get the hell out of my sight. I don’t want to see or hear from either one of you until this is taken care of, now go, damn it.”

  “Yes sir,” the brothers said and then sort of just stood there and stared at their feet.

  “Go on, get the hell out of here and make this right while I’m still in a forgiving frame of mind,” Montcreff shouted, and then glared, providing some additional incentive, not that any had been needed.

  Chapter Seven

  Bobby took the driver’s license test on a computer and in less than twenty minutes was informed he’d managed to fail. Do you park five, ten or fifteen feet from a fire hydrant? Who the hell cares? He knew enough not to park in front of one, but apparently the Minnesota Licensing Bureau cared a little more than Bobby did. The clerk flashed a quick civil service smile from behind the counter before she handed back his exam.

  “Apparently we have some work to do. Here is your exam booklet, you might want to study this. There’s an online site listed on page three of your booklet. This will allow you to take a practice exam. Maybe a couple of them,” she added as an afterthought. “You can sit for your next exam five days from now, that would be on the, let’s see, yes the seventh. Questions?”

  He felt like asking why the questions on the exam were so stupid, but instead said, “No, see you in five days, thank you.” Then he folded the exam in a half-hearted attempt to disguise his failure and headed for the door.