Hell Hole

by Chris Grabenstein

  And bargain for a few extra hours to find M.O.M.

  20

  “You gentlemen care for a sticky bun?”

  Sergeant Dixon looks extremely hung-over. He’s sitting on the patio, at the picnic table, smoking a cigar stump and chomping on one of the gigantic wads of fried flour and brown sugar they sell at Crust Station Crumbs, a bakery on Ocean Avenue where they specialize in chocolate chip cookies the size of manhole covers.

  “Mickey Mex picked these up fresh, first thing this morning.”

  Miguel Hernandez is the only other soldier currently at the rental house. He shuffles across the patio with a white bakery bag, its bottom stippled with grease stains. He plops it on the picnic table near Dixon’s mug of coffee.

  “Dig in,” says Dixon. It sounds like an order.

  “No, thank you,” says Ceepak.

  “They’re good.” Dixon licks a brown wad off his thumb. “Weigh about two tons each. Mickey Mex can pop one in the microwave for you if you want it warmed up, right Mick?”

  “We had a big breakfast.”

  “Oh. Big breakfast. Nice restaurant?”

  “Actually, I ate at home. Bran flakes and a banana.”

  “I see. So that’s what you’ve been doing instead of tracking down the rat bastard who killed one of my men?”

  “Negative,” says Ceepak. “Since last we spoke, we’ve amassed a great deal of evidence and are making tremendous progress.”

  “That so? Good. Excellent. Who’s your primary target? These pirates your partner mentioned yesterday? Nichols and Shrimp?”

  “Too early to say.”

  “Really? Well, by my watch it’s nearly twelve-hundred hours. As you might recall, Officer Ceepak, I agreed to have my troops stand down until seventeen-hundred. You ask me, it isn’t early, it’s almost late.”

  Ceepak changes the subject: “Where are your men?”

  “Well, let’s see. Mickey Mex is going inside to pour me another cup of Java.”

  Hernandez takes the hint. Heads into the house.

  “Handy Andy Prescott and Butt Lips said they were going over to your boardwalk. Wanted to check out the rides so they can puke up all of last night’s party food, start the day on an empty stomach.”

  “And Lieutenant Worthington?”

  “Worthless? Who knows—maybe he and his daddy went over to the boardwalk too. Sounds like a good place to show off that Purple fucking Heart.”

  Ceepak recoils. “The Purple Heart is a very prestigious honor.”

  Dixon laughs. “Maybe. Depends on how you earned it. You know how Worthless got his?”

  “I was told he sustained a leg wound during combat operations.”

  Dixon laughs again. “Yeah. He sustained some self-inflicted shrapnel in his left toe at a traffic checkpoint.”

  Ceepak tenses. “Come again?”

  “Worthington posted Shareef Smith on guard duty one night. Car stops. Trunk searches. This was up near Yusufiya. Not much traffic. No Hajis passing through wired to blow. Anyway, around three-hundred hours, I hear this single gunshot. Pop! I scramble out of my rack to find out what the hell is going on. I run over to the checkpoint and see Worthless rolling around in the dirt, screaming his head off. Says a fucking sniper nailed him in his foot when he strolled out of his tent to check up on Smith.” Dixon shakes his head in disbelief. “I ask the lieutenant if he has the Haji’s coordinates. ‘Where is this sonofabitch sniper?’ I say.’I’ll personally blast his ass all the way up to paradise and his seventy-two fucking virgins, sir.’”

  Dixon chuckles. Needs a second before he can go on.

  “Smith points left. Worthless points right. Then, when each one sees what the other guy is doing, they both change their minds and point the other way.” Dixon crosses his arms across his chest to point in both directions, looks like a demented version of the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz.

  “Poor Worthless. He probably figured he had enough shrapnel in his shoe to win a first-class ticket home. His daddy, however, had other ideas. In case you haven’t heard, his old man, Winslow W. Worthington, is going to be our next president. Hey, you know what? Worthless should’ve sent those shoes home to Poppa. Let him walk around Washington in a boot with a hole in the toe!”

  Ceepak looks grim. He doesn’t like hearing this kind of story. Somebody cheated, then lied to steal something other brave men have given tremendous sacrifices to earn.

  “You’re telling us that Lieutenant Worthington’s war wound was self-inflicted?”

  “Nah,” says Dixon. “Haven’t you heard? Lieutenant Worthington is a war hero. Just ask Shareef Smith. He was out there that night, saw it all. Saw the muzzle flash from over there—no wait, over there.” He flails his arms in both directions. Drops them. “Oh. I forgot.” He isn’t laughing anymore. “You can’t ask Shareef Smith anything, can you? Not unless you gentlemen know how to interrogate the dead.”

  21

  Now, of course, I’m wondering if the janitor, Osvaldo Vargas, was working for Worthington, a man with a motive.

  “Where the hell is my goddamn coffee?” Dixon hauls himself up from the picnic table.

  “Sergeant?” Ceepak is probably thinking what I’m thinking. “Are you suggesting Lieutenant Worthington had Shareef Smith killed?”

  “No. I’m suggesting Mickey Mex is taking too goddamn long on my refill.” He goes over to the sliding patio door, yanks it sideways. “Mickey? Where the hell is my java?”

  We’re right behind Dixon, staring into the house. The dining room table is covered with half-empty bowls of yesterday’s potato chips and piles of playing cards. I see about a dozen empty beer bottles. The bottom of one is loaded with soggy cigarette butts.

  “Had to make a fresh pot, sir,” Hernandez calls from the kitchen.

  I hear the gurgle and drip.

  “Come on in, Officers,” Dixon says, so we follow him into the rental house.

  Man, the place is a mess. Worse than my apartment. Socks and shoes and undershorts and towels and pizza boxes tossed on the floor. Smelly T-shirts draped over lamp shades. Empty vodka jugs crammed under the couch. It looks like an alcoholic teenager’s bedroom.

  “Sergeant,” says Ceepak, “was Lieutenant Worthington here at the house Friday night?”

  “You mean when Shareef got shot?”

  Ceepak nods.

  “Yeah,” says Dixon. “He was here. Manning the grill. Makes a mean steak. Marinates it with teriyaki sauce. I think his old man, the senator, had a Japanese pool boy working at his mansion when Worthless was a kid.”

  “What time did your party start?”

  “Officially slated for seventeen-hundred hours but we got started a little early. Four. Maybe five. Worthless was one of the first to arrive.”

  “When did you get here?”

  “Thursday. My uncle met me, opened up the house. Hernandez came early too. Right, Mickey?”

  “year.”

  “I put him on KP duty. Sent him over to that grocery store.”

  “The Acme,” Hernandez offers from the kitchen. He pulls the coffeepot out from under the dripper. Since the machine doesn’t have that handy “steal-a-cup” feature, coffee keeps squirting out of the basket and onto the hot plate. He lets it scorch there while he pours Dixon a fresh mug.

  “You made a mess, Mickey.”

  Hernandez hustles back to the counter, dabs at the hot plate with a paper towel.

  “Shit!”

  Guess he burned his fingers.

  “Mickey laid in the food and supplies; stocked the fridge and ice chests. The other guys started showing up, like I said, on Friday afternoon. Except, of course, Corporal Smith. He was coming up from Baltimore. When I called him with the invite, he estimated he could be here by seven.”

  “Did Smith have friends in this area?”

  “Not that I know of. Why?”

  Ceepak doesn’t answer.

  Instead, he asks another question: “Was Lieutenant Worthington here the whole time?”
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  “Yeah. I think so. Like I said, he rolled in around four or five on Friday. We cooked up some burgers and brats. Around ten or eleven, everybody’s hungry again, so Worthless soaks some beefsteaks in this teriyaki and pineapple juice shit he whipped up. Meat tasted awesome. So tender, it was dripping off the bone.”

  “Did Private Hernandez procure the pineapple juice?” Ceepak asks.

  “Come again?” says Dixon.

  “Seems a rather exotic item to be included on a basic shopping list.” He turns to Hernandez in the kitchen, standing guard next to Mr. Coffee. “Did you purchase pineapple juice when you went to the Acme on Thursday?”

  “No, sir. All I bought was orange juice,” says Hernandez.

  “Makes the vodka go down smoother,” offers Dixon.

  “Then it’s possible Worthington slipped out and went to the grocery store at some point on Friday,” says Ceepak, “but you weren’t aware of it?”

  Dixon shrugs. “Possible. Maybe. Yeah, I guess.”

  “Sergeant, I need to ask you to extend that deadline,” says Ceepak. “Lieutenant Worthington may have met someone when he went out to procure the pineapple juice.”

  “What? You think he hired a hit man?”

  “I think we need more time to investigate this incident. I think we need your word that you will not initiate reckless retribution against individuals who may not even be involved in Smith’s death.”

  “Did you check out the security tapes from the rest area?” Dixon asks.

  Ceepak nods. “We are currently in possession of the footage from inside the main building.”

  “What about the parking lots?”

  “We should have those shortly.”

  Dixon takes a slow sip of coffee.

  “I dunno,” he says. “I don’t like these Feenyville Pirates. Maybe that’s who Worthington hired.”

  I hear the patio door slide open.

  “To do what?” It’s Worthington. He’s with that blonde from the party last night—the one in the skimpy, three-triangles bathing suit. This morning she has a gauzy, see-through beach jacket on top of it. She’s playing with a Nextel phone. The bleary-eyed couple is flanked by two of the senator’s bodyguards.

  “Give me back my phone, Jenny,” says Worthington. “Why would I hire someone, Sergeant Dixon?”

  “To shine your fucking medals,” says Dixon. “Where you been?”

  “Out.”

  “Show me how to see the pictures,” says the girl, fidgeting with the phone. Worthington snatches it away.

  “Later. I need a beer.” He limps over to the fridge. The blonde slinks after him. “Who, pray tell, are the Feenyville Pirates?”

  “Local assholes,” says Dixon.

  “Currently under suspicion for unlawfully breaking into Corporal Smith’s automobile,” adds Ceepak.

  Worthington hands a beer to his girlfriend, grabs another brew for himself.

  “You guys want one?” He gestures with the can toward his two bodyguards.

  “No, thank you, sir.”

  “We’re good.”

  They’re also on duty.

  “My father wants me to work the boardwalk with him this afternoon,” says Worthington. “I’ll be back at seventeen-hundred hours.”

  “No need,” says Dixon. “Hernandez can man the grill.”

  “What about the other thing?”

  “It’s been postponed.”

  I think we just earned our extension.

  Now I hear a cell phone buzzing.

  “Excuse me.” It’s Ceepak’s. He steps outside to the patio to take the call.

  I stand in the middle of the messy dining room looking into the kitchen. Worthington is leaning on the fridge and draining his beer like he has to finish it in the next thirty seconds or somebody will come and take it away. Probably his dad. The two bodyguards, who look like they buy their shirts at the Big and Thick-necked Store, are in the small dining area. They’re both staring at me. I think. It’s hard to tell. They’re wearing major sunglasses. The girl is yawning. It’s probably still last night for her.

  “I need another,” Worthington says when he finishes his beer. “How about you, Sergeant?”

  “Sure. It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  True. But it’s not even noon here in sunny Sea Haven.

  “What about me?” Guess the girl’s finished her breakfast beer too. It’s a wonder how she stays so anorexic.

  I look out to the porch. Ceepak holds the cell phone to his ear with one hand and signals to me with the other.

  “Excuse me,” I say and find a path through the refuse piles, around the bodyguards, and out the door.

  “You want a beer, Boyle?” Dixon calls after me.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Breakfast of champions!”

  “I’m good.” I’m also a cop with a loaded weapon strapped to my hip. This is not exactly Miller Time.

  I slide the door shut behind me. Ceepak closes his cell.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “We need to go.”

  “Okay. But what about … ?” I gesture toward the house. Worthington. The Man with a Motive and an unaccounted-for chunk of time. A pineapple-sized chunk of it.

  “We need to go.”

  When Ceepak says it like that, I stop asking questions.

  22

  “Who called?” I ask when we’re inside our patrol car.

  “Tonya Smith.”

  “Great! Grace finally found her?”

  “Negative. The sisters are no longer in Baltimore. They had to evacuate their home early this morning.”

  Uh-oh. “What happened?”

  “They suspected they were being watched. Tonya reports that a car, an SUV, was parked in the street outside their home. Two men were sitting up front. The vehicle and the men remained in place all night.”

  “Like some kind of stakeout?”

  “Apparently so. She says the two men ‘looked like soldiers.’”

  “Do you think it was Rutledge and Handy Andy? Maybe they’re not over on the boardwalk like Dixon said. Maybe they drove down to Baltimore last night to harass Smith’s sisters. Maybe they’re working with Worthington too.”

  “It’s a possibility, Danny. However, as you might recall, the two soldiers were at the party last evening.”

  Oh. Right. And I was the one who saw them, not Ceepak.

  “So what do we do?”

  “Fortunately, the sisters slipped out the back door and were able to get to one of their cars undetected. They’re driving here even as we speak.”

  “Here?”

  Ceepak nods. “Tonya says they need to talk to me. Said it was urgent. Refused to discuss the matter over the phone.”

  In case Worthington has wiretaps too! His father’s a senator. People in Washington? They wiretap everybody.

  “Where are they now?” I ask.

  “They just picked up the Atlantic City Expressway off the Turnpike and are headed toward the Garden State Parkway.”

  Lucky ladies. They get to enjoy all three major toll roads in one trip.

  “Tonya insisted that we meet someplace public, in case they’re being followed. I suggested the rest area at exit fifty-two.”

  The scene of the crime.

  “They should be there within the hour.”

  We head across the causeway and follow the signs for the GSP.

  Neither one of us is talking. I think we’re both, you know, thinking. Piecing together the puzzle. What if Winslow G. Worthington has connections in Sea Haven? A guy with that kind of money from a powerful political family probably has connections everywhere, people who know people to bail you out whenever you need a little assistance. Somebody to mop up your messes—maybe, this time, with an actual mop. People who know how to grease the right skids and eliminate any obstacles in your path. For instance: a fellow soldier who knows how you actually won that Purple Heart the president pinned on your chest.

  All of a sudden, this big S
UV flies past us in the left-hand lane.

  A GMC Denali. License plate: US SEN 1, of course. We’re doing sixty-five. They’ve got to be doing ninety.

  “Danny?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Initiate pursuit.”

  “Shouldn’t we—”

  “Our primary objective is always the safety of innocent civilians.”

  I flip on the light bar. Move into the left-hand lane. Give her the gas.

  I hear this beeping. Ceepak has switched on the speed gun. Okay. I was wrong. According to the radar, Senator Worthington’s vehicle is doing ninety-five. I’m up to eighty.

  “Increase speed, Danny. Overtake them.”

  I push pedal to metal. Well, the floor’s actually a rubber mat. All I know is my foot can’t push down any farther.

  “They’re slowing down,” Ceepak reports.

  Good. Because I’m speeding up. Gaining on them. All the other motorists currently traveling the Garden State Parkway? They’re politely getting the hell out of our way, leaving the left-hand lane wide open for high-speed police pursuits only.

  Boom!

  “Oh, shit!”

  I say this because I know for certain our front left tire just blew out. I can feel the rubber flopping on the rim. We’re riding on metal.

  “Grip the wheel, Danny!” Ceepak shouts. “Don’t slam on the brakes.”

  Yeah. I took driver’s ed too. Like a decade ago.

  “Slowly remove your foot from the gas,” Ceepak says as he clutches the overhead handgrip. It comes out choppy, like guttural machine-gun fire because we’re riding on the rutted shoulder now. “Reduce speed and ease off the roadway!”

  Y’know, it’s always good to have an Eagle Scout as your copilot if God is unavailable.

  “Turn into the skid.”

  I’m already doing it.

  Doesn’t help much. We slide sideways.

  “Hang on!” I shout.

  We hit a guardrail. Carom off it like a cue ball fired into a billiard cushion.

  Our ass swerves out into the roadway. I yank the wheel.

  We head off the road and down into the drainage ditch.

  Until we hit this rock.

  And flip over.