by Michael Kerr
He got up and went to the bathroom. Brushed his teeth and went back to undress and get into bed. As usual he was asleep in a minute.
Sal offloaded Roy at his apartment on Pacific Street in Edgewood, near Cato Park. He was relieved to be rid of him. Roy was just a burden now, and didn’t seem to realize that he had a lot of physiotherapy ahead of him before he would be able to get about again on his maimed feet.
Carmen Fontana helped Sal half carry Roy down the short hall and across the living room to where they lowered him onto a black faux leather sofa.
Roy’s girlfriend was not amused. “How come you’re lookin’ peachy and Roy is in such a mess?” Carmen asked Sal.
“I wasn’t with Roy when it happened,” Sal said defensively. He didn’t like Carmen; she was an ex-hooker with a bad attitude, who’d picked Roy up in a seedy bar in the State capital’s red light district. Carmen was beginning to lose her looks, and was smart enough to know that her best years were behind her. Roy had a nice apartment and always seemed to be flush with money. For some unknown reason he was besotted by Carmen: Couldn’t see that he was just a meal ticket to the woman.
It was a quick turnaround. Sal took Interstate 79, driving northeast, following the signal of the tracker that Roy had affixed to the woman’s Discovery. He came off at Weston and stopped thirty miles farther on at Elkins for something to eat. He was confidant that he would soon find the vehicle, and presupposed that the woman and her daughter would have linked up, and that the stranger who’d hurt Roy would be with them. No sweat. They would believe that they were in the wind, safe as bugs in a rug, unaware that their time was running out.
The signal had shown the vehicle stationary for several hours. He left the diner in Elkins planning to find them, reconnoiter where they were holed up, and kill them before dawn.
The flashing green cursor on the screen of his phone started to move. He followed the route it displayed and then lost it for a while. When the intermittent signal reappeared the vehicle had stopped again. He followed it in. Drove past a truck stop called The Gap. Pulled into a passing place round the next curve, out of sight of where he presumed the SUV was parked up. Got out of the Taurus, thumbed the remote to lock it and walked back along the berm of the highway till he reached the opening that led into the car lot. There was no sign of the Discovery. Sal checked between the parked trucks, but it wasn’t there. He jogged back to the car. The image on his smart phone was frozen. He tapped the phone against the steering wheel a couple of times. By coincidence the cursor came alive again and was moving back the way he had come, heading toward Elkins.
Fifteen minutes later, Sal passed the big semi truck and knew that he had been suckered. Whoever was protecting the women was not stupid. He’d found the tracker, fixed it to the truck, and would now be feeling smug and safe, convinced that any tail would end up following the truck to its destination.
Sal considered his options. There were only two. The trio had either taken off in the other direction, which meant he had little chance of finding them, or they were staying in the vicinity of The Gap.
He pulled off the highway, headed back the way he had come, and was soon parked in darkness, away from the yellow glow from begrimed lights that were affixed to posts at irregular intervals around the graveled lot. He slid out of the car and walked across to the rear entrance of the low building. It was rustic, its cinderblock walls faced with half logs, and there was a blue and white neon Bud sign blinking over the door, with big moths fluttering pointlessly around it in circles and bumping up against it.
It was hot and dimly lit inside. First thing Sal checked out was if there was a big guy in the joint who looked out of place. There wasn’t. In fact there were only seven customers, all male. Two were sitting at the bar on high, wooden stools. Three were at a table nursing beers, and the remaining two were playing pool. He could smell beer and sweat and the residue of fried food. Batwing doors led through to the front of the building, which was set up for eating, separate from the bar out back.
Sal walked up to the counter and gave the bartender a half smile. It wasn’t returned.
“Yeah,” Chip Monroe said as he wiped the top of the bar with a gray, frayed dish towel. “Help you?”
“A cold beer would hit the spot,” Sal said.
“I’ve got Bud, Coors, Mountain State’s Almost Heaven, and―”
“Let me try the Almost Heaven,” Sal said, not wanting to listen to the nasal voice of the pockmark-faced owner reel off a lengthy list.
“Information is extra for a city boy,” Chip said as he flipped the cap off the bottle and placed it in front of Sal with a glass that looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a month.
“Who said I wanted information?” Sal said before picking up the bottle of pale ale and taking a sip.
“We don’t get many suits in here for some reason,” Chip answered. “When we do, it’s usually to ask directions or use the restroom. And sometimes it’s someone like you, packing heat under his jacket and looking like he needs to know where someone is.”
Sal was surprised. He’d thought that the loose cut of his jacket totally concealed the fact that he was carrying.
“I’m lookin’ for a guy six inches taller than you. He could be with two women; one in her late forties, and one about twenty. He’s drivin’ a dark-blue Discovery.”
“Haven’t seen anyone like that,” Chip said.
“I have,” an old farmer-type with a saddle nose and wearing a shapeless cowboy hat said from where he was sitting with two cronies at a table in the corner of the room.
Sal waited.
‘Farmer’ rubbed the pointing finger and thumb of his right hand together. Sal took his billfold out from the buttoned-down back pocket of his pants. Tossed a five onto the bar for his beer and walked over to the table.
“What can you tell me?” he asked.
“I took a leak. The window back there in the john is open, and from where I was standing I saw a truck pull out. Behind it was a dark-looking Discovery. There weren’t any women in it, though, just a guy. He drove out the other way.”
Sal felt a mild surge of adrenaline light him up like the hit from a quality joint.
“So if he was stayin’ in the area and didn’t want any attention, where do you think he’d hole up?” Sal asked.
“There are four or five places off the highway in that direction before you hit town,” Farmer said. “Cabins mostly, an RV park and the Mountaintop Motel.”
Sal peeled off a twenty dollar bill and dropped it on the tabletop. Took another mouthful of the Almost Heaven and belched.
OK, he was going to have to work for it, he thought as he drove out of the lot and headed up the mountain road. They’d feel safe now. Would imagine that anyone tracking them was following the truck to wherever it was headed. They would be hiding out nearby, comfy-cozy, working out what to do next. Maybe they’d stay put for a few days.
It was too late to do anything. Sal pulled in at the Mountaintop Motel. He was certain that they wouldn’t be there, but checked the vehicles in the lot before parking and going to the office to book a room for the night.
He fired up the coffeemaker and had a shower. Drank a cup of the strong java and went to bed. He planned on being up at dawn, and finding his marks and killing them before noon. With any luck he would be back in Charleston in time to change his clothes and enjoy an evening out at Romano’s club on Bullitt Street. They served up first-class Italian cuisine, and Sal always ate free, due to Dino Romano being a cousin who he’d done work for in the past.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Logan was all set to go at first light. Rita and Sharon were sitting at the kitchen table as he drank a cup of coffee and made ready to leave.
“Keep the gun,” Logan said to Rita. “Remember, if you need to use it, safety off and fire at the chest until it’s empty. I don’t think you’ve got anything to worry about, but it’s better to believe that you have till I take care of the problem.”
“Where exactly
are you going?” Sharon asked him.
“To Charleston,” Logan said. “Use the throwaway phone to contact me if anything serious comes up.”
He drove the same route in reverse as, unbeknown to him, Sal had taken the previous evening. Headed to Weston and picked up I-79 south. Fifty-some miles later he was entering Charleston city limits. His plan was to pay Sammy Lester a visit first. Roy Naylor had given up his address after losing the first of his big toes.
It was a bright, warm, sunny morning as Sammy ambled up the walkway at the side of the building and entered the fire door to the stairwell. He had parked the pickup two blocks away at the rear of a launderette and loaded up a washer and set it going before making his way to the three-storey apartment block. He was wearing a ball cap with a West Virginia Mountaineers football team badge on it, and shades. He looked totally forgettable in a gray T-shirt, faded jeans and scuffed trainers. He carried a plastic shopping bag that could have held groceries, but didn’t.
He paused on the third-floor landing, took his cap off and mopped the sweat from his brow as he got his breath back.
Opening the door, Sammy looked both ways. The short corridor was empty. He pulled on latex gloves as he walked to the right, stopped at the second door and pressed the bell push.
Carmen had just made Roy some soup. He was sitting on the sofa with his bandaged feet up on the coffee table in front of him, cushioned by a pillow.
Carmen went to the door and looked through the peephole. Recognised Sammy and unlocked and opened the door.
“Hi, Carmen,” Sammy said to her as he smoothly pulled the silenced Glock from the bag, raised it and shot her in the face.
Carmen didn’t feel a thing, and was technically dead before she hit the floor. Not a bad way to go, Sammy thought as he closed the door, stepped over the corpse and walked into the living room.
Roy had not heard the muffled shot. He had the volume wound up on the TV and was watching the local breakfast news show.
Sammy picked up the remote and pressed the mute button. Roy saw the gun in his hand and knew in an instant that the love of his life was dead, and that for some reason he was probably going to end up the same way.
“You gave me up, Roy,” Sammy said. “And you told the guy that hurt you who I worked for.”
“He blew my fuckin’ toes off, Sammy. What was I supposed to do?”
“You could have tried lying. Instead, you’ve put us at risk, and Mr Brandon thinks that you’re a liability.”
“He took my phone. He had names and numbers.”
“So you made it easy for him by pointing the finger at me, right?”
“What would you have done, Sammy?”
“Left my phone in the car, or not been stupid enough to get jumped. You’re supposed to be a freakin’ professional.”
Roy bowed his head and closed his eyes. Knew that there was nothing he could say that would change a damn thing.
Sammy raised the gun. He almost felt sorry for Roy, who’d always been a stand-up guy. But it was a dog eat dog world. He made it quick. Shot Roy through the top of his head twice in quick succession.
He took his time searching the apartment. Erased his and other numbers from Roy’s cell phone and then removed the SIM card. Made sure that there was nothing to lead the authorities back to him, Sal Mendez or Jerry Brandon. After turning the volume back up on the TV, he left the apartment and made his way back to the launderette. He had timed it almost perfectly. The cycle was just winding down. He put the rinsed clothing in a drier and took a Michael Connolly paperback out of the bag that held the gun. Twenty five minutes and eighteen pages later he was climbing back into the pickup. It was still early and he was starving. He stopped at a McDonald’s and had a sausage and egg McMuffin, hash browns and coffee. Phoned Jerry Brandon and told him that he had taken care of business.
Logan parked in a space between a white van and a Chevy Malibu with a for sale notice taped to the windshield. The sidewalks on both sides of the street were lined with trees in full leaf, almost as high as the rows of 19th century terrace brownstones that stood behind them. Logan had once read that the stone to face this type of housing had first been quarried by the Bass Island Brownstone Company, and that brownstone, once in great demand, was used in the construction of the first Milwaukee County Courthouse. It was a fact that just bounced into his mind unbidden as he walked to the end of the street, turned left, and after a few yards turned left again into the next almost identical looking street.
It was almost one p.m. when the red pickup appeared from the other end of the street and nosed into the curb sixty feet from where Logan was hunkered down making a fuss of a black mongrel dog that had sidled up to him with its tail wagging. He kept on stroking the mutt as he watched a young guy in drab clothes and wearing a ball cap and shades step out of the vehicle and walked across the scrubby verge, to angle right and climb the steps up to the front door of the address that Logan knew Sammy Lester lived at.
Logan waited until Sammy had gone in and closed the door behind him. The description that Roy Naylor had given him of Lester and the Nissan pickup he drove was a match.
The dog followed Logan for several yards, then sensing his disinterest in it, peeled off and cocked its leg against a crusty tree trunk to relieve itself.
Logan climbed the steps and looked at the four paper strips with blurry typed names on them that were difficult to read through the grimy acetate that protected them from the elements. The old family house had been converted into four apartments. He couldn’t read the name of the occupant in number one. An H. Davis was listed as being in number two, and an S. Lester in three. Each apartment obviously took up the whole of a floor in the four-story house.
The door wasn’t locked. Inside the hall there were four mailboxes bolted to a wall, numbered one through four.
Logan took the stairs up to the landing on the second floor. Standing to the side of the door, he listened to the muffled noises coming from inside. He heard footsteps on a hard floor, and the noise of a faucet running and other small sounds that told him Lester was setting coffee going. A couple of minutes later he heard a toilet flush.
He didn’t hesitate, just stepped back and round, to face the door and use all the power he had to drive his right leg up and out ramrod straight. The sole of his boot met the timber flush, next to the handle, and with a splintering shriek the door flew back with Logan following it in.
Sammy had been feeling relaxed and in a fine mood. He planned to take it easy for the rest of the day and just chill. Maybe watch a DVD and have few beers, then go out for a steak at Marco’s on Lee Street.
After setting a fresh pot of coffee going, Sammy went to take a leak. As he walked out of the bathroom to return to the kitchen, the apartment door seemed to implode, and a huge figure hurtled towards him. He stopped and instinctively put his hands up as if to protect himself, only to be hit squarely in the stomach, as at the same time pain flared in his left kneecap, effectively dropping him to the floor.
Logan took a step back and kicked the fallen man in the temple with measured force, not wanting him dead, yet. He planned to have a lengthy conversation with Sammy Lester.
When Sammy drifted up from black to gray, the pain increased. And seconds later as he slowly regained his senses, he opened his eyes and grunted as the pain in his head, stomach and knee kicked-in and made him feel sick. He was lying on the laminate wood floor, up against the wall, facing it, curled up on his side in a fetal position. He didn’t move. Just stayed as still as possible and listened for movement as he assimilated the situation he was in.
Logan was sitting in an easy chair, holding a mug of coffee with its bottom resting on the upholstered arm. He had closed the damaged door, jamming it back into its frame, before searching the apartment and then taking the time to pour himself the freshly brewed coffee from the gurgling pot.
There was no real hurry. He stared at Sammy’s back and just waited. He said nothing.
Five or six
minutes passed. Sammy was recovering as he listened for any sounds. All he could hear was the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the tick of the wall clock five feet above where he was laid. He decided that it must have been a burglar that had broken in, knocked him out and taken anything he could find. His stash of coke was no doubt gone, and maybe the wad of money he kept in a ziplock bag under a piece of carpet in the bedroom closet.
Sammy turned round very slowly to face the room, freezing as he caught sight of the man sitting in the chair watching him.
He didn’t know what to do, so made use of an elbow for support and waited. The stranger said nothing, just pinned him with a steely gaze.
“Who are you?” Sammy finally asked.
Logan took a sip of coffee and ignored him.
“Hey, c’mon, talk to me,” Sammy said. “What do you want?”
Logan remained silent. He had spent many years as a cop, and had questioned and interrogated countless guys. Best way to start in was to make them nervous. Get them talking of their own free will before going after what you really wanted.
Sammy wanted to get up and beat the shit out of the trespasser who’d broken in and taken him off guard. But even seated, the guy looked as hard as rock. And he exuded a quiet and total aura of confidence.
“For fuck’s sake, say something,” Sammy said.
“Your coffee is pretty good,” Logan said in a flat voice.
Sammy felt a spark of fear ignite in his brain. The guy wasn’t a thief. This wasn’t about cash and valuables. “Just tell me what you want,” he said.
Logan manufactured a small smile. “What is it that you think I want, Sammy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you stupid, or are you just looking to get both of your legs broken?”
“How the hell would I know what you want?” Sammy said. “If you were here to rob me, then you’d have been long gone when I came round.”
“That’s better,” Logan said. “So if I’m not here to steal, what other reason has brought me to your door?”