More yells, another gunshot.
“Then who the hell is doing all the shooting down there?”
“Unexpected allies,” I said, working with the keys. One lock undone. One more to go.
“Allies? What allies?”
“Later, Counselor, all right? Plenty of time to talk once we get out of here.”
Yells. A cry. I got the second lock undone and he swiveled off the bed. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You got bare feet.”
“As if I give a shit,” he said. “Let’s move.”
I led the way out of the bedroom and Yvonne was standing, wavering, and she was walking along the hallway, using her hand against the wall to navigate. I passed her by but Raymond didn’t; he punched her in the face and grabbed her shoulders, threw her to the floor.
He caught my look. “I’d never hit a lady, or a woman, but she was neither.”
No time to talk.
I held out the spotlight as we hammered down the stairs. The air was thick with the smell of burnt gunpowder. Another shot, and a curse in a language I didn’t understand. “That’s Yuri,” Raymond said, voice near my ear. “I hope he gets one between the eyes.”
Down the hallway, past the study and the dining room, and Angelo stepped out, holding a pistol, his other hand holding his shoulder. It looked bloody.
“You . . . fucker. You ambushed us.”
“Sorry about that,” I said.
He raised his pistol, and I said, “You look hurt, Angie, let me take a look,” and three thousand lumens of GE’s finest glared at his face. He spun around, set off another gunshot, but that was fine, because I was making tracks through the kitchen.
Outdoors now.
Took a breath.
Looked to my left and to my right.
No Raymond Drake.
What the hell?
The inside of the house was now a killing zone, for more shooting and settling scores, and I sure as hell didn’t want to get back in there, and—
He stepped out, breathing hard, grabbing at his side. “Sorry,” he panted. “Lack of exercise. Got a stitch in my side.”
I didn’t say anything, just wanted to get back to moving and maneuvering, and we were around the house and back to the driveway.
My Pilot was there, safe and sound. Good thing.
Bad thing. The Honda Angelo had been driving had pulled right up against it.
Damn.
I opened the passenger’s side door, grabbed Raymond by the scruff of the neck, pushed him forward. “In!”
I went around to the driver’s seat, the engine purring along, our path blocked.
Another gunshot from inside the house. Some very determined shooters back there.
“Lewis . . .”
“Shut up.”
I shifted the Pilot into low, gently pushed up against the front end of the Accord. I gently pressed on the accelerator, kept the pressure up, and the engine whined and roared, and there was the spinning noise of the tires.
The Accord shuddered. Moved back a foot.
“Lewis.”
I pushed the accelerator even more. Something crunched and crackled. Another foot.
“Lewis.”
I started turning the wheel, now really pushed the accelerator, and more crunching noises, and the Accord moved, moved, and Raymond grabbed my shoulder and said, “There are lights coming on in the house. Shit, someone’s opening the front door!”
I shifted into reverse, backed up, and then went forward, scooting around the Accord.
Another whining, scraping, scrunching noise, and we were down the driveway, and I flicked on the headlights, turned right, and then started driving fast but carefully, heading back to the exit that would bring us to Interstate 95, and my blessed home state.
I said, “You know of any good insurance companies?”
“Of course,” Raymond said, still holding his side.
“You mind hooking me up with one? I don’t think there’s going to be a company in the world that’s going to cover me when this is over.”
“You think this is going to be over?”
“One way or another, Counselor, it better be.”
He laughed. “All right. You got me out. I’ll see what I can do.”
Now on Interstate 95, heading north along with the other peaceful commuters this Saturday night, I said, “This casino proposal, up in Tyler Beach. Who are you representing? The folks from the Tyler Beach Improvement Company? Some of the leaseholders? A third party?”
He kept quiet, shifted around in the seat.
“No offense, Raymond,” I said. “I just saved your ass. And from where I’m sitting, it currently belongs to me. And it stinks.”
“Huh.”
“Not in the figurative, metaphorical sense, Raymond. I mean, you stink.”
He said, “That woman. Yvonne. Blame her. For more than three weeks up in that bedroom, I was never let out. I used the bathroom with her watching me, and the bitch wouldn’t let me take a bath or a shower, so I had to make do with sponge baths. In front of her. And if she felt I was giving her lip or taking my time, she’d help me out by cleaning me, too. With a toilet brush. Over and over again.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“Yeah, well, when this is over, like you said, that house is going up for sale.”
“I’m sure it can be fixed up after tonight.”
“I don’t give a shit about tonight,” he said fiercely. “I made up my mind the place was going on the market after my first night with those two.”
I gently moved from lane to lane. The engine was making a loud noise and something was clattering up front, but we were making progress and we were making good time. It also seemed that both of my headlights were working, and that was a good thing, too, meaning no inquisitive state police troopers would be pulling us over.
Raymond sighed, seemed to collapse a bit in the seat next to me. “Third party.”
“Gambling concerns?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“From where I don’t know,” he said. “They claimed to be associated with some obscure Native American tribe out west, and their paperwork was in order, but it wasn’t necessary for me to dig into their background. For all intents and purposes, they seemed legit, their checks cleared, and I went along for the ride.”
“Nicely done, Counselor,” I said. “And Fletcher Moore. Did he represent the improvement company?”
“He claimed he did.”
“Claimed? That’s one hell of a word.”
“Well, best I can do, sorry,” he said.
“Fletcher, he was negotiating with you and others, right?”
“I’m sure,” he said. “These negotiations, delicate wasn’t even close to describing what was going on. There’s millions of dollars at stake. Millions.”
“Oh, come on, Raymond. You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not.”
“Casino projects in Massachusetts are floundering around like gutted fish. The two big ones in Connecticut are barely hanging on, and the casinos in Atlantic City are sinking, one by one. What’s the big deal about one in New Hampshire?”
“It’s more than just a casino,” he said. “It’s the land. A casino will be built there, my friend, and there will be hotels, restaurants, and other support buildings as well. And unlike Massachusetts, where they’re considering building them on former toxic waste dump sites, and Connecticut—where you’ve got to drive or take a bus to the freakin’ middle of the woods—this one will be a ten-minute drive from one of the biggest interstate highways in the country.”
I kept my mouth shut and kept on driving. Eventually we saw exit signs for Newburyport and Newbury, and I said, “Hell of a vision. Was Fletcher Moore on board?”
The slightest of pauses. “Yes.”
“Really? Then why is he dead, why is Felix on trial, and why were you being held captive?”
Raymond didn’t reply. I cracked the
window open some, to let in fresh air. I hadn’t been making it up—the poor guy smelled like he lived under a stretched-out tarp in the homeless encampment up in Porter.
We crossed over into New Hampshire. I took the first exit, into Falconer, not wanting to go through the Tyler tolls, and maybe it was because I was now in my home state or because I was feeling sharp after witnessing that last bout of violence and emerging unscathed, it came to me.
“Counselor.”
He folded his arms, looked out the side window. “There’s a Walmart over there. Can we get some clothes, some shoes for me? Please?”
We came to a stoplight.
“Raymond.”
His face was still turned, but at least this time, he spoke. “What?”
I said, “You said there was a third party. The group you’re representing. But there’s a fourth party as well. Correct?”
“Yeah.”
“They’re the ones who kidnapped you, got Felix framed for the murder, set this all in play. Because they want to make the deal, not you.”
The light turned green.
Raymond said, “The light’s green. Can we go?”
We went.
Years ago, Falconer was poor little fishing village, until the 20th century roared in with good roads, easy access to the interstate, and a nuclear power plant that, through its tax base, paid for most of the town’s expenses. That meant a low property tax bill, and lots of big businesses interested in moving in. Paula Quinn once showed me old black-and-white photos of the main street through Falconer, with its old homes from the 1700s and the 1800s, and the big oak and elm trees lining the street.
It’s all gone now, replaced by traffic lights, lots of traffic, enormous big-box stores and only slightly smaller chain restaurants, and wide parking lots. I suppose I should have felt sadness or nostalgia or something similar, but right now, my thoughts were on the smelly man sitting next to me.
I found a parking spot that was relatively close to the Walmart’s main entrance, and when I parked, Raymond said, “I don’t have socks on.”
“I think you’ll manage.”
“Please, Lewis, can you help me out? Christ, how many times have I helped you out?”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Can you go in the store, get some clothes for me?”
“I’m sort of low on funds.”
He grinned. “That’s all right. The assholes never took my wallet.” He reached into his back pocket, took out his wallet, showed me some bills. “Deal?” His voice and approach were eager.
“Well, let’s step outside, all right? So I can see what size you are, what we’re getting into.”
He passed over five twenty-dollar bills and then I got out and so did he, and I steered him to the front of my Pilot. Now that the chasing and shooting was over, I could see how much Raymond had changed. In my past encounters with him, he was always nattily dressed and clean-shaven, with just a hint of cologne. Now he was in creased and filthy gray sweatpants and a Bruins T-shirt that hung off him like it had once belonged to a wrestler. His face was bearded, dark with streaks of gray, and his hair was a greasy slicked-back pile.
“Too bad Walmart doesn’t offer showers.”
“If it did, I’d be first in line.”
I eyed his size and frame and asked for his pant length and width, which he gave me, and I said, “Shoe size?”
“Christ,” he said. “I’m not sure.”
“Hold on, lean back against the fender, on your left hip. Raise your leg.”
He did that and I matched the motion, putting my foot against his. “I’m a ten,” I said. “You look like a ten will fit you, too.”
Raymond lowered his foot. “Thanks,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
I eyed him for a second, and said, “Let me get my wallet from my glove box, and I’ll be right there. Just in case I overspend.”
“Great.”
I went around to the passenger’s side door, opened up the glove box. My wallet was safe in my pants rear pocket. I slid my hand under the passenger’s seat, hauled out a fistful of mail, none of it belonging to me. Mail Raymond had hidden underneath his sweatshirt as he raced out of the house. Among the bills, magazines, and coupons, there was a thick, business-sized, buff-colored envelope.
Interesting.
I closed the glove box, called out, “All right, Counselor, I’m going shopping. I should be back in just a few.”
Inside Walmart, the workers were cheerful, the lights were bright, and most of the shoppers had grim looks on their faces, like they were mentally calculating how much cash they had in their respective purses or wallets, or how much charging space was left on their credit cards. There are many fierce and ongoing debates as to whether this store and its archipelago was making America either stronger or weaker, and I didn’t have time or interest for this debate. I was just in a hurry to get some cheap footwear and clothing for Raymond Drake, and in that way, I was just another consumer.
However, I doubted that I fit any particular typical customer profile that Walmart executives back in Arkansas reviewed to squeeze out an extra penny or two per quarter.
Shopping was fairly easy, once I puzzled out where everything was. I got a pair of khaki slacks, two pullover shirts, a packet of black cotton stockings, a pair of white underwear, and a pair of cheaply made but comfortable-looking boat shoes. I zipped through the ten-items-or-fewer register and went out to the parking lot with a light gray and blue Walmart bag in hand, to find I was alone.
My Pilot and Raymond Drake were gone.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
About twenty minutes later, sitting on a park bench with the bag on the ground between my legs, I saw a familiar blue Ford Escort roll up. Paula Quinn rolled down the window and laughed. “My poor boy,” she said. “You look like the confused uncle nobody knows what to do with, so they dump him off at Walmart and hope for the best.”
I got up, purchases still in hand, smiled back at her, and went around and got in the front seat.
“Rough day, honey?” she asked.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
An hour later we were having a takeout dinner of fish and chips in her condo unit in Tyler, and she said, “All right. Let me get this straight. You manage to find Felix Tinios’s lawyer, Raymond Drake. He’s being held at his home in Boxford, guarded by a male and female set of East European thugs, and once you get him out, he desperately needs clothes. You pull into the Falconer Walmart, he gives you money, and when you come out, he and your SUV are missing.”
“That’s right.”
“The hell you say,” she said. “Why did he do that?”
“Maybe he thought I would do a lousy job choosing his clothes.”
She wiped some tartar sauce off her chin. “Maybe he was re-kidnapped.”
I said, “I thought about that. But why take the Pilot? It was dinged up and not in good shape. Nope, he stole it.”
“Ungrateful little bastard. Why do you think he did it?”
“Once he was freed, he had business to tend to and didn’t want to waste time with me.”
Paula said, “Or let you know what he was up to.”
“That’s probably true.”
“So what’s he up to?”
“Something to do with the casino warrant article being voted on this Tuesday,” I said. “He’s representing some casino interests that are prepping up to move quickly if the town approves it.”
“And why was he at his house, chained up?”
“Competition from other folks, wanting to do the same thing.”
“Wow,” she said. “The ghost of Bugsy Siegel lives.”
“Or his descendants.”
She nibbled on a French fry. “Too bad the election’s in three days and this is Saturday night. With lots of digging and research, it would make a hell of a story. Probably even sway the election to the opponents.”
“You think the election needs swaying?”
Anot
her French fry met its demise. “It’s been a rough few years in the economy, Lewis. When some slicksters—even homegrown slicksters—make shiny promises about money rolling in, the people will believe, because they want to believe.”
My cell phone suddenly rang, making us both jump. I looked to see who was calling, and then switched it off. Paula raised an eyebrow. “Somebody you know?”
“Yes.”
“Somebody you have to talk to?”
“Yes again.”
“Then why not take the call?”
I smiled. “I’d rather talk to you, that’s why.”
She smiled back at me, and we went back to eating.
After pickup and cleanup, our dessert options were limited to low-fat yogurt—I took blueberry and Paula took raspberry—and she must have sensed something from me, for she said, “Go ahead. Ask away.”
“I don’t know what you’re saying.”
She plopped herself down on her couch. “How many years have we known each other? C’mon, I’ve even seen you naked a few times.”
“A thrilling memory, I’m hoping.”
“Hah.”
I sat down next to her and said, “Dessert choice was . . . interesting. You’re no stranger to pie, ice cream, or cake for dessert.”
She tore open the foil container. “Yeah. Well, being the thrifty New Englander that I am, I’m finishing off my yogurt purchases before going back to what I love.”
“Just temporary, then.”
“Yep.” Paula licked the foil top. “Somebody tried to edge me into eating more responsibly, watch my diet, watch my figure. So I did for a while. Now it’s done.”
“I see. Good for you.”
“Thanks.”
I gently opened my own container. “Is there anything else done you want to talk about?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Because—”
“Lewis, drop it right now or I’ll take your left eyeball out with a spoon. And don’t think I don’t know how. I had some quiet moments with Felix, and it’s amazing what knowledge he’s able to pass on.”
“Got you.”
So we ate our dessert in silence.
My quiet cell phone felt like a brick hanging off my pants belt, but I forged ahead, hoping I knew what I was doing. When dessert was done Paula found a Helen Mirren movie on HBO neither one of us had seen, and she made popcorn, and it was so delightfully peaceful and domestic that I fell asleep on the couch.
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