“No,” I said. “This is one of my better days.”
As I got closer to the van I noted the engine running, and a person sitting down, rifle up to his shoulder. It was a Colt M4 and had an attached sighting scope that was still illuminating us, as well as a sound suppressor on the end of its barrel.
Very professional, very efficient, very scary looking.
The gunman was good, no doubt about that.
Three more steps, and I saw how wrong I was.
The gunman was a gunwoman.
Carol Moynihan, of Port Harbor Realty Association.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I stopped just outside of the van and said, “Ex-Marine?”
She was dressed in plain black fatigue pants and short black jacket. “Once a Marine, always a Marine.”
“I thought that mug back at your office was honoring a brother or boyfriend.”
She smiled slightly. “You thought wrong.”
I did at that, and recalled an info search I had done the other day on her boss and Hollis Spinelli, instantly regretting that I hadn’t popped her name into the mix. Damn.
Raymond said, “Who are you? And what the hell do you want?”
She barely nodded this time. “Me? Just a compensated party. And what I want is you, him, and whatever paperwork you’ve got.”
I said, “How about if I just toss this in the van, and we all go our separate ways, no fuss, no muss?”
Carol shook her head. “Nope. Orders to fulfill, my friend. And my orders are to take you along for a meet. And if you don’t like it, well, I’ll drop you both, right here, and I’ll grab whatever you got, and then go along my way. I might not get paid a bonus, but I won’t be particularly upset.”
We all stood silent for a moment. She said, “I was also told that you sometimes carry a pistol. It looks like it’s hanging from a shoulder holster on your left.”
“Pretty observant.”
“Yeah, ain’t I? All right. With your left hand, reach up under your coat, take the pistol out, toss it in the van.”
I said, “Looks like you’re in charge, Carol.”
“Gee, I love it when an older man talks dirty to me.”
I clumsily removed my Beretta, tossed it into the van, where it made a heavy thump.
“I also thought you were underneath your boss, up in that trash container.”
“Wrong once more,” she said. “I made more of a mess than I wanted to, so I wrapped up that butt-ugly fake Oriental rug in his office.”
Carol motioned with the rifle. “Enough chatting. You, the guy with the beard. Get in the passenger’s side, now. You, guy with no beard. Once beard guy is belted in, then you take the wheel, and off we go.”
Raymond spared me a despairing glance and did as he was told.
And so did I.
When I was behind the steering wheel, seatbelted in, Carol moved around so the end of the suppressor was pushing against my neck. “This is how it’s going to work. Leave the parking lot, take a right, and head north on Atlantic Avenue. Anything funny, anything oddball, what little brains you have get splattered on the windshield, and the other guy drives.”
Raymond said, “We can make a deal. Honest. Whatever you’re being paid, we can double it. Or triple.”
I shifted the GMC van into drive, went out the parking lot exit, and slowly made a right-hand turn.
Carol said. “Bud, stop wasting my time, okay? And stop insulting my intelligence as well.”
I said, “Raymond, she’s right. Carol’s a Marine. Devoted, dedicated, and one never to turn back or double-cross someone. Am I right?”
She laughed. “Yeah, that’s pretty good.”
“So why are you doing what you’re doing?”
She gently pushed the suppressor again to the back of my head. “Because once I mustered out, I had a set of hard-learned and hard-edged skills. And what was I going to do with those skills? Be a fat mall security guard and dream of glory? Become a cop and pull people over for rolling through a stop sign? Um, no. After you spend a couple of duty tours chasing around hajjis in Fallujah, a dull life is no longer appealing.”
I said, “I know what you’re talking about. I worked some years at the Pentagon. You do get addicted to the thrill of it.”
Carol laughed again. “Now it’s your turn to insult me. I heard some about you. You worked back in the Stone Age, us versus the Soviets, good versus evil. Now, it’s all shadows and who knows who the hell the bad guy is this week. This is much more clarifying.”
I kept my mouth shut.
Another nudge with the suppressor.
“You’re going too fast,” she said. “Back it down.”
The envelope was in my lap, and Raymond was at my side, and Carol was kneeling in the rear, moving the rifle back and forth, back and forth.
I said, “I imagine you’re a good shot.”
“Shit, yes,” she said. “Qualified as Rifle Expert in the Corps.”
“Makes sense,” I said.
“What?”
“That shot you made, going through my office window and bedroom window without hitting me, that was a good shot.”
“Yeah, right,” she said. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Up ahead. Take a left.”
We were passing low brush and marshlands. The road sign said BAJGER AVENUE. I took the left. Pleasant homes were on either side of the well-paved lane, and some folks were out on this Sunday raking or working or playing on their well-manicured lawns and yards.
Boy, was I envious of them at this moment.
“All right,” she said. “Dirt road, coming up on the right. Take it.”
There was a dirt road, as she said, with a small billboard announcing BEACHVIEW HOMES COMING SOON and underneath it, in small letters, FINANCED BY PORT HARBOR REALTY ASSOCIATION. “Your boss, Russ. What happened? Wanted to back out?”
She laughed. “The guy thought he had big balls when he tried to cop a feel in the break room. But when things got a bit tight and shifty, he got nervous, trying to get ahead of the negotiations with some serious hard men. My share, a nice payout gets me the hell out of this frozen state and traveling.”
Carol paused, giving me another direction. “Up ahead. I even had to waste that Fletcher dude when he wouldn’t give me what I wanted. Tried to negotiate with me. As if. Slow it down.”
The dirt road widened into a cul-de-sac, and one home was built, two were under construction, and there were two bare foundations with empty cellar holes. Marshland was visible in the distance, and there was the depressing sight of chopped-down trees and churned-up soil. A familiar Audi was parked alongside one of the cellar holes. Carol laughed. “Beachview homes. What bullshit. Sure, if you climbed on top of the roof and stretched your legs, you might be able to see the beach. Cheesy fuckers, all of them.”
The driver’s door to the Audi opened up, and a smiling Hollis Spinelli stepped out. He stood in front of the Audi and waved at me, with a wide, pleased, triumphant grin on his face.
A winner, I’m sure he probably thought, a winner all around. Got the paperwork, going to get his enemy sent to state prison, and probably going to get a girl somewhere along the line.
I quickly glanced at Raymond, who was sitting with seatbelt fastened, fists clenched.
Hollis waved again, stepped forward.
I slammed the accelerator down, hard.
The van leapt forward like a hidden rocket unit back there had just lit off, and the GMC van flew forward. A thump from the rear, as I hoped Carol and her weapon tumbled back. She yelled and Raymond said, “Oh shit,” as I aimed right for Hollis.
I missed him.
But hit his Audi.
The van slammed hard, tossing the Audi aside, and the next minutes were a fast-moving, angry blur, as the airbags deployed and slammed into my face, and there was more banging, crashing, grinding, as the van’s momentum carried us over the lip of the foundation and right into the home’s bare cellar hole.
One hell of a ride.
The airbag had deflated and there was white dust everywhere, and Raymond was moaning something awful, but I scrabbled at my seatbelt and popped it open, and tossed myself back, where Carol was trying to get to her M4 and bring it up. But quarters were tight there and we wrestled, her cursing and punching me and twisting intimate parts of me.
“Damn you!” and that came from Raymond, who had freed himself and had joined the fracas. We both managed to secure Carol for a moment, but she bit his hand and he yelped, and she got a side door opened and, grabbing her M4, she rolled out, hit the fresh white concrete of the foundation floor. She stood up and I yelled, “Down!” to Raymond, and I pushed him aside, to the front of the van.
A heavy, spitting sound, and a pop! as a round went through metal. I pushed myself forward, saw my Beretta resting against a metal post used for seats, and I grabbed it and shot twice out the open door.
Then it was still.
Raymond rose from the front of the van, pushing up against the front seats. Blood was streaming down his forehead. “That was damn loud.”
“Sure was.”
“What were you shooting at?”
“Air, I think.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to scare her off.”
He peered around the open van door. “I think it worked. I don’t see her.”
I went first, slowly dropping to the basement foundation, Beretta out. There were pipes and stanchions in place along the concrete, ready for a future delivery of an oil furnace and a hot water heater.
I didn’t think the designers of this future fancy home anticipated having a GMC van dropping in.
I slowly moved around the crumpled front end of the van. The rear was resting up against the foundation lip. At the far wall was a temporary staircase made of lumber. That was empty as well. I scanned all around the top of the foundation. I could make out piles of dirt, lumber, and a portable toilet.
No former angry and armed Marine.
Raymond joined me. “Well?”
“Looks clear. But let’s get out of here before she comes back. We’re in one big trap in this basement.”
I moved to the stairway, Raymond tucked behind me, and I got to the stairs. I kept on scanning and looking, and I slowly walked up the stairs, the wood creaking, me hearing Raymond breathing hard behind me. My forehead felt wet and I was pretty sure I was bleeding. Airbags are good at saving your life and are even better at breaking your nose and making a mess of your face.
Almost there.
Raymond had his hand on my back, like he was encouraging me, and I didn’t shake him off.
Just five more steps.
And like I feared, a weapon appeared above us, pointing down.
But this was a revolver, and it was being held by Hollis Spinelli.
“You wrecked my car,” he said, looking down at the two of us. I plastered myself against the foundation, pistol up, two-handed stance, pointing it at him. From where I was, his revolver looked big and scary. I hoped I was having the same effect back on him, but I wasn’t going to pose the question.
“Sorry,” I said. “I was trying to wreck you instead.”
“Hah.” With his free hand, he made a cupping motion. “The survey paperwork. Give it over.”
I recalled where I last saw it. “I believe your contractor has it. Miss Moynihan.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think so. It’s worth lots of money to her. Last I saw, she raced by me, said, ‘Fuck you,’ and ran into the marshes.”
“That’s the Marines,” I said. “Overcome, adapt, improvise. I think she just improvised her way out of working for a jerk like you.”
“The envelope,” he said. “Now.”
I said, “Well, we’re in a bit of a standoff here, Hollis. You’ve got your revolver, I got my Beretta. Let’s say we come to an understanding.”
A slight smile. “All right. Understand this. Even with my fancy clothes and fancy law degree, I grew up on the streets. I heard you grew up on a farm in Indiana. You got the stones to fire at me, in cold blood? Do you? And I also have another advantage. I got two targets. You got one. You might miss me. But I sure as fuck won’t miss either you or Raymond.”
“Hell of a way to run a law practice,” I said. “And when you leave here, what, you going to do your best to get Felix convicted?”
“That’s just the start,” he said. “And we’ve talked too much. You got five seconds to give me that envelope.”
“I think it’s still in the van.”
“Four seconds.”
“You want me to walk back down there and look for it?”
“Three seconds.”
And I started pulling the Beretta’s trigger, when there was an ungodly screech and Hollis Spinelli fell from the edge of the foundation, arms windmilling, legs sprawling, instantly followed by a blood-curdling thump as he landed facedown on the unforgiving concrete.
“Sweet Jesus,” Raymond breathed.
“Get his revolver,” I said. “Now.”
I ran up the last three steps to find the young Brianna Moore standing there, breathing hard, staring at me.
“That double-crossing jerk,” she said, trembling. “I followed him here and I wanted to see him, face-to-face.”
I looked to her sharp gaze. “He was supposed to pay your dad for the other survey.”
“That’s right. He was going to pay me a finder’s fee for pushing Dad to work with him. But Dad wanted to give it away. For free. To some other asshole lawyer, in exchange for taking care of some old debts in Maine and Massachusetts. Thought he could out-negotiate Hollis Spinelli. Fuck. Some father. He deserved to get whacked by that ex-Marine chick.”
Raymond was still in the basement. “Wait,” I said. “You knew that Carol was burglarizing your dad’s office? Then why didn’t you call the cops?”
Her fists were clenched. “I didn’t want the bitch arrested, so she’d spill everything out. I wanted her shot. And I knew you carried a gun and got caught up in some interesting scrapes.”
“You thought I’d shoot her.”
“Yeah.” Her fierce eyes stared at me. “Take care of business. Damn silly men. Always a disappointment. Never keeping promises. Never meeting expectations. Why didn’t you shoot her? Christ, I got there just as I saw you drive that van into Hollis’s car. What, you suddenly find your balls all of a sudden?”
I started to answer and she interrupted me. “And that’s it. Dad promised me, over and over again, that college was set for me, that I could take the time off and study what I want, become what I want. Spinelli promised me a finder’s fee no matter what happened. Now? Nothing. Community college if I’m lucky. Or paying off student loan debt until I’m fifty. Men. What do I do now?”
Raymond was coming up the stairs. “You leave,” I said. “Before the cops get here. With all the shooting and shouting, I don’t think it’ll be long.”
Brianna bit her lower lip, tears started flowing, and she started walking, and then started running.
Raymond joined me, slightly out of breath. He saw Brianna running down the dirt road.
“Who’s our savior?”
“Brianna Moore,” I said. “Fletcher Moore’s daughter.”
I turned to Raymond. “She said that you weren’t going to pay him for the old survey. That you were just going to settle some old debts. True?”
Hollis’s revolver dangled from Raymond’s hand. I took it away from him. “Yeah. The guy had markers in Southie, the North End, Providence. Plus a couple of young ladies who were after him for money owed. Pure quid pro quo, Lewis. I handled the debts, I get the old survey and keep it secret, and everybody makes out.”
“Brianna had other thoughts.”
“Well, she just got one hell of an education, don’t you think?”
I stepped back and looked at the still form of Hollis Spinelli. Blood was pooling by his head. “How’s he doing?”
“Not too good,” Raymond said. “But he�
��s breathing.”
In the very long distance, I heard an approaching siren. “I think Felix is going to need a new counsel tomorrow.”
“Probably,” Raymond said. “But please, I don’t have the time. I need to get up to speed. Best I can do is have one of my associates appear tomorrow, ask for some sort of delay or continuance.”
“No.”
“Lewis . . .”
“Felix has been in there too long, keeping you safe. Now it’s your turn to pay the debt. We had an agreement.”
He smiled. “Well, we were in negotiations, I’ll give you that, until that woman showed up. We didn’t reach a final deal.”
“Then consider it reached. You get the envelope in exchange for being in court, bright and early, at nine A.M. tomorrow.”
His smile just got a bit wider. I went on. “You took some time down there, retrieving that revolver. You went into the van and got the paperwork, didn’t you?”
“Possession,” Raymond said. “That’s nine tenths of the law, isn’t it?”
The sirens grew louder. I raised my Beretta. “I think what I have is ten tenths, don’t you think?”
He sighed. “Lewis, please. I’ve worked with you in the past, got you out of a few scrapes. Do you think I believe you’re going to kill me?”
We engaged in a staring contest for a while, looking with sharp eyes at each other.
I lowered the Beretta. “You’re right, Counselor. I can’t kill you.”
I pulled the trigger, and even though I was expecting it, the report was so loud it made me jump. It did the same to Raymond, who also yelled, “Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?”
I said, “A shot in the dirt next to you. The next one’s going in your knee. Crippling you for life. You want to push me some more, Raymond?”
I certainly got his attention. “Damn it, the cops will be here any second.”
“And if I see them coming down that dirt road, that’s when I shoot next.”
“You wouldn’t dare. What the hell would you tell the cops why you shot me?”
“I’m a writer,” I said. “I’m sure I can make something up. Again, Raymond, don’t push me.”
The siren was loud now, and there was a change in pitch as the cruiser slowed down to make the turn. Raymond smiled, opened his hands, like he had just lost a friendly Red Sox–Yankees bet.
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