Michael shifted his weight around quietly, reaching under his jacket and producing the 9mm he carried with him. He knelt close to the ground and hurried across the street, making sure to stay out of sight of the camera hanging over the gate. He scanned the wall to verify that there were no other cameras, at least as far as he could see. He hustled through the bushes, gritting his teeth at the sound of rustling, and quickly threw himself against the cold brick wall.
Avoiding the gate, he made his way around the wall, trying to find some other point of entry, or at least a place where the integrity of the wall was weakened. It took him about 15 minutes to make his way around the entire thing, and he found nothing that would serve his purpose of slipping in. He was about to make his way around the wall again, looking for a tree to climb over, when he heard the front door of the house open and close. It was quiet, but he was sure he’d heard it.
He pressed himself closer to the wall and got down on all fours, waiting. He heard a garage door open, then the large metal gate swung inward. He considered trying to slip in then, but his better judgment kept him where he was. He waited until a car pulled out of the driveway and made its way down the street. He squinted to get a better view of it. Was it the same car? He looked harder, but not matter how much he craned his neck around, he couldn’t get a good view of it.
It didn’t matter if he ran back to his car to try to chase it down, he would never be able to catch up with it. He knew he had to let that go for the moment, and refocus on his original purpose for being there. He had to find a way to get more information on Mickey Walsh. Starting his second trip around the wall, going back the way he came so as to avoid the camera at the gate, he examined the trees and brush growing up around it. It looked like they had all been cut back, almost on purpose, to keep anyone from being able to get in. Lindsey was right—Mickey was good.
He was just coming to the gate again when he heard a twig snap behind him. He turned quickly, holding his gun at eye level. His pulse started to race slightly as he scanned the area around him. Nothing; he didn’t see anything. As he lowered his gun and inhaled slowly, he heard the familiar click of a hammer being pulled back. “Hands where I can see them,” a gruff voice ordered.
“How long have you known I was here?” he asked as he lifted his hands over his head.
“At least 20 minutes,” the man behind him replied.
When he turned to look at him, the first thing he saw was the barrel of a Colt Revolver in his face. Looking past it he saw a short, almost ridiculously short, man with only a single strip of light-colored hair going around the sides of his head, and small, pointed eyes staring up at him. “Mickey Walsh?” he asked, eyeing the man carefully.
The man looked around, creasing his forehead as he took in his surroundings. “Let’s go inside,” he said as he lowered his gun. “I hate doing these things hiding behind bushes,” he continued. “It’s so savage. We’re both men, aren’t we? We’re both civil, grown men who know how to behave, no?”
Michael returned his gun to its place under his jacket and nodded. He followed the man back to the gate, where he watched as the man looked up into the camera and waited. After a few seconds the gate swung open and he stepped inside, waiting for Michael to follow him. When they reached the house, he pushed the door open without hesitation and made his way down the long, dark hallway. His steps echoed loudly behind him. When he turned suddenly to the right, Michael had to speed up to make sure he didn’t lose him.
The house was empty, reminding him of his own house at first, until he noticed that there wasn’t even a couch in the sitting room, or blinds on the windows of the other skeletal feeling spaces they passed. It wasn’t until the man made another sharp turn, this time to the left, that the feel of the place changed, giving the impression that they had walked into an entirely new house. The rooms they passed now were ornately decorated, He didn’t remember going down stairs, but he could tell by the view he got from the windows that the rooms were underground.
The man stopped, finally, when he reached a large parlor. When he turned on the light, it took Michael’s eyes a few minutes to adjust. He was surprised to see that the room was decorated with light, almost inviting colors. The walls were painted yellow, and the carpet was a bright white. The furniture was all made of a dark, deep oak, which offset the rest of the room nicely. There was a large, plush leather couch, an enormous desk, and two chairs pushed back against the wall, in front of a fireplace.
He didn’t expect the fireplace to actually work, but when the man walked over and flipped a switch, it was only a second before it became filled with a soft flame. “Come, sit,” the man said taking a seat and motioning for Michael to join him.
“Are we alone?” Michael asked, looking around the room as he made his way to the chair.
The man laughed loudly, “I can’t remember the last time I was really, truly alone,” he said, reaching to the table next to him and grabbing for a large wooden box. Michael stopped suddenly, reaching back under his jacket for his gun. “Calm down,” the man said, amused. He opened the box and produced a large cigar. “Cubans,” he said turning the box so Michael could see inside. “Want one?”
“No,” Michael said walking the rest of the way and sitting next to him.
“Suit yourself,” the man said as he reached back into the box for his lighter. After he had lit his cigar and returned the box to its place on the table, he shuffled himself around so that he was facing Michael. “I must admit, I’m a little embarrassed,” he began. “You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are.”
“So, you are Mickey Walsh?” Michael asked.
“I don’t remember saying I wasn’t,” the man said, tilting his head to the side as if he were trying to replay the events of earlier. “No,” he said finally. “I most definitely didn’t say I was not Mickey Walsh. But, that still leads me back to my original point. I don’t know who you are.”
“You sent someone to kill me,” Michael replied.
The man found this overly funny, because he laughed so hard he almost fell out of his chair. “I most definitely did not,” he said after he regained his breath. “I make sure I know the people I do business with.”
“Do you know a Rachel Johnson?” Michael said, trying to keep his voice calm and not let his feelings tie too much into his words.
“I think there’s been a serious misunderstanding here, sir,” Mickey said taking a long drag from his cigar and letting the smoke seep slowly out of the corners of his mouth. “That name, Rachel Johnson, does ring a bell,” he said staring at the smoke as it floated to the ceiling. “But I know that that’s not you.”
“I knew her,” Michael replied between gritted teeth.
The man turned and observed him, squinting his small eyes, and tilting his head to the side. “You’re the fiancé,” he said finally. He nodded his head, not needing Michael to answer. “Yes, you’re the fiancé.”
“So, you do know me.”
“I know of you,” he corrected. “But I didn’t send any of my men to kill you,” he said smiling crookedly. “If I did, you wouldn’t be here right now.”
“But he said…” Michael tried to begin.
“Where did you see ‘him’?” Mickey asked calmly, taking another puff from his cigar.
“In Rachel’s apartment,” Michael answered.
Mickey let out a loud laugh, again, leaning forward and pushing himself to his feet. “That?” he said between gasps. “You came here, to my house, risked your life, because one of my rookies went to get a backpack from your girlfriend’s apartment?”
“He attacked me!” Michael said standing up quickly, stepping towards the little, round man.
“That job was an open and shut kind of thing,” the man said, not backing down from Michael’s aggressive stance. “When I heard that you were sniffing around, I told him to keep his eye out, be prepared. But that doesn’t mean that you were a target. Like I said, if you were, you’d be trying to have this
conversation from 6 feet under dirt.”
“Why did he want the backpack?”
“You ask a lot of questions,” the man observed, walking around him and making his way towards the large desk.
“I need a lot of answers,” Michael replied coldly.
“Well, I’m afraid I can’t give you any,” the man said, leaning forward and pulling open a drawer of the desk. Michael pulled out his gun instinctually, pointing it at the man. Mickey straightened up, holding a flask and looked at Michael. “You really are a jumpy one, aren’t you?” he asked, amused.
“Who wanted the backpack?” he asked, pointing the gun at the man.
“I can’t tell you that.” Mickey’s expression remained as still and collected as it had for their entire encounter. “Client confidentiality and all. I haven’t held on to my good name by going around giving up information every time someone pointed a gun in my face.”
“I want answers,” Michael said, stepping towards him, and shaking the gun violently. “I will do whatever I need to, to get them!”
Mickey sighed loudly, clearly beginning to lose patience with the exchange. “Listen, you’re turning this into something much more than it needs to be. I don’t want to have to push this little button,” he said motioning towards the phone on his desk, “and call my men in here. I don’t want to have to do that. I was gentlemanly enough to invite you into my home, give you a chance to explain why you were sticking your nose where it didn’t belong, and I had even considered letting you go with nothing more than a friendly warning to stay the hell away from me.” He walked around the side of the desk and positioned himself between the phone and Michael. “But I’m beginning to think that you’re not going to give me another choice but to do exactly what it is I don’t want to.”
“I don’t have anything to lose,” Michael said, taking a step towards the man, keeping his gaze fixed on Mickey’s hand. “If you make even the slightest movement towards that button, I’ll shoot.”
“If you do that, you won’t make it out of here alive,” the man said slowly.
“Like I said, I don’t have anything to lose.”
Mickey eyed Michael carefully. “I can see that you’re being sincere, sir,” he said taking another swig from his flask. He placed the cigar gingerly in his mouth and puffed as he contemplated Michael’s stance. “The man who wanted the backpack was a nobody,” he said finally. “He was a low ranking member of one of the street gangs in the inner city.”
“What was his name?” Michael demanded.
“I won’t tell you that,” the man said, smoke flowing out of his mouth as he spoke. “But I can tell you that he is associated with the Lords.”
“The Lords?” Michael repeated, more to himself than to Mickey. He wasn’t familiar with the gangs in the area. He had made it a point to avoid them.
“Like I said, lower level gang. I didn’t think anything of the job, to be honest,” Mickey said laughing slightly. “It was just a backpack. I was surprised they went through me to get it.”
“Do you have any idea why they did?”
“No,” Mickey shrugged. “I still don’t know your name,” he said moving past Michael and making his way to the armchair he had vacated previously. “But I think it’s better we keep it that way. I like you, whoever you are. If one day your name does come across my desk, I don’t want to have any conflicts of interest.”
Chapter 8: Working on it
What he knew so far didn’t make sense. The more he found out, the more questions seemed to appear in Michael’s mind. Some “low level” gang, as Mickey put it, wanted Rachel’s backpack. Why? What was on the little slip of paper he had found in the bottom of it that was important to a gang? And how did it tie back to Hamilton & Lewis? Was it even Hamilton & Lewis that had the secrets? Or was it Rachel? Maybe she just wrote the numbers on the paper because that was the closest thing she had? Maybe there was a side of her he didn’t know? But there was still Joy. How did she tie into all of this? Could it be that her death really was just a drunk driving accident?
Nothing made sense. Nothing added up. As he drove home from Mickey’s estate, he tried to piece it all together. He was surprised that Mickey had let him leave. He didn’t expect that. Something about Mickey Walsh was suave and sophisticated. He was professional and collected. He knew what Lindsey meant when she said it was hard to bring him up on any charges. He didn’t hurt Michael, or have his men come barging into the room, because he didn’t need to. There was something about the way he spoke that let Michael know he was always three steps ahead of him. He wasn’t going to do anything unnecessary. That’s how he maintained his status. He did everything with immense forethought.
Pulling into his driveway, he felt his head begin to ache. It was a combination of the wounds and the thoughts. They both caused him to feel light-headed. He reached his hand back and felt a warm liquid seeping from between his sutures. Examining his hand, he realized it was blood. “Beautiful,” he said to himself between gritted teeth. “Just what I needed.”
He rummaged through his glove department for some napkins. Finding a few he pressed them to the back of his head. He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the steering wheel, and tried to make the dizzy feeling that was quickly washing over him subside. It wasn’t the blood, or the cut that caused it. It was the questions. They were still bouncing around in his head.
He must have fallen asleep there, because the next thing he knew he was awakened by someone pounding on his window. Startled awake, he jolted upright quickly, the pain in the back of his head throbbing him into conscious thought. When he turned, he saw Jason’s face peering in at him. “Michael?” he asked, reaching for the car door handle. “Michael, what the hell?” he asked pulling the door open quickly.
“Jason,” he said, smiling at him weakly. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t answer any of my calls last night. I was worried.”
“Right,” Michael said. He shifted his weight around, dropping the now bloodstained napkin onto the seat next to him. He reached into his back pocket to pull out his phone. Right there, on the screen it read—“Jason Johnson 4 missed calls.”
“Are you okay?” Jason asked, kneeling down to examine Michael’s face. He must have looked horrible. He didn’t need the horrified look on Jason’s face to tell him that.
“I’m fine,” Michael said pushing him back and standing to his feet.
“Is that a gun?” Jason asked, shock and a hint of fear heavy on his voice.
Michael looked down. The edge of his jacket had somehow gotten tucked behind the handle of his 9mm, and it was clearly visible. Quickly readjusting himself so that it was hidden again he tried to shrug it off. “I always carry one,” he lied.
“No you don’t,” Jason argued. “I’ve never seen you with one.”
Michael laughed lightly. “It’s because I knew you would react like this about it. I leave it at home when I’m around you.”
Michael waited until Jason was on his feet to slam the car door shut and start making his way for his house. “Did Rachel know about that?” Jason asked, following close behind him. “She hated guns, Michael. You know that. Did you carry a gun around her?” he asked his questions in quick succession, barely breathing between them.
“You’re only here because you wanted to check in on me?” Michael asked, ignoring his questions.
“Well, actually I called last night because Joy Reynolds’ mom called mine,” he explained as he took a seat at the kitchen table.
Michael didn’t let his momentary feeling of panic cross his face. Did she tell them that he went to see her? “Really?” he asked, trying to sound disinterested. “What did she say?”
“She invited us to the funeral,” Jason replied.
Turning away from Jason and heading to grab a glass of water, Michael let out a slow sigh of relief. “Are you going?” he asked, his back still to him.
“We are. And we wanted to know if you’d like to go a
s well?”
Michael filled his glass with tap water, and took a long sip before answering. “I don’t know if I should,” he said hesitantly.
“Why not?” Jason asked getting to his feet and walking to where Michael was standing. “It could be good for you. Maybe help you get a little closure?”
“Seeing another family suffer will give me closure?” Michael shot at him, not meaning to sound as aggressive as he did. His head was still pounding from the wound, and the lack of sleep was starting to get to him. Not to mention the endless questions that were still flying around in his head, causing him to feel dizzy.
Jason didn’t react to his harsh tone; he was used to it. “Michael,” he said calmly. “It could be good for you to connect with other people.”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow, at 11:00am.”
Michael sighed deeply. He wanted to go; he wanted to give his support to Joy’s mother. But he didn’t know if it was right. He knew she wanted answers as much as he did, but he didn’t have any to give her—just more questions. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll go.”
“Great,” Jason replied smiling at him. He patted him on the shoulder. The contact made the pain in Michael’s head increase, but he gritted his teeth and forced his mouth to turn upwards in a weak smile. “I’ll pick you up at 10:30,” Jason added.
“That’s okay,” Michael answered quickly. “I’ll drive myself.”
“You sure?” Jason looked at him with concern.
“I’m sure,” Michael replied noting the pathetic way that Jason looked at him. Everyone looked at him that way—like he was broken. It was like they thought he couldn’t take care of himself anymore. He hadn’t noticed it so much before. They pitied him. “What’s the address?”
Unforgiven: A Conspiracy Thriller Page 5