by Harvey, JM
“That’s fine,” Jasper said, stepping down onto the grass-covered plywood again. “Just don’t disremember our agreement.” Smith gave Val a wink. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Val wasn’t going to get the quick bullet that Hockley had promised him. Jasper had his own plans for Valentine and they didn’t include an easy death.
Jasper used his heel to drive the shovel into the dirt. Another hollow thump. Smith looked over his shoulder at Hockley. “Ain’t more than a few inches of dirt over this,” he said. “How you figure the cops missed it?”
Good question, Val thought, though he knew the answer. He remembered the smell that had permeated the crime scene, a stomach-rolling stench that had seemed to burrow into the fibers of your lungs. With the Honduran workers living next door, more than a dozen men in all, the tank had overflowed turning this low spots into a fetid swamp of raw sewage. Or so the cops had thought. No one had ever considered the possibility that it was actually a pile of gold coins and cash that had overflowed the tank.
“Just dig it up,” Hockley repeated.
Jasper didn’t immediately obey. For a moment he just leaned on the shovel and stared at Hockley. Finally, he nodded once to himself, turned and lifted a shovelful of dirt. He tossed it onto the ground at Hockley’s feet, speckling Hockley’s boat shoes with dark earth.
Hockley’s jaw went rigid, but he said nothing, he just shook the dirt off and took a step backward.
Jasper pitched dirt wildly over his shoulder, the shovel booming hollowly off the plywood again and again, the smell of raw sewage growing stronger with every scoop. A smell that was as dense as sea fog by the time Jasper had uncovered a rough circle of blackened wood.
“Christ the savior, that’s ripe,” Jasper said as he wedged the shovel blade under the edge of the plywood. He was breathing through his mouth, his bare shoulders slick with sweat. He heaved against the shovel’s handle and the rotten panel cracked and bulged then splintered straight down the middle. Jasper pitched the shovel aside, stooped, grabbed one half of the plywood, and hauled it out of the way. It took him another minute of digging to free the second half.
“Gimme the flashlight,” he said, waggling his fingers impatiently. Hockley handed the light over and Jasper aimed it into the pit. He played it around for a minute, but said nothing.
“Well?” Hockley finally demanded.
Jasper shrugged. “There’s what looks like a pile of garbage bags,” he said, then stepped forward and hopped down three feet, landing hard atop something that clanked. Only his head and shoulders poked up past the lip of the septic tank. He shifted his feet and squatted down out of sight. A moment later a metallic jangle came from the pit and Jasper thrust his head back up, grinning, his face streaked with gray muck. He tossed something at Hockley who caught it one handed and held it up to the light.
“Son of a bitch,” Hockley said as he stared with an almost dazed expression at a tarnished gold coin. “I’m rich.”
Jasper lost the grin. “We’re rich, Cap’n,” he said pointedly, the edge in his voice as sharp as the blade of a prison shank. He stooped back down out of sight, his voice muffled as he added, “Holster that hog-leg and help me get this stuff up out of here. Mr. Justice ain’t going nowhere.”
Hockley holstered his pistol and hunkered down on the lip of the pit. Together he and Jasper wrestled a clanking canvas bag emblazoned with an Adidas logo up onto the edge of the pit. The once white bag was soiled a filthy brown-green. The smell of effluent coalesced and deepened. A physical presence, like a dirty fist shoved down your throat. The smell turned Hockley green. He gagged then turned his head and vomited into the grass, again and again until he was dry heaving.
Finally Jasper lost patience. “You know, I ain’t exactly having a good time down here my own self,” he said. “If you can pull your ass together for five minutes we can be done with this.”
Hockley gagged one more time. His face was slick with sweat and drained of color. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing black ooze across his lips. And then he was gagging again, heaving his guts into the weeds.
The ratcheting sound of Hockley’s vomiting almost covered the rustle of dry leaves behind Valentine. Almost. Val cocked his head to listen. The sharp edges of broken branches gouged into his neck and back. There it was again. The quiet rattle of dead leaves being brushed aside.
“Cap’n?” Smith said, his impatience growing.
“Damn it,” Hockley exploded. “All right.” He turned back to the pit and wrestled the next bag up. Another canvas Adidas bag. And then another. Coins clanked and rattled. Hockley began to grin again, the sound of all that gold overwhelming his revulsion.
Something touched Valentine’s palm. He flinched instinctively, but a hand encircled his wrist and clamped down on the shackle. A small click, more felt than heard, and his hands were no longer joined together. One more click and both bracelets were off.
Val’s heart rate rose to a steady thrum, but he didn’t make a move. He didn’t dare. It had to be Jack behind him. Val had to await an opportunity, give Jack a chance to get in position. He kept his hands behind his back, flexing the fingers of his right hand, getting the circulation going. His left arm wouldn’t budge; it hung like a dead stick from his wounded shoulder.
Val flinched when a gunshot boomed, the flash so close it lit up the hedge around him like a strobe light. There was a grunt of pain and Val could sense the person behind him rising, turning toward the gunfire. Another gunshot lit up the hedge then a third and a fourth spaced so closely that they were like rolling thunder, and a body crashed into the hedge behind Val. Two more shots smashed that body straight through the wall of branches to sprawl face-up beside Val. The man’s legs remained tangled in the hedge as his chest rose and fell in a spastic rhythm. Blood leaked from his mouth, but his eyes were still open. Even in the darkness, Val recognized Slick Hernandez.
Hernandez’s dark clothing had been torn by branches, his shirtfront punctured by a pair of bullets. His face was cut from his fall through the redbuds, his right cheek torn open to the bone. His dark eyes blinked at Val like a gut-shot panther.
“Like an amateur,” he said in a papery whisper. His eyes slid shut and he shuddered and lay still, wilting into the ground.
“Don’t shoot! It’s me! Parker!” The dark haired guy who had brought Victoria to the basement yelled, then stepped hesitantly through the gap in the hedge, his revolver held up sideways in front of his face. He was out of breath, panting, his sweat-drenched shirt clinging to his upper body. “It’s me. Don’t shoot!”
Hockley had hit the ground at the first gunshot. “Shut up, Parker,” he said as he scrambled to his feet. He brushed at the grass and leaves clinging to his shorts and shirt with one filthy hand, smearing himself with the cesspool’s black goo. He didn’t seem to notice. “You’ve already made enough noise.” Hockley swept the flashlight over Slick’s prostrate body, zeroing in on the Hispanic gangster’s face. The anger left his expression, replaced by confusion.
“What the hell?” he said, “That’s Slick Hernandez.”
“Bullshit.” Jasper’s head prairie-dogged up out of the pit. “Hernandez is a Mexican Mafia shooter.”
“I know what he is,” Hockley snapped. “What I’d like to know is what he’s doing here?”
Val was wondering the same thing. And then, suddenly, it hit him – Slick was repaying a debt. Hernandez’s twisted sense of honor had just earned him six bullets.
Parker stooped down beside the Mexican gangster and took a small caliber revolver out of the weeds at Slick’s feet. It looked like a .22. A professionally machined silencer was affixed to the barrel. A hit-man special. Parker stood with the pistol and looked to Hockley.
“I spotted him going over a fence two streets over, heading this way. I followed, but I lost him. I was running here to warn you when I saw him trying to sneak through the bushes,” Parker paused there to catch his breath. He glanced down at Slick then ba
ck at Hockley. “That’s really Hernandez?”
Hockley didn’t answer, he was clearly trying to make some sense of the situation. Then he turned the flashlight on Parker’s face, blinding the man.
“What about Jack Birch?” Hockley demanded. “If he gets past—”
“I never saw Birch, but another cop did get past me. A big fat guy in a DPD blue and white,” Parker cut in. “I barricaded the street with your car, just like you said, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. He hit the curb at sixty miles an hour, cut through a yard and was halfway down the block before I even got the shotgun to my shoulder.” Parker’s eyes fell on the canvas bags lying beside the open septic tank and his eyes went wide. “Is that what I think it is?”
Hockley ignored the question. “A fat guy?” he repeated.
Parker nodded, his eyes stuck on the gold. “Guy filled up half the car.”
Gary Griggs, Val realized; one of the best guns on the police force. Val had thought that Gruene had killed Gary; he was relieved that he had been wrong. With Jack and Gary out there…
“Griggs,” Hockley said, his frown deepening. “Shit.” He swung around on Jasper and yelled, “Let’s go!” then dropped to his knees and reached down for another bag.
Parker stayed where he was, towering over Valentine and Slick, he stowed his revolver, but kept Slick’s .22 in his hand. He watched as Jasper and Hockley wrestled two more bags out of the pit. There was no clinking this time, but the bags were heavy and awkward. It must be cash. A lot of cash judging by the size and weight of the bag. They brought up three more just like it.
“That’s all of it,” Jasper said. With the removal of the gold and cash, he was almost neck deep in the pit. He thrust up a dirty hand to Hockley.
Hockley looked at the hand, shook his head and backed away. He aimed the flashlight into Jasper’s eyes then pointed his pistol in the same location. “No, that’s where you’re going to stay, Jasper.”
Jasper squinted against the glare of the flashlight, a sardonic smile playing across his swollen lips. He seemed unsurprised by the turn of events, almost bored. “Now, Cap’n, the White Boys—”
“Green-lighted you,” Hockley finished. “No loose ends and more money for everyone.” He shrugged. “A win-win situation.”
Jasper lost the smile. His good eye glared with a percolating malevolence. He started to say something but bit it off. There was nothing to say and he knew it.
“What about him?” Parker interrupted, waving Slick’s pistol at Valentine.
Hockley spoke over his shoulder, his eyes never leaving Jasper. “Shoot him in the head,” he said. “But do it quietly. Use Hernandez’s pistol.”
Parker grinned as he raised the silenced pistol and cocked the hammer.
“One bullet,” he said to Val, “as promised.”
62
Gruene motioned Victoria back toward the stairs with the pistol, the flashlight hanging slack at her side, casting jumping shadows on the walls and the low-hung rafters.
“Sit down,” Gruene said.
Victoria sat on the edge of the step, her feet tucked up under her, planted squarely on the floor. Gruene stared down at her for a long moment before speaking again. The cocked pistol never moved, it stayed focused on Victoria’s nose.
“You don’t look like much,” Gruene said as her eyes trailed over Victoria’s disheveled clothes and scratched face. “You know what Laroy calls you?” Gruene asked. “Little Miss Dry-Hump.”
“That’s clever,” Victoria replied. “What do you think he’ll be calling you after he gets the Suttons’ money? Little Miss Dead-in-a-Ditch?”
Gruene flushed and shook her head, but Victoria could see the doubt in the woman’s eyes.
“Laroy loves me,” Gruene said, as the flush crept up her neck
“Laroy loves himself,” Victoria replied. “And money. If he does come back it’ll be to kill us both,” Victoria paused as her eyes went from Gruene’s pinched, hawkish face down to her broad shoulders and square hips. The woman was all hard lines and sharp edges. And the shapeless black suit she was wearing wasn’t doing her figure any favors. Victoria put her eyes squarely back on Gruene’s. She had set the hook in Gruene’s jaw, now she gave it a hard yank. “Then he’ll use your share to find someone prettier.”
“Shut your damned mouth!” Gruene screamed. She stepped closer, her limbs working with a jerky locomotion, and pressed the barrel of the pistol to Victoria’s forehead.
The steel was cold on Victoria’s sweaty skin, but the bullet would heat it right up, she thought. The blast of gunpowder would cook the inside of her skull like a goat head at a South Texas barbecue.
Suddenly, from outside the house came a series of gunshots. Gruene froze and so did Victoria, then both their eyes jumped to the room’s one window, set high in the wall of the basement, though they could see nothing.
Two more shots were followed by silence. The two women remained motionless for several moments but no further shots were fired.
Gruene turned back to Victoria, smiling. “I’d say your husband just got his bus ticket to Hell. And now I’m going to punch yours—” she began, but that was as far as she got.
Victoria was no one’s victim. She lunged up from the step, her right arm sweeping up, aiming for Gruene’s gun hand.
Gruene didn’t hesitate, she pulled the trigger. The pistol belched flame and thunder in Victoria’s face and everything went black.
63
As Parker cocked the hammer of the little .22, gunfire erupted inside the Suttons’ house.
Hockley half turned toward the sound, instinctively shifting the flashlight’s beam that way, a moment of distraction that Jasper Smith took full advantage of.
Jasper’s right hand darted for the gun tucked in his waistband while his left clawed at the lip of the pit. He vaulted himself up and out of the septic tank, the big automatic in his right hand sweeping up, the hammer going back with an audible ‘click-clack.’
Hockley spun toward the sound. Both men started shooting at the same moment, each of them pulling the trigger as fast as they could without bothering to aim. Val saw Hockley’s right leg buckle as blood bloomed from his thigh, but Hockley kept firing even as another shot hit the flashlight in his hand, shattering the lens and knocking it flying, pitching the clearing into a darkness that was alleviated only by the yellow flashes of gunfire.
Bullets whizzed through the air above Val’s head, crashing into the redbuds with a ratcheting clatter, causing Parker to duck for cover, his focus pulled away from Val to the shadowy gunfight taking place on the edge of the pit. That was all the chance Val was likely to get. He came up off the ground as fast as he could, burning his last reserves of energy, lunging for Parker’s knees in one lumbering, too slow motion. But luck was with him, the move caught Parker completely off guard. Val hit him mid-thigh, wrapped him up one-armed like a defensive corner tackling a wide receiver and took him down hard. As Parker hit the ground, his breath exploding from his lungs, Val grabbed the .22 by the barrel and tried to wrench it free. Parker pulled the trigger and a bullet carved a bloody groove down Val’s forearm from wrist to elbow, the pain crashing through the weakness that was turning his limbs to crepe paper, giving him a shot of adrenaline straight to the brain. He used that momentary energy for all it was worth, dug his toes into the soil and shoved, clambering up Parker’s torso, still gripping the .22 by the smoking-hot barrel, until he was face to face with the younger man, breathing Parker’s s soiled air, panting and sweating and growing weaker by the second.
Parker heaved and bucked beneath him like a rodeo bull while Val struggled to tear the .22 free. Parker twisted right, his legs gaping wide, his heels churning the dry soil, throwing Val halfway off and almost breaking free completely but leaving himself hopelessly exposed in the process. Val saw his chance; he pushed himself up on his left knee and drove his right knee deep into Parker’s groin.
Parker gasped and his grip on the .22 slackened. Val je
rked it free and rolled left, fumbling the gun one-handed as he rose to a sitting position. His hand was numb, trembling. It seemed to take an eternity for him to turn the gun around, get his hand around the grip and bring it to bear on Parker.
Parker was starting to rise by then, the revolver that had been strapped to his hip now in his fist. He lifted the pistol, cocking the hammer in the same motion, but Val was already aiming the .22 across his body, the extended barrel just inches from Parker’s temple.
Val squeezed the trigger three times as quickly as he could. Parker flinched with each bullet’s impact, but the guy was tougher than he looked. He didn’t go down, he just kept struggling to lift the pistol, his body responding to messages sent out from a brain that was crackling and sparking around the three low-velocity slugs.
Val had heard of men who had survived after being shot in the head with a .22. He wasn’t taking that chance with Parker, he couldn’t afford to. A ten-year old girl could have kicked Val’s ass at that moment. He fired twice more in rapid succession. He was about to fire again, when Parker stiffened then dropped back into the weeds and lay still.
Val’s eyes spun around the clearing, his ears straining at the sudden silence; there were still two more men with guns out there in the darkness.
Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound.
Cautiously, Val pushed himself to his knees. The pain in his shoulder was almost too much. Blood dripped from his fingertips, splattering the brown grass. And then the world spun out of focus and he found himself face down. For a long moment he teetered on the edge of consciousness, but the memory of the gunshots from inside the house drew him back.
“Victoria,” he croaked. Dead grass scratched his lips and the taste of dust filled his mouth. He shoved himself up to his knees and stayed that way for a moment, unsure if he could rise. But he would crawl if he had to.
“Help me,” someone moaned from the direction of the septic tank, a gurgling sound like water trickling into a sewer grate. “Help me.”