Ghostman

by Roger Hobbs

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because I’m the one who had Moreno killed,” the Wolf said. “And if you don’t bring me the money from this morning’s heist, I’ll have you killed too.”

  25

  The car was silent except for the wind off the ocean whipping up against the glass. The lights from the highway cast long shadows through the pine trees to the west. Atlantic City hummed in the distance.

  My throat was dry.

  The Wolf said, “Atlantic City is mine, Ghostman. I know every ounce of marijuana and every thirteenth of methamphetamine that gets traded here. I knew about Ribbons and Moreno for months. They talked to the same people I talked to. Spent money at my casinos. Had rooms in my apartment complexes. Parked their cars on my street corners. Marcus must have been an idiot to think he could pull a job in my city without me knowing.”

  “You must’ve known Marcus was going to pay you with money from a job,” I said. “He was a jugmarker for close to twenty years.”

  “I knew. But I also knew what they were stealing. How do you think Marcus got the tip about the federal payload in the first place? Do you think it just came to him in a dream, or up through the grapevine like stories the tough guys spin in bars? No. He talked to people who talked to people who knew. And believe me, every person who knew also knew me.”

  “But if you knew about Marcus’s deal in advance, why did you let Moreno and Ribbons go through with it? Why shut them down after they’d stolen the money?”

  The Wolf sighed. “This is the thing about you thieves. You have no tolerance for complexity.”

  We were silent for a moment.

  “Tell me exactly what you want,” I said finally.

  “I want to offer you a deal,” the Wolf said. “A bargain. You are going to take all that money Marcus stole from the casino and put it on Marcus’s plane come Monday morning. You are going to let it synch up with the satellite trackers and then explode.”

  “That will send Marcus to prison for fifty years,” I said. “A death sentence for a man his age.”

  “Now you’re beginning to understand. If Marcus could use the money as a weapon, so can I.”

  I cleared my throat. “You said you were going to offer me a deal.”

  He gestured out to the salt marsh. “I’m not going to bury you out here.”

  “That’s not much of an offer. If you don’t kill me, Marcus will, even if he’s in prison. There are people very highly invested in his operation. I might not work for him, but I’m not stupid.”

  “Yes, he might try to kill you, but you should consider your situation in the short term. Out there, those ocean winds can get very loud. At night they sometimes start howling through the marsh reeds in big gusts. They sound exactly like screams, the locals say. Some people at the edge of the city will swear up and down there’s someone out there in the marsh screaming his head off. The effect is so convincing that tourists have been known to call the police. When the police tell them it’s just the wind, they don’t believe it. They go out in the middle of the night in their dungarees and their beach shirts, looking for the person screaming. But they never find anyone. It really is just the wind, you see. Real screams don’t carry that far. They barely carry more than fifty feet out here.”

  I didn’t say anything. The wind gusted against the window and blended in with the sound of the Wolf’s air conditioner.

  “One way or another,” the Wolf said, “you’re going to help me. Do what I say and I’ll put you on payroll. We’ll make a lot of money together. If you choose to disregard what I say, this will be the last conversation you’ll ever have. I’ll kill you just to send a message. Bury you out here under a sand dune so when the weather changes all that will be left are your teeth and that expensive watch on your wrist.”

  I looked out the window at the other black Suburban, where the two men were staring off into space. Maybe listening to the wind.

  “I don’t have the money yet,” I said.

  The Wolf turned his head a fraction of a degree toward me. “Oh, of course you don’t. If you did, you wouldn’t still be here. What I don’t understand is why Marcus sent a ghostman to find it and not an army of his thugs.”

  “I can get the money for you, but you have to let me go.”

  “So you can skip town and disappear on me? No, Ghostman. You’re trained to disappear. It’s practically all you do. If you’re going to work for me, you won’t leave my sight for the next thirty hours. We’ll go and pick up the stolen money together, in the company of my men. It’s the only way you’re leaving this marsh in one piece.”

  “How do I know you won’t shoot me in the head the minute I show you where the money is?”

  “Because I recognize a good ghostman when I see one,” he said. “And I’ve already had enough bloodshed for one day.”

  “Somehow I don’t believe that.”

  “Then think of it this way. You do what I ask and at the very least you’ll live just that much longer. It could be a few hours, a few days or a few years. But it will be longer. If you don’t do what I ask you’ll be dead in the next thirty minutes, right after you finish digging your own grave.”

  “Believe me,” I said, “that sounds like a good deal. But I don’t have what you’re looking for, and there’s no hope of finding it with you breathing down my neck.”

  “I’m not going to revise my offer.”

  “That’s too bad, because I can’t take it. If you offer me a twelve-hour window, it’s a done deal. Believe me, I hate Marcus as much as you do. But I can’t give you something I don’t have yet.”

  “I still don’t believe you.”

  “And you have good reason not to. I’m a world-class liar. But I don’t care if you believe me or not. Your whole operation bores me.”

  “Bores you. I’m threatening your life and you’re worried about being bored?”

  “Aren’t you?” I said. I opened the car door, cracking it just a little.

  “Do you understand what getting out of this car means, Ghostman?”

  I nodded and said, “I’ll take my chances with the sand dunes. Get back to me when you come up with something more interesting.”

  The Wolf didn’t say anything as I got out and slammed the door. He glared at me through the window, like I was some sort of puzzle he couldn’t figure out. Maybe he thought I was bluffing. Maybe he was bluffing and didn’t expect me to call him on it. In any case, he gestured to his driver to start the car. They turned around and drove slowly back toward the highway, leaving me behind with his two skinheads.

  I looked at my watch. Quarter after 3 a.m.

  Twenty-seven hours to go.

  26

  I watched his Suburban bob and buck down the trail, mud splashing up every few feet. The flat lands were full of wet sinkholes. The wind off the ocean picked up. The marsh grass was screaming.

  I knew better than to run.

  You can’t run from a shotgun. A 12-gauge, triple-aught, three-and-a-half-inch Magnum launches eight to twelve lead balls at about nine hundred miles an hour. And after a few feet the bullets start to spread out into a small deadly cloud. Each ball’s eight and a half millimeters wide and weighs as much as a nickel. Just one could blow a man’s brains out. Running wouldn’t do a damn thing.

  And there wasn’t anywhere to hide. There was a pine forest maybe five miles west and a couple of giant energy windmills some ten miles east, but everything in between was as flat as the desert. Plus they had a car. If I did manage to get out of shotgun range, they could just turn on the engine, drive up and run me over. Even on this sort of terrain, I couldn’t get away clean.

  I watched the Wolf’s Suburban disappear into the distance. The air tasted like salt water. I took a breath and let it out slow.

  I heard the car door open behind me and saw the blond get out. He stood there and blinked. His empty expression suggested that he wasn’t looking forward to shoveling six feet of wet marshland over my body when he w
as done killing me. The redhead got out soon after, but looked different. His eyes were wide open and his brow was slick. Sweating. He lifted the shotgun to his cheek and pointed it at me.

  “Sorry about this,” the blond said.

  I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.

  The blond walked around the back of the SUV and opened the door there with a push of a button. He had all sorts of supplies back there. Duct tape, wire, hacksaw, knives. He came back carrying a shovel. It was a long wooden thing with a rusted head. It must have been five feet long, at least, and caked with dried earth from the last time they’d used it. The blond stopped a few feet in front of me and threw it on the ground between us.

  I looked at it and said, “I’m not picking that up.”

  I didn’t even want to touch it. A shovel isn’t a very good weapon. It will destroy someone if you hit them with it, sure, but that’s the thing. You can’t hit someone with it. It’s too heavy and awkward. It takes too long to wind up and get it swinging forward. Then if you miss, you’re already committed to the swing. It takes even more time and effort to stop the momentum and try again. Anybody could see it coming. Some people might freeze up and take the blow, but not these guys. The blond would pull out his gun and they’d both shoot me before I’d finished my backswing.

  I looked at them.

  “You made your choice, man,” the blond said.

  I listened to the screaming wind and took another long look at the casino towers off in the distance.

  “Think of it this way,” the blond said. “You dig, you get to live a little longer. If it takes you two hours to dig a grave, that’s two extra hours. I’m not going to lie to you. You won’t get an opportunity to escape. But if you dig, at least you’ll have some time to think about things. Make your peace with god or whatever.”

  “What’s your name?” I said.

  The blond and the other guy traded glances. The redhead gripped the shotgun tightly, like he was afraid it might slip away from him.

  “If I’m going to die,” I told them, “I should at least know your names.”

  The blond was reluctant. After a moment he said, “I’m Aleksei.”

  “Martin,” the other guy said.

  “Aleksei. Martin. I’ve got money.”

  “You really think you can buy your way out of this?”

  “At least out of the digging,” I said.

  I reached into my pants pocket. Before I touched the money, though, Aleksei put his hand on his belt, where he kept that small gun. It was a Ruger LCP compact. Made out of that light metal stuff they use for airplanes. It was so small he could have kept it in his shirt pocket.

  “Slowly,” he said.

  I took out two grand in fresh bills, all bound together in mustard-colored paper straps. I held it out so they could see it, then I tossed the whole wad in the dirt between us.

  “Let me go,” I said, “and I can give you ten times that. It’s in the satchel in my car. I’ve got a whole pile of cell phones too. They’re yours.”

  “You won’t buy us,” Aleksei said.

  I held out my left hand. “Just look at my watch.”

  Aleksei and Martin both took a step forward. I put both my hands up.

  Aleksei extended his palm, as if I was supposed to take the watch off and hand it to him. Then he took another step forward, like he thought I was being difficult.

  That’s where he made his big mistake. Now we were less than three feet apart.

  And there was that shovel between us.

  I stomped the head of the shovel as hard as I could and the handle pivoted up like a lever. I grabbed it with both hands and threw it like I was lobbing a sledgehammer. The blade connected with the bottom of Aleksei’s jaw, which snapped closed and sent part of his tongue flying. I let go of the shovel, took another step forward and grabbed his right arm, twisting his wrist until it locked against the nerves at the base of his arm. He squealed in pain. In the same motion I took the gun out of my pocket, wrapped my arm around his neck and stuck the muzzle against his temple. It took hardly any work at all. When I was done, he was my human shield.

  I turned to Martin and said, “Drop it.”

  He ogled me for a moment, like he hadn’t really seen what just happened. He adjusted his grip on the shotgun. A few seconds passed. Aleksei wriggled against me, blood pouring out of his mouth and down his chin. I stepped to the left and the shotgun followed me.

  “You drop it,” Martin said.

  “Not going to happen.”

  Martin looked at me, then my revolver, then his friend.

  “I’m very good at this,” I said. “You don’t put the gun down soon, I’ll shoot Aleksei here right through the jaw. At this distance, I’ll kill him and then kill you before you get that clear shot you’re looking for. That’s all you’re doing, right? Looking for a clear shot?”

  Martin’s little neo-Nazi brain was working overtime now. I could see it. He was wrapping and rewrapping his pudgy little fingers around the shotgun’s rubberized grip. His palms were as moist as the marsh. A line of sweat was forming along the Fourteen Words on his knuckles.

  Aleksei gargled. Now the blood was going down his throat.

  There was another gust of wind.

  “Unload,” I said. “Right now.”

  He aimed it away from me and worked the pump. The action opened and a red shell popped out. He worked the slide again and another shell came out. He kept pumping until all six shells were on the ground. He cocked the gun open so I could see the firing chamber was empty, then dropped it to the side of the road. He looked back at me with his hands hanging by his thighs. I could hear him breathing.

  “Good,” I said, then pointed my pistol at his head and blew his brains out.

  The bullet hit Martin in the left cheek, just below the eye. It went through the roof of his mouth and exited through the base of his brain, where all the nerves meet up. Blood and brain matter and shards of bone painted the sand behind him. His body dropped like it was made of lead.

  I let Aleksei go. He stumbled forward, trying to regain his balance. Before he could take two steps, however, I hit him in the back of the head with the butt of my revolver and he flopped forward facedown into the mud. The blow must have rattled his brain, because he twitched in the dirt for a few seconds, then stopped and went out like a light.

  I took a moment to breathe.

  No sane person enjoys killing, but it isn’t as bad as people make it out to be. They say killing’s the worst feeling a guy can have, that it’s like dying a little on the inside. It was never like that for me. I didn’t feel much at all, really, just the pressure building in my chest like a bad case of heartburn. Breathing suddenly gets a little harder. Colors a little bit brighter. My problems seemed a little simpler and my thoughts a little faster, due to the adrenaline. All that would pass, if I gave it a few minutes. I just had to think about something else and focus on the task at hand. There was no shame in this.

  These men were weapons.

  I never considered leaving them alive. Mercy would be a mistake. As long as they were alive and able to hold guns, the Wolf would send them after me. Hell, even if the Wolf wasn’t in the picture, these guys would come after me on their own, because I’d got the better of them. Some guys don’t know how to walk away and move on once they’ve lost. The idea of revenge would bounce around in their heads like a subsonic .22-caliber bullet too slow to blow its way out. They’d come after me until I was dead, or they were. As long as they were alive, and had all their limbs, they were weapons.

  I patted Aleksei down. I pulled the Ruger from his belt and checked it. I dropped the magazine and pulled the slide back just far enough to see the nine millimeter in the chamber. I tossed the gun in the marsh. His passport was in his breast pocket. Aleksei Gavlik. Wallet and cell phone. The keys to the Suburban. I took his keys and scrolled through the contact list on his phone. None of the numbers had any names attached, but there had been more than fifteen calls in the
last ten hours to one number with an Atlantic City area code. The Wolf. I memorized the number, then snapped the phone in half and threw that in the marsh too.

  I went over to Martin and did the same thing. He had a wallet with a driver’s license giving an address down in Ocean City. Besides the shotgun and another set of keys, there was a small folding knife attached to his belt. I tossed it into the marsh too. I picked up the two grand I’d dropped on the ground, dusted it off and put it back in my pocket. I wiped the handle of the shovel down with my shirttail and hurled it as far as I could.

  Aleksei groaned and started moving again. His legs struggled uselessly through the mud.

  I went over and shot him in the back of the head. I wiped a spot of blood off my tie and walked away.

  I hit the cylinder release on my revolver and dropped the bullets and the empty casings into the ditch, then unscrewed the bolt handle and removed the rubberized grip. I cocked the gun back and pried the hammer spring free, then pulled off the hammer and firing pin and threw it as far as I could. The whole gun was in eight little pieces in less than a minute. I’d trail out the rest of the pieces along the side of the highway. It could take a team of men several months to find and put them all together again.

  I closed up the back of the Suburban, got in, backed up along the path until there was a place to turn around, then drove out to the highway. As I left, I listened to the quiet hum of the insects.

  27