The Shop

by J. Carson Black

“Take her with you. All I’m saying, use a different card for her.”

  “Nah, she’s got something going. It’ll be just myself, I guess.”

  They had breakfast at anchor in the bay. Franklin cooked—eggs Benedict, chopped red potatoes with onions, and a garnish of fresh fruit. Frank took his breakfast cooking seriously. He wore a barbecue chef’s apron with a drawing of a spatula and a barbecue fork.

  Landry was impressed by Frank’s resilience. In fact, he enjoyed Frank’s company, once the unpleasantness was out of the way. Landry was surprised by this. As one of the architects of the Shop, Franklin would pay the ultimate price. It was clear Frank thought he was going to ace this, that he would come out unscathed, once he delivered Mike Cardamone to the FBI. Landry let him think that. It made for an interesting hour of wide-ranging conversation, not to mention delicious victuals.

  Frank stood over him in his chef’s apron, holding a real spatula, which looked a lot like the one emblazoned on his chest. “You like the eggs?”

  “I love the eggs.”

  “There’s more. Want another?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “The hollandaise is an old family secret. That lemony zing? Do you taste it?”

  “I like the zing.”

  “Thought you would.” Franklin replaced Landry’s plate with a fresh one filled with more eggs Benedict and cottage potatoes, and sat opposite him. He leaned forward, elbows on the table. Landry’s mother would call that bad manners, but times had changed and even Landry put an elbow on the table now and then.

  “You really think this is going to work?” Frank asked.

  “If you can get Cardamone here.” The hollandaise really was zingy. He’d have to remember to get the recipe.

  “And he’ll end up in supermax?”

  “That’s my guess.”

  “Good. He’s a dangerous guy. Not only is he a spook, but he was special forces. You know how those guys are. They’re nothing but glorified assassins. I’ve heard that once they get a taste for it, they can never go back.”

  Landry shrugged.

  “What I’m really worried about is Grace. She’s not part of this.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  “You see, she was just being supportive. You know how husbands and wives talk about everything? It was like that. Are you married?”

  “I have a wife and a daughter.”

  “Then you know what I’m talking about. I’d really like to keep her out of this.” He paused. “You know what it’s like to love someone, really love someone? That’s how I feel about Grace. I imagine that’s how you feel about your wife. More strawberries? There’s plenty.”

  “No, thanks. But I like this hollandaise.”

  “It’s good, isn’t it? But you see, Grace, she’s the love of my life. I don’t know about what it’s like, your marriage, but with Grace it was always me wanting her. Even though I was the attorney general of the United States, even though I have a law degree from Yale and she was just a local girl who only went to two years of junior college, I think—I’m pretty sure—I love her more than she loves me. Not that that’s a bad thing. Every marriage is a balancing act, right? Kind of like a teeter-totter.”

  Landry wasn’t sure why Franklin was telling him this. It didn’t seem important in the scheme of things. But Franklin’s time was growing short, so Landry decided to be polite and listen. Plus, Frank was a tremendous cook. And he had a way about him. Charming at times. He liked the fact that Franklin remained upbeat in the face of adversity. A glass-half-full kind of person. The eternal optimist.

  Frank licked his lips. “Thing is, what I’m worried about, is she’s got this connection to a church. The Victorious Redemption Spiritual Church. Have you heard of it? It’s been in the news a lot.”

  Until recently, Landry had paid no attention to the news. But when he became interested in Frank, he had researched him on the Internet—be prepared. He knew where Frank was going with this. Grace’s association with the church had taken up the whole first page of Google. Since talking about it was clearly cathartic for Frank, Landry pretended interest. It was the least he could do.

  “The reverend there is…well, he’s kind of off-the-wall. He’s a…ah, I don’t know quite how to put this—he’s sticking his pecker in a lot of hornet’s nests. I know there have been death threats. And there’s at least two investigations into his dealings—”

  “There are.”

  “There are?”

  “There are two investigations. There are.”

  “This is the second time you’ve corrected my grammar. You used to be an English teacher before you joined the FBI?”

  “Let’s get on with the story. What kind of investigations?”

  “Bribery. Money laundering. Something hinky going on there. Gunrunning, maybe, to the Congo. The minister, his name is Mister Wembi, and that’s what they call him, with the Mister always before the name, like it’s a second language or something. He’s white, but he spent a lot of time in Africa hunting witches—can you believe it? He was a ‘witch identifier.’ Even took the African name, which I think is weird. Probably a marketing ploy. Grace has donated a lot of money to the church, and she’s on the board—she’s, well, religious. It’s the one thing I don’t like about her. Well, that, and all the money she spends on the horses.”

  “What kind of horses?” Landry asked, suddenly interested.

  “Arabians. And Hackneys. She drives them.”

  Hackneys. Some people.

  “We’re not as rich as we used to be,” Frank mused. “I’d say we’ve lost about thirty percent of our wealth, which, when you think about it, isn’t too bad. But Grace doesn’t like the way we look to outsiders. Like we’re obscenely rich. She wants me to get rid of this boat, but I won’t. This is my baby. She’s got her horses and her church, and I’ve got the Hinckley.”

  “Understandable,” Landry murmured.

  Frank took both ends of his linen napkin and began twisting it in his fingers—an annoying distraction.

  Landry said, “So what do you want from me?”

  “I’d just like to keep that aspect—the church—quiet. It has nothing to do with any of this. The Shop. Nothing at all. I’m worried that if this guy, this reverend, gets wind of it, he’ll set her up to take the fall.”

  “For the gunrunning and money laundering? How deep is she into this? It doesn’t sound like she’s just on the board.”

  “It’s…the church is an obsession. I just don’t want her hurt. Those people—on some level, I think they’re dangerous. He is. He’s scary. A charismatic leader, kind of like the guy with the Kool-Aid, Jim Jones.”

  Landry had had enough of this conversation. “Consider it done. We’ll keep that under our hat.”

  “Good.” He was back to cheerful again. “That’s a big load off my mind.”

  “No problem.”

  “I was wondering…”

  “What were you wondering?”

  “Are those two men—the ones who were killed—are they still on board?”

  Landry nodded. “I put them on ice, though, that’s why there’s no smell.”

  “Ah, I see.” He thought about it. “The ice from the bait well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you really need them? Couldn’t we weigh them down and throw them overboard?”

  “You know I can’t do that. That would be tampering with evidence. Besides,” he added, “they’re not eating anything.”

  “I guess,” he said at last. “I just thought I’d give it a shot.”

  Landry nodded, then got up and started clearing the table. “Can you write out that recipe for me?” he asked.

  “Tell me about Danehill Security,” Landry said as they approached Indigo Island.

  Franklin shrugged. “Not much to tell. I hired them a month ago when the shit started hitting the fan. Grace wanted me to go the cut-rate route, so we compared prices. They’re not exactly the A-Team. I’d say they’re more like the
E-Team. Or even worse than that.”

  “Oh?”

  “These guys don’t have any discipline. It’s just a job to them. But you have to understand—I’m spoiled. As the attorney general, I had a topflight security detail.”

  They came in on the leeward side, rounding the spit of land that ended St. Joseph Peninsula. Motored past the state park—white beaches, marshy areas, trees noisy with birds, wildlife, and campers. Next were the expensive houses and private docks. Up ahead, in the crook of the peninsula’s elbow, Landry saw two islands.

  “Opal Island,” said Franklin, motioning to the smaller one. “It’s a resort. Very exclusive.”

  Gated. Palm trees. Golf courses. A complex of buildings. All very high-toned, pristine. But the island had almost a plastic patina to it, like Saran Wrap. More Disney World than Florida panhandle. It didn’t look real.

  Indigo Island looked real.

  There were similar palms. There was a small golf course, but it appeared shoddy and neglected in the bright morning sunlight, like a paint-by-numbers set. The trees encroached. A very tall wrought iron fence made a sporadic and halfhearted ring of the island, punctuated by No Trespassing signs.

  Landry squinted past the black bars of the fence. He spotted stables and a good-sized riding ring through the trees. The octagonal house Franklin had told him about looked like a wedding cake. It reminded Landry of Dickens’s Great Expectations, a book he’d read in high school and one that had fascinated him by its pure weirdness. The house looked like something Miss Havisham would have kept in her refrigerator—if they’d had refrigerators in her day.

  The other three structures were painted to match the octagon house, yellow with white trim. Rectangular swimming pool, chaise lounges lined up razor-straight facing the pool, like you’d find at a high-class hotel. Three permanent cabanas. Golf cart paths ran through the compound like ant trails. Plenty of parking.

  Landry noted a causeway, maybe two hundred and fifty meters long, linking Indigo Island to the mainland. Narrow. Landry guessed the causeway had been built early in the last century—the only way onto the island by land. There was a guardhouse situated on the small spit of land that led onto the causeway. Dark uniforms, ball caps. The security company. The E-Team.

  They tied up at the dock opposite an ancient, beat-up skiff—had to be twenty years old. Landry thought it must have sentimental value. In his travels, he’d noticed that rich people didn’t seem to throw away their old possessions. He’d seen plenty of stud farms breathtaking in beauty but still containing the odd rusty pickup or old shed.

  The boathouse, a real antique, was empty. Frank had mentioned they’d sold a lot of their toys recently. The jet. The expensive cars. The picnic boat. The only thing they hadn’t cut back on, according to Frank, was Grace’s Hackneys. She still had plenty, and they were eating him out of house and home.

  “Where are your agents again?” Franklin asked.

  Landry motioned to the houses and the boats tied up to the long docks on the peninsula, and to the trees and bushes onshore.

  Franklin nodded. “And why do we need to get rid of my security people?”

  “This is an FBI operation. Your people would only get in the way. They’re the E-Team, remember?”

  Franklin nodded again. “The Keystone Cops, only dumber.”

  Franklin handed over control of the boat to Landry. Landry enjoyed the docking procedure on the Hinckley. He’d done it before, but of course Franklin didn’t remember that. The jetstick was a lot like the joystick on the video games Landry grew up with. Docking the Hinckley was just like parallel parking.

  The morning was sunny, but there had been some chop in the open bay. Weather reports did not lie.

  A storm was coming.

  43

  As they tied up, Landry spotted a girl lying on the other dock. She looked exactly like a Barbie doll. Tanned Barbie, maybe. She was lying on a chaise cushion that had been dragged out to the dock, talking to a member of Franklin’s security detail. Big guy, biceps that only came from hours in the gym, his Danehill Security cap sitting atop a bulging shaved neck like a child’s beanie. He dangled his feet in the water. Landry could hear hip-hop music coming from somewhere. He detested hip-hop music. He glanced at Franklin. The man’s face was grim.

  “That Riley?” Landry asked him.

  “Uh-huh.” The way he said it showed he was simmering. “She’s after the help again.”

  The help, Landry thought. Like Luke Perdue. He hopped down from the boat to the dock and started walking in their direction.

  Franklin rushed up behind him, trying to keep up. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ll see.” He crossed to the other dock and strode toward the two people at the end. He didn’t pause when he reached them but let the momentum carry him right up to the moment he pushed his foot into the security man’s back, toppling him into the water.

  The man had time to say “Hey!” before he hit. He made a big splash—probably weighed 240.

  The guy stood up in the waist-high water. His face was red, either from the sun or from anger, except for the white triangle of zinc oxide on his nose. “You mother fucker, what’d you do that for?” he yelled, trying to get up on the dock. He had to pull with his arms and hands.

  Landry stepped on one of the hands. “You know what my wife’s favorite TV show is?”

  The guy just stared at him.

  “Celebrity Apprentice. You ever watch Celebrity Apprentice?’”

  “What the fuck? What are you talking about? Get off my fucking hand!”

  “Donald Trump? Remember the part where he says, ‘You’re fired’? Well, that’s what you are, chum. You’re fired.”

  “Get your foot off my hand!” The guy looked at Franklin. “Who the fuck is this fucker?”

  Franklin looked nervous, but said, “He’s my new security.”

  Landry was really starting to like Franklin.

  “You can’t fire me. We’ve got a contract—”

  Landry’s foot came off the man’s hand and toed into his larynx. You could overdo it, so Landry pulled back at the last moment and tipped up the chin, just enough pressure to send the man back into the water.

  “Daddy!” screamed Riley.

  The guy stood up again. He looked up at Landry and let out another string of profanities laced with obscenities. Landry felt uncomfortable with that. He was raised the old-fashioned way, and you didn’t curse in front of a lady. But a glance at Riley told him she wasn’t one, so he let it go.

  She looked avid. Like a cat waiting for a mouse’s next move.

  Landry returned his attention to the security guy. For a moment Landry thought the guy would lunge at him, but then he thought better of it and waded to shore. He emptied his cap into the water and slapped it against the dock, then glared at Franklin. Franklin took a step back.

  “You don’t have to fire me. I quit!”

  “Daddy, what are you doing?” demanded Riley.

  Franklin glanced at her and then back at the security guard. “I want all of you off-property ASAP. I’ll settle up with your boss.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The E-Team.

  Riley tagged along as they went to the security center situated in a metal outbuilding not far from the main house. She wasn’t the only one who tagged along. A pack of dogs joined them, mostly terrier types. Yapping and snapping, making Landry wonder how thick his socks were.

  In the security center, Frank reiterated his position, this time to the chief of security, whose name was Melvin Graus. He told Graus that Danehill was no longer providing protection for the island. The chief was understandably upset. First he tried intimidation, then he tried logic, then wheedling, and back to intimidation. To his credit, Franklin stood firm.

  “You know there’s a provision in here about premature termination of the contract,” said Graus. “You’re going to have to pay us a substantial amount in penalties.”

  “You can talk to my accountant ab
out that.”

  “I’ve never heard of Salter Security.” He glared at Landry. “Are you sure of this guy’s bona fides?”

  “His bona fides are fine,” Franklin said.

  Landry liked Franklin better all the time.

  “Okay then. You’ll be hearing from our attorney.”

  Franklin said to Graus, “I want you off the property by noon today.”

  Landry leaned near Franklin’s ear and said, “Eleven.”

  “Eleven today. Eleven sharp.”

  “But we have equipment to move, electronics—we can’t just pack up like we’re in the circus.”

  “You’d better get to it then.”

  Landry said to Franklin, “Boss?”

  “Yes?” He sounded slightly bemused at Landry calling him boss.

  “Do you want me to escort Mr. Graus out?”

  “Yes, you do that.”

  “I can find my own way out,” Graus said stiffly.

  Landry stood over Graus and held his eyes. “I’ll want to see your inventory.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  Landry said to Franklin, “It’s a precaution. We wouldn’t want him walking off with any equipment he doesn’t own.”

  Franklin said, “I hardly think he would do that—”

  Landry ignored him and remained where he was—towering over Graus. He felt Graus’s confusion, calculated the moment the smaller man would take a step backward. He was off by about two seconds.

  “All right, if that’s what you want,” Graus said to Franklin.

  “Good, I’ll meet you—all of you—by the guard’s gate at eleven hundred hours,” Landry said. He held Graus’s eyes until the man looked away.

  After Graus was gone, Frank said, “I need to practice what I’m going to say to Cardamone. Mike is a smart guy. He’ll know something’s up if I don’t sound convincing.”

  Landry was sure Franklin would be convincing, but he said, “Okay. But I’m going to need to see the grounds.”

  Frank led the way out of the security center. He seemed pleased with himself. Standing up to someone was probably a rare occurrence for him. Landry noticed Riley looking at her dad in a new way. She was looking at Landry, too, but her look for Landry was different.