The Alex Troutt Thrillers: Books 1-3 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set)

by John W. Mefford

  “Really?” Jerry’s lips turned up at the corners. “I was just there a few months ago. Did you have a chance to visit the Beatles museum?”

  “Uh, yeah. Kind of cool. Anyway, how much you willing to fork over for the McCartney guitar?”

  “You’re going to play it that way, huh, where I’m the first one to commit to a price?”

  “Look, I know you’re not twenty and naïve, like some people I know, and I can tell you know a lot about guitars. I always say, I like a well-educated customer.”

  “Right. Well, it’s fifty percent off.”

  “True. But just remember, this guitar here is vintage. The real deal. Straight from Liverpool, England, my man.”

  Carrying an invisible cloud of musty aftershave and tobacco, Paulie drew up next to Jerry and ran his hand down the side of the guitar.

  Jerry leaned in closer to him and murmured, “I don’t give a shit about this fake guitar. But I’m really looking to score something big. We know someone who wants to do a job. And he needs some pocket rockets, if you know what I’m saying.” Jerry sniffed and rubbed his nose.

  Paulie paused for a second, then shifted his eyes to me. “You two together?”

  “We’re kind of a team,” I said. “But it’s all about our clients. They tell us what they need, and we figure out a way to get it.”

  Paulie gave one nod, as if he was still processing the last thirty seconds.

  I gave him something else to consider. “Just flew in from Chicago last night. The last time I was in Boston was when I was younger than that couple.” I gave him a wink.

  “Well, I’m guessing that was just a couple of years ago, then,” Paulie said, obviously enjoying my flirtation.

  It took every ounce of self-control to not show my revulsion for his bodily stench and the sight of his mouth filled with the mangled cigar.

  “Do I need to get you a bib for your drooling?” Jerry cocked his head to the side.

  Paulie fumbled with his words. I got the feeling he wasn’t used to someone calling him out.

  “You just going to stand there and ogle my woman, or are you going to extend us the courtesy and give us a little tour of the merchandise? We brought cash with us.”

  Jerry subtly dug into his coat pocket and pulled a three-inch wad of cash just far enough out to where we could see it was the real stuff. Paulie was back to drooling, and I was equally impressed, or maybe just stunned. I had no clue Jerry carried that much cash on him. I wanted to question his decision-making, although right now it was a genius move.

  “Give me a second.” Paulie plodded away and disappeared behind the curtain.

  Jerry and I locked eyes, but I didn’t say anything. I casually walked over to the McCartney guitar. Jerry touched the neck of the guitar and thumbed a string.

  “They’re probably watching us with their in-store cameras. I’ve seen two since I’ve been here,” I said under my breath.

  “I counted three,” Jerry said, sidling up next to me like a good undercover boyfriend.

  “Okay, now it’s a contest. I see.” My breath hissed through my teeth, and I felt like a ventriloquist, minus the strings and puppet of course.

  Jerry leaned across the guitar and dinged his fingernail off a cymbal on the drum set. “I wonder if this belonged to Ringo.”

  “Good one,” I said, just as he pulled back his arm, bumping the contusion on the side of my head.

  My breath caught in my throat, but I somehow managed not to grab my head. “That one smarted,” I said with an eye half open.

  “Sorry. I’m such a damn klutz. I’m so big now I don’t even know how much space I take up.”

  “Yo.”

  Jerry and I lifted our sights and found Paulie sticking his neck out from the curtain. “Back here.” He waved at us to follow, then dropped back behind the curtain.

  Knowing every move was likely being captured on video, we maintained our casual composure and walked in that direction. Jerry slid the curtain back, and we stepped inside a room filled with crates and boxes. Paulie leaned over a metal desk littered with papers and crumpled fast food bags.

  “So where does the tour start? Our clients are on a timeline,” Jerry said.

  Paulie lifted a sheet of paper as he removed his cigar and threw it in a trash can next to the metal desk. He nodded while releasing a single chuckle. That’s when I heard a click in my ear, and I froze.

  “Dante here…he thinks you guys aren’t who you say you are.”

  Jerry glanced over my head. I didn’t bother because I knew a handgun was sitting about two inches from my skull.

  “No need to look at Dante. Keep your eyes on me, motherfucker,” Paulie said, his feet shoulder-width apart and his arms now crossed.

  “This is a fucking joke,” Jerry said, crossing his arms to try to out-casual the opposition. “We travel all this way, and this is the respect we get?”

  “We don’t even know your names,” Dante said between gritted teeth.

  I could sense the gun jittering, and I was worried how Dante might manifest his intensity.

  “Names? This is why your panties are in a wad?” I said, keeping my body as still as a statue. “You never asked us our names, Paulie.”

  “True. So, give us your names, and we’ll do a quick check with people we know.”

  “I’m Giordano. This is Molloy.” For whatever reason, I used my old married name, hoping maybe common Italian roots might encourage them to chill out, put down the weapon, and get down to the business of opening up more about their dealings—something a warrant wouldn’t give us.

  I swallowed through a scratchy throat, and a quick thought shot through my mind: I wondered if our BPD backups, Lewis and Hitzges, were truly on standby, or arguing about a bologna sandwich.

  Paulie smiled. “Italian and Irish working together. Wow, the world has changed.”

  “Well, this Irishman is getting pissed.” Jerry pointed a finger at Paulie.

  I understood his strategy. I just hoped it didn’t end with a bullet in my head.

  Jerry continued with an animated tone. “I don’t like a gun being pointed at my lady or me. So either make your phone call and do your little due diligence and let’s get down to business, or we’ll just take our business and considerable funds to another supplier. Capisce?”

  I saw spit flying out of Jerry’s mouth.

  Paulie shot an eye toward his colleague, then glanced back to Jerry. “No doubting you have that Irish temper.”

  “He’s been going to anger management classes,” I added. “So far, it’s a work in progress.”

  Paulie twisted his lips, then flipped his head toward the man holding the gun at my head. Slowly, Dante shifted in front of us, lowering his gun to his side. He was younger, stout, and I saw muscles ripple through his forearm. My facial expression didn’t change, but my lungs were finally able to fully inflate, allowing oxygen to reach my brain.

  The pair moved another ten feet or so from us and huddled together. I wondered if now was the time to go ahead and call in the cavalry—Lewis, Hitzges, and the uniforms.

  Jerry shoved his hands in his pockets, turning to me. “These guys seem like real amateurs,” he said, knowing he was in earshot of Paulie and Dante. “Not sure our client wants us interacting with guys who are so anxious and don’t work in a professional manner.”

  He started to turn toward the curtain, and I took a single step, thinking that would be the only step I’d take. I was right.

  “Molloy, hold up.”

  Flipping my head over my shoulder, I could see Paulie walking our way with a shit-eating grin on his face, his arms out wide.

  “Molloy, Giordano, what makes you think we can’t do business? Come here, give me a hug.”

  He wrapped his hairy arms around both Jerry and me, then popped us on our backs.

  “I’m not really a hugger,” Jerry said, wincing a bit. “But glad you, uh, came to your senses.”

  “All of you Irish guys are the same,” Pa
ulie said. “But that’s a good thing.”

  Jerry just nodded. “It better be. I can’t change.” His face turned from stoic into a belly laugh in about two seconds, and the rest of us joined in.

  Paulie extended his baboon arm toward the back of the room. “I don’t have all of my inventory here at the store, but I think our sampling will offer you plenty of choices, depending on the goal of your client’s exercise. You didn’t happen to mention your client’s plans.”

  He held his gaze on Jerry, but I spoke up. “No, we didn’t.”

  We followed Dante toward the back, crap cluttering the path, shelves, and sinks—in some cases stacked all the way to the ceiling. I even spotted what looked to be an Academy Award trophy sitting awkwardly on top of an open crate full of dolls.

  “I’m saving that puppy for the holiday season,” Paulie said from behind us.

  “Oh yeah?” I asked with little enthusiasm.

  “I can hear it in your voice,” Paulie said. “You don’t think it’s real, just because we’re a pawnshop.”

  My shoes clipped along the concrete as our procession turned down an aisle with floor-to-ceiling shelves on both sides, but very little light. I held out my arm to ensure I didn’t trip over Dante. I was able to make out the handgun that was tucked in the back waistband of his jeans.

  “So who sold their Oscar to a pawnshop?” I asked, a bit curious on how he’d spin this answer. He was, after all, a professional spin doctor.

  “Shit, lady. I’m not stupid. I understand no A-list actor or director would sell their big-time award to a pawnshop. Don’t work like that.”

  “So how does it work?”

  “You want me to share our magic business plan? We’ve been around for twenty-two years, so you know we’ve been doing something right.”

  Some might argue the opposite, since he’d expanded his operations into dealing illegal weapons. “You’re the man, Paulie.”

  “Damn straight, I am.” A couple of seconds at most passed. “Okay, I’ll tell ya since I know it’ll stay between us.”

  “My lips are sealed.”

  “Well, I know this guy whose brother knows this other guy. He creates replicas of stuff. And he created a replica of the Academy Award from 1998.”

  I could hear his snicker as the four of us made our way to the end of the aisle, then hooked a left and headed toward the corner.

  “You trying to say that golden trophy was replaced by a fake?”

  “Hell yes, that’s what I’m saying. It’s pure genius, I’m telling ya.”

  “If you say so, Paulie.” I’m not sure he heard me.

  “But you haven’t guessed who used to own that precious jewel.”

  “If the year was 1998, then that was the year of Titanic,” I said.

  “Okay, I can see you’re a movie buff just like me, but this Oscar is not associated with that big-budget movie. I’ll give you a hint. It has a connection to Boston.”

  We all stopped in the corner of the expansive back room. Dante flipped a switch on a metal support pole, and a cone of light encircled us and the boxes and crates stacked in front of us. Dante lifted a single box off a crate and set it aside. His arms sagged from the weight of each box, but he wasn’t very careful as he sat them off to the side. Once he cleared off the boxes, he pulled out the crate, scooting it a couple of inches at either corner. The encasing could probably fit a small piano, but something told me there was nothing musical inside.

  No one had spoken for a good minute as we all watched Dante do his thing, something he appeared very comfortable doing.

  A hand touched my elbow, and I turned to see Paulie’s ugly mug inside my personal space. I tried not to flinch.

  “So, are you not curious?” he asked.

  I forced myself to release a wry smile. “I’m more than curious, Paulie.”

  “Do you recall another movie that didn’t have that obnoxious budget and special effects?”

  I scanned my memory bank and a certain visual came to mind. “Boogie Nights? Oh wait, that one had a rather large special effect.”

  Paulie smacked his leg he laughed so hard, and he became even more congenial. He flicked his hand off Jerry’s arm. “You’ve got a real keeper here, Molloy. She’s funny.”

  “A real riot,” he deadpanned with a roll of his eyes. “But she’s got a feisty side as well.”

  “Whatever. He’s just not into movies like I am,” I said.

  Paulie scratched his thick scruff while smiling. Dante had just reached under a bench for a crowbar and wedged it inside the front lip of the crate.

  “You don’t have any other guesses?”

  I tapped my finger to my chin. “Hmmm. As Good as it Gets was filmed in New York City. That’s pretty close.”

  He swatted his hand to the side. “This is Boston, baby. We don’t want anything to do with the apple city. Think again. Boston setting and…”

  Leaning in closer, I took in a full dose of his cigar breath. I literally had to stop breathing so he wouldn’t see me grimace.

  Dante grunted with each downward thrust of the crowbar. The top of the crate released a wretched squeal.

  Paulie touched my elbow again. I was beginning to wonder if he cared more about our movie conversation than a pending deal that could net him thousands.

  “You’ve got to give me an educated guess.” He nodded about ten times in two seconds, the pupils in his eyes dilated with excitement.

  I knew the answer, but this was a time where it was all about building him up, making him feel at ease.

  “You’ve stumped me, Paulie. Just go ahead and tell me.”

  His grin couldn’t get any wider. “Good Will Hunting.”

  “Oh, right.” I turned to peek inside the crate as Dante peeled open the front lip about six inches.

  “Need some help?” Jerry offered.

  Dante’s nostrils flared as he barked at Jerry. “No.”

  “You’re the one sweating. Fine. I’ll just sit back and wait,” Jerry said.

  Paulie didn’t appear to notice their interaction and was now officially drowning in his own brush with stardom.

  “So that Oscar used to sit on the mantle in the home of…Matt Damon.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I said, feigning surprise.

  “I’m not shitting ya. Best Screenplay, the one he and his buddy, Ben Affleck, won when they were both kids.”

  “I remember the ceremony. Pretty cool,” I said, watching Dante pull out wood wool, dumping it on the floor.

  “Here’s the best part. I actually went along for the heist. The house was a fuckin’ mansion. It was unbelievable,” he said. The nasty stench of old cigar crossed my space.

  This guy was an open spigot. Now I needed him to keep the information flowing.

  “Well, look at that, we finally get to see the candy,” Jerry said, his hands on his knees as he admired the cache of weapons.

  Paulie kept staring into my eyes, and I wasn’t sure what to do. Then, an idea came to mind. “You remember the movie, Die Hard?”

  “Hell yes. A classic.”

  “Okay, Hans Gruber, can you show me your most potent weapon?”

  “Sure thing. Get out of the way, Dante.” Paulie pushed the more athletic man aside. If it wasn’t apparent before, now it was obvious who was in charge.

  He lifted some type of automatic weapon from the crate and coiled his hands around the grips.

  “This is one of my favorites, just the weight of it, how it sits in my hands. It’s the Thompson M1921 submachine gun. Its accuracy is amazing.” He slid the gun in the crook of his armpit and mimicked shooting it.

  He handed it to Dante, then reached into the crate and pulled out one I recognized.

  “The Kalashnikov. Russian made, but as a semi-automatic it’s hard to beat,” I said.

  Paulie twisted around to grin at Jerry. “You are one lucky man. A woman with so much culture and great knowledge of weapons. She’s the ultimate turn-on.”

  “I sho
uld know.” Jerry winked at me.

  “If you two don’t stop gushing over me, I’m going to have to kick both of your asses.”

  They howled in laughter, and I giggled along. Dante, meanwhile, set the submachine gun on a shelf and then opened another box and started sifting through it. Veins protruded from his temples. He still hadn’t relaxed. I kept an eye on him as Paulie continued with his demo.

  “Let me see, under here somewhere is my new all-time favorite. My little Oscar, as it were.” He handed the Kalashnikov to me, and I could feel Jerry’s eyes shift my way. We finally had a bit of firepower on our side of the ledger.

  Tossing handful after handful of wood wool over his shoulder, Paulie leaned over the rim of the crate, appearing as if he was plucking a baby from the crib. “Ahh, come here, my sweet little friend.”

  He stroked the scope of the machine gun as if it were his pet.

  “This, my friends, was built by our friends in Germany. Heckler & Koch.”

  “That looks like the MG4. It shoots the highest number of rounds in the least amount of time,” I said.

  “So right, Giordano. I love the way your name rolls off my lips. Giordano,” he said, kissing his fingers as if he were some type of Italian chef.

  “Lightweight too,” Jerry said.

  Paulie started stroking the barrel. “Here’s the best part. Depending on the needs of your client, to reduce the overall length of the weapon for transport, the butt stock can be folded to the left side of the receiver.”

  “Yep, that’s a nice feature,” I said.

  “How many of these can you get me?” Jerry asked casually, taking the gun out of Paulie’s hands and holding it up to his eye.

  “The sky’s the limit, if you have the money.”

  “Well,” Jerry released a breath, then rubbed his nose twice, “our client could use about fifteen of these MG4s. But there’s also something else he needs.”

  “Whatever it is, I can get it for you. We’re not called the A1 Pawnshop for nothing.” He grinned again.

  “I thought it was because you wanted to have that first spot in the phone book, back when that mattered,” I said with a wink.