Corridor Man 6: Exit Strategy

by Nick James

  There was a sizzling sort of sound coming from the engine block, steam and smoke rose from the dash board area, the engine had been pushed into the front seat. The guy with the MAC-10 appeared to be semiconscious and groaning. He’d been pushed half-way into the backseat by the engine block. Some sort of metal shaft was sticking out of his chest. Blood was running from his ears, nose, and mouth, giving his groans a gurgling sound. His right eye was partially out of the socket and sort of sitting on his cheekbone.

  “Fucking thing is going to blow,” Miguel said, then shouted something in Spanish and he and the SUV driver hurried to their cars. “Bobby, come on, man, it’s gonna explode. Get the hell out of there.”

  Bobby stepped alongside the rear door and looked at the guy. He appeared to be conscious, seemed to gurgle some sort of noise, maybe in an effort to say something, possibly ask for help.

  He reached in through the shattered window, over the metal shaft imbedded in the guy’s chest. The guy gave an audible groan as Bobby’s arm bounced against the shaft, wiggling it up and down. He stretched across the guy and grabbed hold of the black nylon bag, pulling it out of the window, knocking the guy’s head over to the side in the process and causing him to give a painful, high-pitched sort of scream.

  “Hey, look what I got,” Bobby said holding up the black bag. “Thanks for keeping it for me. Guess I really am a badass. Stay warm,” he said, then hurried into the car and Miguel sped away.

  They’d barely reached the far side of the overpass when the wreck behind them exploded in a ball of flame that shot up against the beams supporting the overpass. They could feel the concussion from the explosion. Miguel shouted, “Jesus Christ,” and floored it.

  They took a roundabout way back to the office. The SUV was waiting alongside the curb when they turned the corner. The entered the building together and Bobby retrieved his cellphone from the dark corner of the lobby. Miguel and the three guys from the SUV rode up in the elevator with him. Once he unlocked the office door, Miguel said something in Spanish and they headed back to the break room.

  “I’ll join you in a minute,” Bobby said and hurried down the hall to his office. He input his code, then opened the door to the safe. He pulled back the Velcro straps across the top of the bag and opened the lid. Just as he’d figured, neatly wrapped bundles of hundred dollar bills were arranged inside, each bundle wrapped with a mustard colored strap labeled “$10,000” and the word “HUNDREDS” in white letters ran along both edges of the strap. Benjamin Franklin seemed to be looking at Bobby and smiling. He quickly emptied the bag, stacking the bundles of cash on a shelf in the safe until there were just five bundles left. Then he closed the safe, double checked to make sure it was locked, and hurried to the break room.

  As he approached he could hear the four of them laughing and talking loudly in Spanish. They were all standing around a table, a bottle of tequila, now half empty, sat on the table. The driver of the SUV said something, everyone raised their red plastic cups in a toast, then downed the contents. Bobby handed the black bag to Miguel and said, “Would you do the honors? One to each of them. Yours is in there, too.”

  Miguel set his cup down, opened the bag then looked over at Bobby, “Are you sure?”

  “I’d be dead right now if it wasn’t for you guys. That could have been me lying in that parking lot back there.”

  Miguel nodded. “Okay, jefe. You know jefe? It means boss,” he said then reached into the bag and proceeded to hand each man a bundle of hundred dollar bills. The bundles, clearly marked as ten thousand dollars caused a sudden quiet in the room as the three stood staring at Bobby and Miguel, wide eyed.

  “Thank you. You guys were really good tonight,” Bobby said.

  “We left the old one in the parking lot,” one of them said.

  “We shot him a couple more times, just to make sure he was dead,” another added.

  “Good. Well, finish those drinks and let’s all go home,” Bobby said then headed back to his office. He heard them leaving just a minute or two later and then Miguel stepped into his office.

  “Thank you for your generous gift, Bobby.”

  “Gift? You earned it. I want all of you happy. We’re liable to need their help again.”

  “Right now, the four of us would follow you to the end of the earth.”

  “Good,” Bobby said, “because there’s one more thing we have to take care of tonight. Give me your phone.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  The highway was wet although the rain appeared to have stopped. Occasionally the moon made a brief appearance through the clouds. Lightning flashed far out on the distant horizon, over in Wisconsin. The drive from St. Paul out to the town of Afton along the St. Croix river took twenty-five minutes. Denmark township was fifteen minutes south of Afton. Bobby had been out here once before, when he’d first been hired by the firm. Noah Denton had him run some files out to Virgil Allen’s home late one evening.

  He remembered the trip because it was close to nine at night by the time he was able to deliver the files. Virgil Allen had opened the door, taken the files from him and said a simple “thanks” before closing the door on him. The road to the home was just past a one-room school house that now served as a meeting place for the township. If they could find that building, he could get to Allen’s home.

  “There it is up there,” Bobby said as they passed the historical site sign. “Take a right on the road just past the school house. The thing winds back into the hills, they’re on the lefthand side, about a mile back. The mailbox is black with their name and a white horse on it.”

  “You know we could have done this for you, saved you the trouble. Kept you distant,” Miguel said.

  “I know, and I appreciate that. But this is personal, and it has to be done tonight. We wait any longer and I’ve no doubt he’ll be talking to the police tomorrow.”

  Miguel slowed and turned right onto the gravel road just past the school house. They didn’t meet another vehicle on the road although they passed three farmhouses as the road wound back into the hills.

  “There it is, their mail box,” Bobby said a few minutes later. “I’ll get out here and walk in.”

  “You sure. We could just…”

  “Yeah, I’m sure. I don’t know what I’m going to find. His wife passed away a year or two ago. I doubt he’ll have anyone there, but you never know.”

  “Why don’t I pull in by those trees and just wait? If you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’ll walk in and make sure you’re all right.”

  Bobby seemed to think about that for a moment then said, “Okay, but kill the lights going in.”

  Miguel nodded, then said, “You still have that pistol?”

  Bobby touched the pistol tucked into the back of his belt and nodded.

  “If you use it, we’ll get rid of it on the way home. Twenty minutes and then I come for you.”

  Bobby slid out of the back seat and hurried down the drive. It wound in an ’S’ shape so that the home was hidden from the gravel road. There was a large red barn maybe a quarter mile in, original to the property from the look of it. A number of areas lined with white fences and Bobby recalled that Allen’s wife had been very involved with horses before she died.

  The house was a contemporary structure, sided with stained cedar or redwood and built into the side of a hill. The front two stories were largely glass and faced the barn while the hill rose up along either side of the house so that the rear of the structure appeared to be only one story high. The front windows appeared dark, and at first Bobby wondered if Allen was even home or if he might have already gone to bed. As he drew closer he saw a light up on the second floor. An office?

  He walked around to the side of the house, and hurried up the hill. A large wooden deck ran along the entire back of the house, maybe two feet off the ground. There was a railing around the deck and a bird feeder on a metal pole was positioned about every ten feet. A soft light illuminated a room at the far end of the deck
. The light drifted out from a sliding glass door and slowly washed into blackness before it reached the railing. Classical music drifted out of the room.

  Bobby stepped onto the deck and cautiously tiptoed toward the light. The music grew louder as he approached. He recognized the piece playing although he would never have been able to name it. He stopped at the edge of the light, then cautiously peeked around the corner. Allen sat behind a desk in an office chair. He was dressed in trousers and a white shirt that looked to have been worn all day. His shirt sleeves were rolled halfway up his forearms. His suit coat and tie rested over the arm of an upholstered chair close to the hallway door. What appeared to be a half-filled whiskey glass rested on a paper napkin in front of him, next to a half empty bottle and a cell phone. Allen sat with his eyes closed, moving his arms as if directing the orchestra.

  The glass panel in the door was opened and Bobby began to slowly slide the screen back just far enough so he could slip into the room. He cautiously stepped in and watched Allen for two maybe three minutes. Allen’s hands continued to direct the orchestra and then suddenly thrust forward three or four times, bringing the movement to a conclusion.

  He reached forward, grabbed his whiskey glass and began to raise the glass, only then resting his bloodshot eyes on Bobby standing in the doorway. “Custer, Jesus Christ, you damn near gave me a heart attack. What, what are you doing? Oh, ummm, please come in, come in. Can I offer you some…”

  “No, gee thanks, but nothing for me, Virgil. How are you?”

  “Me? Just fine thank you. I…”

  “You hear from Charlie?”

  “Charlie? Sawyer? No, umm, why would he be calling me tonight. I’ve been home all evening, haven’t heard a word. Honest. I…”

  “He was supposed to meet with me. See if we couldn’t bring this Saunders situation to a conclusion that would be acceptable to all parties. Apparently he couldn’t be bothered.”

  “He couldn’t be…but that was our arrangement. That was what he was supposed to…”

  “What can I tell you? It didn’t happen.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, we discussed it. He had the damn cash. Told me he was going to take care of everything. He wouldn’t have run off with it. He was going total once…”

  “Oh, maybe I didn’t make myself clear. He showed up, he was there. Along with some other idiot.”

  “Other idiot?”

  “Yeah, I think old Charlie’s temper got the best of him, once again. You should maybe give him a call. See if we can’t sort this whole situation out.”

  “Call him? Yeah, sure, let me do that,” he said then picked up his phone, made a swipe across the screen and tapped his finger on the screen a couple of times. He looked up at Bobby and said, “I’m sure we can sort this…” A puzzled look crossed his face and he glanced at the phone, then apparently redialed. He grimaced and visibly swallowed.

  “Maybe put the phone down, Virgil. I don’t think he’s going to answer.”

  “The recording said he’s not in service. What the hell….”

  “Charlie tried to kill me, Virgil. You can maybe see how well that worked. The guy with him wasn’t very nice. Know what he did?” Bobby said and took a couple of steps toward Allen.

  Allen shook his head, and as he did so rolled his chair back from his desk a few feet until it stopped up against the wall.

  “The mean man killed Charlie. Shot him a number of times. Charlie’s dead. He’s in a parking lot, face down in a puddle.”

  Allen let off a soft whimper, closed his eyes and began to cry, “No, no, no. I had nothing to do…”

  The gunshot seemed to roar through the room then echo off the wet hillside just beyond the deck. Bits of skull, brain matter and blood sprayed across the wall. Bobby picked the paper napkin off the desk. He wiped the handle clean on the sliding screen door then stepped outside and pulled the screen closed. He’d taken a step or two, and was just on the edge of light drifting out the door onto the deck when he heard a female voice.

  “Virgil? Virgil, are you all right? Virgil?”

  The End

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  Don’t miss the sample of

  Corridor Man: Howling

  on the following page.

  Nick James

  Corridor Man:

  Howling

  Published by Credit River Publishing 2017

  Copyright Mike Faricy 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior and express permission of the copyright owner.

  All characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Corridor Man: Howling is written by Mike Faricy under the pseudonym Nick James.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank the following people for their help & support:

  Special thanks to Roxanne, Julie, Steve, Mittie, Toui and Roy for their hard work, cheerful patience and positive feedback. I would like to thank family and friends for their encouragement and unqualified support. Special thanks to Maggie, Jed, Schatz, Pat, Av, Emily and Pat, for not rolling their eyes, at least when I was there. Most of all, to my wife, Teresa, whose belief, support and inspiration has, from day one, never waned…did I mention patience?

  “One beast and only one howls in the woods by night.”

  ― Angela Carter

  Nick James

  Corridor Man:

  Howling

  Chapter One

  Lately Bobby had taken to ducking into Luigi’s in the evening once or twice a week before he called Miguel for his ride home. Luigi’s was located right next to his office building, forty-nine feet from door to door if one cared to measure. The bar consisted of a long, narrow room, with the actual bar running two-thirds of the way back toward an open area that held six booths and four small tables. The lights were dim, and the conversation muffled.

  You’d never know the place even existed unless you worked next door or maybe across the street. It was the type of out-of-the-way place you might go to meet someone you were having an affair with, then, after three or four drinks the two of you could hustle around the corner to the Hilton or a block further to the St. Paul Hotel and grab a room until midnight, all in the name of working late.

  Bobby kept a low profile at Luigi’s. He neither talked to the bartender nor any customers, and for that matter nobody ever really talked to him. He always got a friendly nod when he stepped inside, but that was about it. The bartender would ask, “Usual?” and Bobby would nod. He’d just stay for one, relax for maybe twenty minutes, leave a five-dollar tip and then quietly head out the door. When you think about it, maybe he was the perfect customer.

  The man was large, with dark, curly hair and a goatee sprinkled with grey. He wore a black leather jacket with a band collar, front zip pockets and belted cuffs. He stepped into Luigi’s maybe ten minutes after Bobby had arrived, gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light, briefly scanned the place, then seemed to make a beeline for Bobby quietly seated in a dark corner of the bar all by himself.

  “Custer? Bobby Custer? Is that really you?”

  Bobby looked up, came back to reality as the large figure stepped around the corner of the bar and stood smiling with an outstretched hand, blocking any hope of escape. “Hey, how’s it going?” Bobby said, smiled and shook hands. The face was vaguely familiar and he desperately attempted to come up with a name.

  “What’d we serve together, four years?” the voice boomed.

/>   There it was, “serve together,” and he wasn’t referring to time in the navy. The FPC up in Duluth, short for Federal Prison Camp. It immediately came to him, this loud bastard was Jeremy Leeks, the “Leeker.” “Jeremy, what a surprise. Great to see you,” Bobby lied. “It’s been a while.”

  “Yeah. Quite the surprise running into you here. Who knew?”

  “You living here in St. Paul?”

  “Me? No, I’m just up from Chicago, business, you might say. You know a little of this, a little of that. Out of touch for those years, you know how it is, you gotta work twice as hard to get back into things.”

  “A drink, sir?” the bartender asked.

  “Sure, ahhh, make it a Grey Goose martini, dirty, two olives and another one of whatever my friend here is drinking.”

  “Oh, I’d love to, Jeremy, but I’ve got to get going.”

  “Serve ‘em up,” he said to the bartender, then looked at Bobby and gave a cold smile. “She can wait, you’re worth it.”

  “Yeah, I wish,” Bobby said, sliding off his stool. “No, a client meeting and unfortunately I can’t be late. Appreciate the offer. Here, let me buy you a drink,” he said and tossed a twenty on the bar. “But I’ve got to take off. Great to see you again, Jeremy. We’ll have to get together some other time.”

  “I’d love it. We’ll talk over the old days. Great seeing you again, Custer. Good luck in the client meeting,” he said, sounding like he didn’t believe a word Bobby had spoken. “I’ll see you ‘round,” he said under his breath just as Bobby turned sideways and wiggled past.