Shotgun Honey Presents: Locked and Loaded (Both Barrels Book 3)

by Owen Laukkanen

  “How’s a guy from our old neighborhood have the scratch to buy a quarter million dollar policy?” I asked.

  “He borrowed it from the Gambinis.”

  “Loan sharks?”

  “Apparently, no one thought the kid would live as long as he did.”

  “What happened to the money?”

  “The Gambinis got a big chunk of it,” Ted said. “Doyle paid off all the kid’s medical expenses and invested most of the rest. But there’s $10,000 I can’t account for.”

  “Keep digging.”

  “There’s more,” Ted said. “I’ve been looking into Danny’s recent activities, too. He’s made a mess of things since his mother died. Their house is facing foreclosure and he’s had a long streak of bad luck with the ponies.”

  I had reached Doyle’s neighborhood by then and I parked my car where I could watch the front of his house. “So what’s Doyle got to do with the Danny’s money problem?”

  “Damned if I know,” Ted told me. “I’ll keep digging.”

  I don’t know what Ted found, if anything, because he didn’t live to see morning. While I was watching Doyle’s house, someone with a baseball bat used Ted for a piñata.

  I found his battered body in the second bedroom of his house, the one he used as an office. I called 911 from his landline and let myself out before the police arrived.

  Instead of driving to Doyle’s home to continue my surveillance, I drove to my office. Someone had trashed it but I didn’t take the time to clean up. I removed the unregistered 9mm taped under my desk and slipped it into my jacket pocket.

  Then I drove to Doyle’s house, intending to ask him a few questions about his recent activities. I arrived in time to see his car pulling out of the driveway. I followed.

  Again, he did not seem to realize he was being followed, and keeping him within sight was not a problem. Unexpectedly, he led me to Danny’s house.

  He parked at the curb and climbed out of his car with the briefcase I had seen him carrying the previous day. I parked half a block away and closed the distance in time to see Doyle climb the steps and push his way into the house.

  I heard a loud crash from inside as I hurried up the steps, and I had my 9mm firmly gripped in my right hand before I pushed the door open. I found two men sprawled out on the floor and Danny standing with a baseball bat at the ready. When he saw me, he lowered the bat.

  I didn’t lower my gun. “What’s this all about Danny?”

  “That son-of-a-bitch—” He pointed the bat towards the pug-faced leg breaker I had seen take money from Doyle two days earlier. “—came at me with this. And that son-of-a-bitch—” He pointed the bat at Doyle. “—hired him.”

  “Why?”

  “I was squeezing Doyle for more money,” Danny explained. “I figured he could afford it after all this time. I needed it more than he did and I deserved it for what I did.”

  “What did you do, Danny?”

  “I killed that kid of his,” Danny said. “You were there. You watched the whole thing.”

  “Why did you do that, Danny?”

  “Money. He paid me enough to buy this house and move my mother out of the neighborhood.”

  “And why Joe and Ted?”

  “When Doyle refused to pay my initial demand, I told him there were witnesses. I told him if anything happened to me that you guys would turn him in. I told him you were in on it.”

  “But you knew we weren’t.”

  “I didn’t expect him to bring some out-of-town goon in on this. I never told him your names, but it couldn’t have been hard to figure out. The four of us were always together back then.”

  I didn’t know which was worse, believing for all these years that one of my best friends was a sadistic killer or learning that he had only killed for the money. Either way, he was someone I no longer wanted in my life.

  I shot him once in the middle of the forehead. Then I reached down, collected the briefcase still in Doyle’s hand, and carried it to my car.

  After all, I deserve to be compensated for my time.

  The Plot

  Jedidiah Ayres

  I’m sitting cross-legged on the ground under a merciless sun with an unruly weed-whacker in my lap, trying to untangle the line that I let out too long in the tall grass, when I see Austin Smith hauling his fat ass toward me across the weedy lot behind what used to be a Famous Barr department store. I swear under my breath, not happy to see him.

  I hope he gets bit by something nasty.

  I put my head down, return to my work and try to clear my expression of anything dark that he might be able to pick up on. I hear his huffing tinged with the rattle of a wheeze and it does brighten my countenance sufficiently so that when he speaks at last I don’t look like I want to strangle him when I look up.

  He asks what I’m doing to which I reply, “Cutting the grass.”

  “Yeah, Hal, I can see that. What I’m really asking is, ‘Why?’”

  “Getting too long.”

  He claps his hand to his neck and it comes away with a blood smear that used to be a mosquito. “Don’t go getting squirrelly on me, Hal.” He waits for me to look up again and I finally do just because I want him to leave and figure he won’t until he thinks I’ve heard him out and received the message loud and clear. “It wouldn’t be good for anybody.”

  I nod. Message received.

  He starts humping back across the urban desert. Go scald your dick in a tail pipe.

  And I’m alone again.

  Two weeks later we repeat the scene, except this time, Austin stays parked in his car with the air conditioning blasting away and looks on while Dougie Rasmussen comes to fetch me.

  “Hal.”

  “Dougie.”

  “Austin wants a word.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “He’s waiting.”

  “Just a minute.”

  He takes a little half step toward me, and then stops. I don’t even have to look at him. He’ll wait for me and just be glad that I come willingly. It takes me another minute to make the edges of my eight by eight patch of weeds neat and then I turn off the whacker and follow Dougie back to Mr. Smith’s car.

  When we get there, Dougie opens a door for me to get inside, but I shake my head and say, “I’m all sweaty, Austin. Don’t want to make a mess of your car.” Dougie looks worried. I am, after all, still holding the weed-whacker. Austin Smith insists. I shrug at Dougie and hand him the tool before climbing into the back seat where, despite the artic chill, Austin Smith has begun to sweat.

  His fat hands are folded delicately across his middle and his voice is high, but I know the bite far outweighs the bark on him.

  His problem is that I’m beyond caring.

  “Hal, I want you to take a vacation. You’re overworked and I think it’d do you good.”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Smith.”

  “No, no. You’re a good worker, always do what you’re told and never complain, but I can tell things are hard for you, harder than you like to let on and I’d like to give you some vacation time, maybe send you on a trip. I talked to Jill about it and—”

  “I’m fine, Mr. Smith. Thanks, but I’m good.”

  He sighs. Settles even more. Getting down to it, finally. “Hal, I’m not going to ask you directly about what you’re doing out here, but I think it’s pretty clear.”

  “Ask me,” I shrug with innocence. “I don’t care.”

  Austin leans forward and drops his high voice an octave. “That’s exactly what concerns me, Hal.”

  I catch Dougie’s eyes in the rearview and he looks away nervously. He knows that I know what’s coming. How many times had I sat where he was now and listened to Mr. Smith give some poor slob every chance to straighten up and fly right, but seen in their eyes that it just wasn’t going to stick, known that I’d be coming back soon to take care of things permanently?

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Smith. I’ll never say anything.”

 
He smiles at me sadly. “Not with your mouth, son, I know, but hell if your actions aren’t starting to betray you.” I’m almost touched by his concern. He’s not faking it, but I’m gone. Out of reach. “I’m just looking out for you. Haven’t I always?”

  I nod. Try and return some of the sincerity. “Sure. You’ve always been real good to me.”

  By now we both know that they’re just words. Formalities that we feel beholden to. The course is set and we each know our parts. “Then, Hal, son, please, I’m asking you, take some time off. Think of your family.” I can feel the wince that he doesn’t show and he tries again. “Think about Jill and the kids. They’re counting on you, and so am I.”

  I reach for the door and let myself out. “Thanks for your concern, Mr. Smith, but I’m just fine.”

  Jill’s nervous. More so than usual. I can tell because she’s moved beyond just being nice to me, and is now trying to anticipate my every whim. ‘I made your favorite.’ ‘Kids, y’all leave your father be and go on to bed now.’ ‘C’mon, strip off them clothes and let’s get to it.’ ‘That’s right, let it all out.’ But no matter. It’s sweet and she’s a good woman, but this situation is beyond her too.

  Not that I don’t strip and get to it. I’m not cruel. Not to her. When it’s over, we lie in the dark and then after a while I let my arm slip off her shoulder, pretending to have fallen asleep, releasing her from her duties. Timidly, she climbs out of bed and grabs the Pall Malls from her drawer and I don’t have to see her to know she’s gone out and around to the south side of the house so that the wind won’t carry her smoke into the children’s open window. I don’t have to see her to know she’s crying either.

  I’m at work under the hood of a Chrysler, in the third bay, and I’m trying to drown out the radio station Jamaal, has selected to torture me with, when detective Brendanowitz drops in. He puts his hand on my shoulder then offers it to shake and I straighten up and grab the rag outta my back pocket and run it over my fingers before reciprocating the gesture. “How you holding up, Hal?”

  I motion with my chin toward the back office and nod to Jamaal that I’m going to step out for a minute and he needs to watch the door. Back in the office, I sit down behind the desk and Brendanowitz takes the short, vinyl couch, perching himself on the edge, avoiding the piles of fast-food containers and magazines that have collected there, a look of concern hanging off his face.

  I reach into the bottom drawer and remove a bottle of bourbon and dump the melted ice into a trashcan out of two mostly clean Quick Trip cups. I hand one of them to the detective and we silently toast each other and I taste the drink before I shrug my answer.

  “Jesus,” he says, “Fuck.”

  I nod and reach to refill our cups.

  “Why ain’t you taken any time off, huh?”

  I shrug again and down my second drink.

  “Well, listen, Hal, I just wanted you to hear it from me. Least I could do, but the Circuit Attorney’s being a real stiff prick on this one, and she’s pressing for a ‘renewed effort.’ Thinks well enough ain’t good enough, I guess.”

  I nod.

  “Anyway, didn’t want you to be surprised if somebody else starts poking around and asking you more questions.” He looks out the office window at Jamaal, trousers hanging past the halfway mark of his ass and indicating the kid says, “Might wanna warn him too. No sense giving anybody reason to be jumpy.” He turns back to me. “Also goes for Jill.” I stiffen a bit, but he’s not looking at me. He shakes his head. “I hate to think of her being bothered with any more questions, but I wouldn’t count out the possibility. Election year and all.”

  My car is a nightmare of wax paper and foil wrappers, but the kids don’t mind, they just brush piles off of the back seat onto the floor and search for the safety belt fasteners. They love to go to the ballpark, but it was more fun when their uncle Jesse would pick us up in his brand new F10. “Dad, when’s uncle Jesse coming back?”

  My voice doesn’t catch. This is what I’ve been practicing for. “Nobody knows, sweetie. He didn’t say where he was going.”

  “Mindy Jacobs’ mom said he might’ve gone to Canada, but that he’s probably just dead.”

  I whip my head over my right shoulder and make eye contact briefly before returning my attentions to the road, “Don’t you believe her, sweetie. I like Mindy just fine, but her mom’s had all kinds of problems even before she met your uncle Jesse, okay? And she’s just saying something spiteful to help herself feel better.” I tilt my head slightly for emphasis even though I’m not looking at her.

  When I do glance into the rearview, Tanya looks relieved.

  “But I don’t want you repeating any of that, okay? Nobody knows anything for certain and everybody’s gonna find different ways of dealing with it. Some of em you’re not going to like, but if you go trying to make people change, you’ll only make it worse.”

  Tanya nods. Jared scrambles to roll up his window before cutting a fart. Tanya squeals in disgust while Jared howls with mirth.

  After the game I stop by Carl’s like always. “Hal,” the bartender greets me.

  “Herman,” I return. “Gimme an O’Fallon,” which he does, cracking the bottle cap under the bar. I lay down a twenty next to my hat and grab the bottle before heading over to the juke and punching a few buttons.

  Back at the bar my money has changed itself and a bowl of peanuts has appeared beside my hat, just as Dusty Springfield is getting into it. I grab a handful and wash them down with the beer before making a half-assed attempt at conversation. “Whatcha know, Herm?”

  “I think Lydia’s getting a molar. Cries all the time.”

  “Next thing you know, she’ll be talking. Your life is over. You gonna have more?”

  “I am. Teresa’s not.”

  I lift my beer to that. “You already got your eye on somebody else?”

  Herman bends down to get at something on a low shelf beneath the bar and whispers to me, “Asshole alert,” before rising again and making his way down to the far end of the bar.

  I take deep breath and turn around. Brendanowitz is looking at me from the other end of the room.

  Brendanowitz grabs a coffee and adds creamer and sugar without even asking me. We’ve done this before. I nod my appreciation and he waves his hand—no problem. We sit, silent in the gray ten by ten room, waiting for Landry, his partner, and I study my reflection in the two-way mirror. Christ, I really do look like shit. A good cop could read the signs in my face like a headline. Good thing for Austin Smith hinky feelings, hunches and body language aren’t admissible. They’ve gotta make me say something, and we both know that’s not gonna happen.

  And it doesn’t.

  Brendanowitz puts a hand on my shoulder as we leave the station. Landry pauses, ten feet ahead of us, and glances back. I don’t look at Brendanowitz, I look at Landry—who shakes his head, thrusts his hands deep into his pockets and rounds the corner out of sight.

  Brendanowitz’s hand is heavy on my shoulder. “Hal...”

  He can’t think of anything else to say.

  I nod. “Thanks, Lyle.”

  “How ‘bout a ride?”

  “Sure.”

  Brendanowitz drives me back to the neighborhood in silence, going three blocks out of the way to avoid passing Smith’s office above the deli. When he pulls up in front of my house, Jared is in the street playing football with Ryan Liberto and Aidan Cassidy. The three of them move resentfully out of our way and Brendanowitz flips his hand to the dutifully sulking trio.

  When I unclick my belt he finally speaks.

  “Jesse...”

  I stop my exit and face forward, shoulders square against the seat.

  “Jesse, he…”

  My face hardens, but I keep my eyes front.

  “…I miss him too.”

  “Fuck you,” I whisper.

  “No,” he says matter-of-factly, “No, Hal, fuck you for letting this go.” There’s no malice in his voice—just quiet,
resigned anger—not yet cooled to indifference.

  I nearly break a tooth clenching my jaw, but I don’t say shit.

  “You think this is fair to Jill? The kids?”

  “Why don’t you mind your own business?”

  He shakes his head. “Broke my heart when you two tied the knot. Pregnant or not, she coulda done a lot better.” I nod. I agree. “I never liked you, Hal.” There was more to that thought, but it went unsaid. I let it hang in the air, and after fifteen seconds, he keeps going. “But Jesse – he wasn’t so bad, just caught crummy breaks...”

  “Thanks for the ride.”

  I open the passenger side door and I’m halfway out when he says, “Think about it.”

  I do, damn him.

  Jamaal is bitching about the Previa in the first bay while Steve Harvey talks about the election. I unscrew the cap from my big green thermos and tip some steaming liquid into it. It’s good, strong coffee, but the sharp smell of sweat and grease from my hand lessens its impact on my headache.

  When I wince down the last sip, I screw the lid back on and return to the cream colored PT Cruiser with the worn out belts. Through the open garage bay doors I spot Smith’s Caddy rolling down the block and watch as it pulls languidly onto the lot. Austin heads inside and Dougie Rasmussen gestures for me to step outside for a word.

  I do. “What?”

  “The old man.”

  I blow an irritated burst of air out my nose. “When?”

  “Go on by now.”

  “It’s eleven o’clock.”

  “He keeps shit hours. It’s either now or this evening.”

  Risk the wife. “Fuck. Okay.”

  He’s arthritic and cranky, with glaucoma, and three worthless, grown kids that he hates, and who hate his guts right back. He’s hard to threaten.

  “Oh, kiss my dick,” he says when he discovers it’s me come to visit.

  I push him backward into the house, and follow, closing the door behind me. With as much calmness and civility as I can, I ask, “What do you want broken?”

  Dismissively, he flaps his lips and waves his hand at me, then turns around and hobbles toward the kitchen. “Take your pick, none of it works anyhow.”