Long Way Down

by Paul Carr

  Marcus turned to close the door, and Sam grabbed him and jammed the 9mm muzzle against his neck.

  “Don’t make a sound or you're dead.”

  Marcus’ face and neck were flush, and he blinked a couple of times. He opened his mouth as if to shout.

  Sam gave the muzzle an extra jab.

  “Last warning,” Sam said, “you understand?”

  Marcus hesitated for a second, then nodded. Sam glanced at the floor-to-ceiling shelves next to the door.

  “Lay the gun on the shelf. Real easy.”

  Marcus followed orders.

  Sam jerked him toward the door, which still stood open, and pushed him through it. The garage was empty, and all the doors were closed except for one, raised about five feet. The Jaguar and Cadillac sat on the driveway outside. Sam moved the gun point to Marcus’ back and let go of his arm hold. He reached into his bag and pulled out a long plastic tie.

  “Okay, put you hands behind your back, wrists crossed.”

  Sam wrapped the tie around Marcus’ wrists and connected the fastener.

  “Hey, man, it’s too tight.”

  “Quiet. We’re going out. If you make any noise I’m going to kill you.”

  “Okay,” Marcus said with an edge in his voice as he turned back toward the door.

  “You better believe me,” Sam said, “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

  They stopped at the door and Sam leaned down and peered around the corner. The Jaguar sat just a few feet away, the Cadillac on the other side. He saw no one around the cars.

  “Let’s go.”

  They stooped under the garage door and went out. Sam saw keys dangling from the ignition of the Jaguar and opened the passenger door.

  “Get in.”

  “Man, I don’t think I’d take this car.”

  “Get in.” Sam shoved him toward the door.

  Marcus climbed inside. Sam closed the door as quietly as possible, hurried around to the driver’s side, and got in.

  In the rearview mirror, he saw a large man exiting the house with a gun in his hand. The man ducked through the door, as if his head might scrub the jamb, and turned to glance at the car, his long hair swinging. Sam thought he looked like a television wrestler in a suit. He also looked like the man Candi had kissed in the photograph.

  Tossing his bag into the back seat, Sam started the engine, jerked the shifter into gear and pressed the accelerator to the floor as La Salle bounded down the steps to the edge of the circular drive. The tires screamed on the brick tiles for what seemed like an eternity, then shot them forward, pinning Sam’s back tight against the sumptuous leather of the seat. La Salle ran after the car and pointed the gun at them. Then he stopped and dropped his arms to his side.

  Sam reached above the visor and found a remote control labeled “Gate” and “Garage” with colored plastic tape. He pressed the gate button and dropped it on the seat. The gate opened before the Jaguar reached it. Sam slowed for a split second and then accelerated onto the street. He pulled directly in front of a courier van, causing its driver to slam on brakes, and missed hitting an oncoming stretched Mercedes by only a few feet. He kept his eye on the rearview mirror, and a few seconds later he saw the Cadillac tear out into the traffic and smash into a silver Lexus. The Lexus spun around in the street and banged into two other cars, boxing the Caddy in. Sam glanced in the mirror one last time before turning toward Miami. La Salle climbed out of the car, dusted something from the sleeve of his suit and stared at the rear end of his stolen Jaguar.

  Chapter 8

  MARCUS SAID nothing until they started across the causeway.

  “You gonna let me go?”

  Sam looked at him on the edge of the bucket seat. His head almost touched the dash, his face pale, bound hands shaking behind him.

  “Sure, in good time.”

  “You’re a dead man; you know that, don’t you?”

  Sam glanced at him again and grinned.

  “You think so?”

  “La Salle’s a lunatic, and he loves this car more than anything. He’ll get you if it’s the last thing he does.” Marcus took a deep breath, let it out and turned to look out the window. “Trouble is, he’s going to get me too. He’ll blame me for you ambushing me like that.”

  “Hey, happens to the best. Person in his position should know that.”

  Marcus turned his head back to look at Sam.

  “Yeah, but like I said, he ain’t no ordinary person. He’s crazy as a bat. He cut my fingertips off for not calling him Mr. La Salle.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No,” Marcus said, shaking his head, eyes wide.

  “He smashed the Caddy coming out the gate,” Sam said.

  “Yeah. That’ll be my fault too, but this car is going to be the big problem.”

  Sam looked at the polished wood on the dash. A GPS screen the size of a small television shone from the console. “It is a pretty nice machine. I think I’ll keep it.”

  “Who are you, anyway?”

  “Sam Mackenzie.” He didn’t see why his identity should be a secret. La Salle probably already knew it, and if he didn’t, he soon would.

  “You’re the guy I saw at the Carling place that night Eddie died. Tommy mentioned your name too. How about my hands, man; this thing is killing me.”

  “I’ll cut you loose when I drop you off.”

  “I don’t know how long I can take this. I think my hand’s bleeding again.” Marcus grimaced and shifted in his seat.

  “You knew Tommy, huh?”

  “Yeah, I knew him. Not exactly my best friend, but a stand-up guy. He didn’t deserve to die.” Marcus shook his head. “First Philly, now Tommy.”

  “La Salle killed them?”

  “He killed Philly. Gino did Tommy, but La Salle probably gave him the order.”

  “Why is he after Candi?”

  After a long silence, Sam glanced to see Marcus twisting his wrists, trying to break the plastic tie. Marcus finally gave up, sighed and dropped his sweating forehead to the dash.

  Sam repeated the question about Candi.

  “I guess she knows too much.”

  “About what?”

  Marcus squirmed in his seat. “La Salle's operation.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Why should I tell you?”

  “He cut off your fingers, didn't he?”

  Marcus remained silent for a moment. “Just the tips.”

  “I guess it didn't hurt, then.”

  “It hurt like hell,” Marcus shot back.

  “Okay, get even with him. Tell me what he’s up to.”

  Marcus sighed.

  “He’s had this project going on somewhere in the Caribbean, but I don’t know where. He hasn’t let us in on it for some reason. And I don’t ask no questions. Could be bad for your health.”

  “Does anyone else in the house know about this project?”

  “I don’t think so. He keeps Gino in the dark like he does me. Hey, man, you got to cut me loose or I’m going to go crazy here.”

  “I’ll let you go a lot quicker if you answer the questions.” Sam turned on the radio and found a rock station. He cut the volume low.

  “Yeah, okay, let’s get it over with.”

  “Does this have something to do with the painting that’s on the easel in the studio?”

  “Yeah, I guess so. He’s been taking phone calls and flying down there for several months.”

  “Tell me something else about the project.”

  “I don’t know nothing,” Marcus said.

  “Sure you do.”

  Marcus shot a glance at Sam, said “Aw, man,” then took a deep breath and sighed.

  “He’s been talking a lot to this guy named Danilov. But that’s all I know. We were on our way to see him when La Salle called us on his cell phone and said somebody had broken into the house.”

  “Do you know Danilov’s first name?”

  Marcus shook his head. “That’s all I
know.”

  “Sounds Russian,” Sam said.

  “He don’t talk American like you and me. Got this heavy accent, like foreigners have.”

  “What else?”

  “That’s it, man. I don’t know nothing else. Believe me or not, I really don’t care.”

  Marcus turned his head toward his passenger window and looked out. He probably had told the truth. La Salle wouldn’t trust a flunky like him with anything important. Sam would drop Marcus off on a highway outside the city, where he couldn’t get to a phone for awhile. He pulled the note from his pocket and held it out for Marcus to see.

  “You recognize these numbers?”

  Marcus looked at them and shook his head. “Don’t mean nothing to me.”

  The traffic thinned as Sam drove out of downtown toward Hialeah. He turned into a shopping center that looked as if all the stores had packed up and left town. Windows were boarded or covered with paper. Weeds grew through cracks in the parking lot. Remnants of a sign stood out front to remind shoppers of what they had missed.

  Sam pulled a knife from his bag in the back seat and cut the plastic tie. Marcus rubbed his wrists. The bandage on his hand was soaked with fresh blood. He looked at Sam as if he didn’t know what to do.

  “Get out,” Sam said.

  “I need to call somebody.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Not La Salle. I’m not going back there. He’ll kill me for sure. I need to call a girl to pick me up.”

  Sam looked at him for a second and handed him the phone.

  Marcus started to get out of the car.

  “Call right here,” Sam said.

  Marcus nodded, punched a number into the phone and held it to his ear.

  “Hey, babe. You gotta come get me.” He looked up and down the street and told her the approximate address of the shopping center. “Okay, about ten minutes, then.” Marcus told her goodbye and punched the power button.

  Sam took the phone. “You interested in doing some work?”

  “Work for you?”

  “That’s right.”

  Marcus gave him a look that said, I don't believe this.

  “What would I have to do?”

  “It might involve doing something bad to your boss.”

  Marcus glanced out the window.

  “Can I have an advance? Everything I got is back at that house.”

  Sam had anticipated that request, and would have been disappointed had he not gotten it. He reached into the bag for a stack of the cash he’d stolen from La Salle and handed it to Marcus.

  “This belonged to La Salle,” Sam said.

  “Even better.”

  “Double-cross me and I’ll tell him you took his money.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t plan on seeing La Salle again if I can help it.”

  Marcus gave Sam his girlfriend’s number and got out. He stood there looking like a beaten dog as Sam drove away. The phone vibrated and Sam answered it.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Candi.

  “I don't know what you mean?”

  “You drove off in La Salle’s Jaguar. That can only lead to trouble.”

  “He won’t need it when we finish with him.”

  A silence on the line stretched into a couple of seconds.

  “Where are you, anyway? I lost you in traffic going over the causeway.”

  Sam gave her his location and told her where to meet him in a half-hour. He drove to a garage run by a struggling Cuban businessman. Sam turned into the potholed parking lot and stopped next to the office. A small man with thick, graying hair walked out and leaned down to look inside as Sam lowered the window.

  “Senor. Good to see you.”

  “Hello, Hector,” Sam said, “I need to hide my new car for a few days.” He reached into the back seat, grabbed his bag and got out.

  Hector looked at the Jaguar and then at Sam and grinned.

  “Someone, perhaps, is looking for this car?”

  “Yes,” Sam said, “perhaps.”

  “Policia?”

  Sam shook his head.

  “No problem. It will be safe here.”

  Hector opened the car door.

  “Just a minute,” Sam said. He got back in the car, found the registration in the glove box and put it into his shirt pocket. “Okay, thanks, Hector. This’ll make us square.” Sam had loaned him five thousand dollars a few months ago, and Hector had repaid about half the money.

  Hector smiled and displayed a gold tooth.

  “You are too generous, Senor. I will make sure no one knows about the beautiful Jaguar.”

  The older man opened a large door on the end of the garage, got into the car and drove it inside. Sam watched as he pulled a nylon cover from a shelf and threw it over the Jaguar. He closed the garage door, locked it and held the key out to Sam.

  “You keep it,” Sam said.

  “Come into the office. I have cold beer in the icebox.”

  They went inside and Hector pulled two bottles of Dos Equis from a refrigerator that looked forty years old.

  “Not Cuban, but it is good,” Hector said.

  Sam nodded. “How’s business?”

  “Pretty good, especially today.” Hector grinned and handed Sam his beer. They clinked their bottles together and drank.

  Sam sat in a lime-green, plastic-covered chair that had seen better days, and Hector sat behind an old brown metal desk. An oscillating fan whirred on the corner of the desk, and soft Latin music emanated from a cheap CD player perched in the window behind Hector.

  A toy hula girl stood in suspended animation on the desk. Hector punched a button and she did a dance for them.

  “If only women were that simple, eh, Senor?” Hector shook his head and had a sad, faraway smile on his face. He punched the button and the dancing stopped.

  “Trouble at home?”

  Hector took a long drink from the Dos Equis and said, “Papa moved in with us, and he drives Consuela crazy.”

  Sam nodded as if he understood perfectly.

  “He just sits in the kitchen drinking coffee, talking about the old days in the cane fields, like they were golden times or something.”

  “Maybe they were,” Sam said.

  Hector tilted his head for a second, looked at Sam and grinned.

  “Yes, maybe they were. But Consuela does not think so. She says she is going to leave if Papa stays much longer.”

  A bell rang behind Hector's desk. Sam looked out the window and saw an old truck roll into the driveway. Hector drained his beer and went out the door to take care of business.

  Sam pulled the Jaguar registration from his pocket and saw that a company named NeoWorld Corporation owned the car. He called J.T. on his cell phone. “Anything on La Salle yet?”

  “No, there’s no record of him, as far as I can tell. And I’ve just about exhausted my resources.”

  That didn’t sound good. Sam gave him the string of numbers from La Salle’s computer and asked him to check the banks, thinking it might be an account number.

  “How about looking up the NeoWorld Corporation too.” Sam spelled it out for him.

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Yeah, me either, but NeoWorld owns La Salle’s Jaguar, and it could be a key to what happened to all that money that went missing.”

  J.T. said he would call back when he had something and hung up.

  Sam saw Candi drive into the parking lot a few minutes later and went outside. Hector stood leaning under the hood of the truck, talking to the driver and pointing to something on the running engine.

  Sam walked by and said, “I'll call in a few days. Good luck with your dad.”

  Hector smiled and nodded, and Sam got into the Chevy with Candi.

  “What’d you find?” Candi said as she drove back onto the thoroughfare.

  Sam unzipped his bag and showed her the cash.

  “How much?”

  “About three hundred grand,” Sam said.


  “Huh.” She looked annoyed. “Where do you think he has the rest of my money?”

  Sam shrugged. “What did you expect; maybe he’d have a few million dollars stuffed in his mattress?”

  She nodded and said, “Yeah, did you check his mattress?”

  “No, I never went into the bedrooms.”

  “Well, maybe you should have.”

  “Maybe you should have gone in there yourself.”

  Candi took a deep breath, sighed and looked straight ahead. Sam wondered why he'd signed on for this job. He waited a few seconds, then broke the silence and told her about the list of numbers he'd found on the computer.

  “Maybe a bank account?”

  “Yeah, maybe. I asked a friend who’s good with computers to check it out.”

  “You think that's wise, giving someone a bank account number where you know there’s a lot of money?”

  Sam knew the risks when he dealt with J.T., and it made him even more uncomfortable for her to point it out.

  “I couldn't do anything without more information.”

  Candi pressed the accelerator and the engine revved. They shot around an SUV, narrowly missing an oncoming truck before getting back into the right lane. The truck horn blasted.

  “Oh, yeah,” Sam said, “I had to take Marcus with me when I took the Jaguar. I just let him out a few minutes ago.”

  Candi shot a glance at him, her eyes wide.

  “What did he say?”

  “He said you know something, and that’s the reason La Salle wants you dead.”

  Sam watched her face for a reaction. She rolled her eyes, nothing else. The traffic thinned out and Candi jammed her foot on the accelerator.

  “He said I know something?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t know what that would be other than he took Philly’s money and then knocked him off. That’s the reason he wants me dead.”

  “He said La Salle has something cooking with a Russian named Danilov. You know anything about that?”

  Candi pressed her lips together and sighed. “No, I don’t. I told you what I know.”

  The car had sped up, and Sam peered at the speedometer; they were going almost seventy miles per hour.

  “Better slow down. We don't want to get stopped by the cops.”

  Candi glanced at the speedometer and took her foot off the gas.