The metalhead punk rocker’s face lights up, almost as bright as his hair.
“If that’s the case,” he says, “forget about the five hundred. I want twenty-five percent, or I leave you guys on the side of the road.”
“Twenty-five percent,” Edge grumbles. “That’s highway robbery . . . dude.”
“Use your thumb then,” Rob says, “or start walking. What’ll it be, bestseller man?”
I recall what Sarah says about the loot being worth upwards of sixty million bucks. We can afford to let him in for a percentage and still all walk away as multi-millionaires. Or I could tell him to go screw himself, pay him what we have in our pockets and take our chances at hitching a ride. But what if the Russians are, in fact, on our tail? What if they’re watching us right now? We can’t afford to take that chance. We need Mohawk Rob and we need his Jeep wheels.
“Five percent,” I say.
“Twenty,” Rob says.
“Ten,” I say. “Or fuck it.” Turning to the back of the Jeep, I give Sarah a wink so that she knows I’m bluffing my ass off. “Let’s start walking guys.”
Edge and Sarah go to get up.
“Wait, wait, dudes,” Rob says, his arms and hands outstretched. “Everyone calm down. I’m sure we can work this out.”
“How?” I say, a shot of relief shooting into my bloodstream now that Rob is taking the bait.
“How about fifteen percent?” Rob states.
“Told you, ten percent, and that’s being overly generous,” I counter.
The kid does that thinking thing again, where it looks like he’s talking to himself, deliberating.
“Okay,” he says, holding out his hand. “Deal.”
I take his hand in mine, shake it hard. Edge holds out his hand too, but Rob ignores it. Instead, he shifts the Jeep tranny into drive, turns his head to gaze upon the oncoming traffic at the very second I peak into the side-view mirror and see a big ass black car pull up behind us, slamming on the brakes and kicking up gravel.
I turn, fast.
“Oh shit,” I say. “It’s the Sergey boys.”
8
“Who the fuck are the Sergeys?” Mohawk Rob asks.
A gunshot rings out. I immediately experience the disconcerting whizz of a bullet flying past my ear. It sounds like a wasp but feels like the Grim Reaper has reached out and touched me. A second gunshot. The bullet ricochets off the ground on Rob’s left side.
“Bastards are shooting at us,” Edge points out.
Sarah screams, “I don’t wanna die on the highway to Albany!”
“Never mind who the Sergeys are, Rob!” I bark. “Just go. Go! Go now!”
Rob hits the gas, pulls out. A tractor trailer hits the horn, and I’m sure we’re about to become roadkill. The truck swerves around us. The semi nearly tips so far to the left the wheels on its right side raise off the pavement. Rob doesn’t seem to notice. He just drives, his foot pressing the gas pedal to the floor, the RPMs on the six-cylinder red lining.
Turning, I look for the black Lincoln Continental. I see it pulling out onto the highway. Acting on instinct, I reach into my bush jacket for my .45, but it’s not there. You don’t carry firearms to a New York City sponsored literary conference. Writers like to write about guns, but most of them are never exposed to the real thing.
“You gonna tell me who these guys are?” Rob begs over the onslaught of wind.
“They’re a pair of Russian mobsters who are after the same thing we’re after,” I confess.
“Dutch Schultz’s treasure,” the driver says. “I guess you failed to mention other interested parties.”
“Does that come as a surprise?” Sarah shouts from the back.
I glance into the side-view mirror, see the big black monster of a car gaining ground on us.
“Can this thing go any faster, Rob?”
“Giving it all I have,” he barks. “Jeeps weren’t meant for the open road. They were meant for off-road, dude.”
Off road . . .
Another glance into the rearview. The Russians are almost on our ass. I make out a pop followed by an immediate ping as a spark flies off the very top of the rectangular metal windshield frame.
“Holy Christ,” Edge says, “I think the motherfucker grazed my ear.” He reaches for one of the beers stored in the small cooler. He opens the tab like it’s the pin on a grenade. Turning, he winds up and tosses the full beer directly at the Lincoln windshield. The beer explodes upon contact, foamy beer spraying everywhere like liquid shrapnel.
“Way to go, Edge,” I say. Then, turning to Rob. “We don’t have guns, but we do have a Jeep. Let’s put it to good use.”
Both of Rob’s hands are gripping the wheel, white-knuckled.
“Hell do you mean?” he says.
I say, “We’re two-sided with open fields and deep woods. We can ride off-road all the way into the city if we want to.”
My eyes looking into the side-view mirror again. I see Sergey Junior, his bulbous black-hair-covered head, surgical-taped nose, and torso sticking out the open driver’s side window. He points the business end of his semi-automatic at us.
“Get down!” I shout.
Sarah and Edge duck as two more rounds whiz overhead.
“I see what you mean, dude,” Rob says, shifting the Jeep into the right lane towards the soft shoulder.
The Lincoln is right up on our ass now, its wiper blades swiping the excess beer off the glass. They’re so close I can see Sergey Senior behind the wheel, see the teeth in his big mouth. He gives it the gas and the Lincoln bumps into the Jeep’s rear tube fender.
The Jeep bucks and swerves.
“Fucking asshole,” Rob spits. “Fuck with me, but don’t fuck with my Jeep.”
“Edge,” I shout, “another beer grenade.”
The expression on his face goes south. “There’s only three left.”
“We can get more, damn it.”
“Well,” he says, “if it’s for the good of the team.” He reaches into the cooler, pulls another can out, pulls the tab, heaves it at the Russians. Like the first can, this one explodes all over the windshield. The big Lincoln swerves and drifts into the middle lane, nearly colliding with a white soccer mom van.
“Go now,” I say, arm outstretched, index finger pointing directly at the open field to my right. “Go, Rob. Off-road.”
Rob cuts the steering wheel to the right, and we fly off the road and land hard onto the soft earth, Edge and Sarah bouncing around and screaming in the back seat. Turning to Rob, I can make out the great big smile that’s formed on his face. For him, off-roading is the most fun you can have with your ripped up Levis on.
“Where to?” he says.
“Just head for the woods,” I insist.
Another look at the side-view and I make out the Lincoln pulling off the road. The Sergeys are moving at a fast-enough clip that the vehicle’s back end is fishtailing on the gravel covered soft shoulder. The Jeep is plowing through the tall grass, the uneven earth making for a rocky ride, our bodies bouncing out of the seats only to be smacked back down by the seatbelts.
As we head for the tree-line, I make out three more distinct pops from the Sergeys’ guns, but the bullets whiff entirely. Turning, I see the black Lincoln has gotten stuck, its rear wheels spinning streams of mud, and going nowhere fast. We enter the tree-line and, like Alice stepping through the looking glass, disappear for good.
9
I spot several sets of double-tracks that run under the tall pines. Makes sense too since this would be a great place for ATV trailblazers and 4x4 off-road fans.
“Where the hell we going?” Edge says, poking his bald head back between the bucket seats. “We could get lost out here, and eventually be forced to eat one another.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Edge,” Sarah says. “We’re in Rensselaer County.” She’s got her eyes on her smartphone and what I’m guessing is a GPS app. “Just keep going straight, Rob. Within a mile, you’re going to r
un into a county road. Take a left on it, and it will lead you directly into the city of Troy, and from there we can cross the bridge into Albany.”
We take it slow but steady along one of the two tracks, veering between the trees like a linebacker between tacklers until we make it out onto the narrow country road.
“Gotta love GPS,” comments a smiling Sarah. “I don’t remember what we did without it.”
Rob hooks a left, and suddenly, we’re back on our way into Albany via Troy. Naturally, I’m keeping one eye on the road and the other in the side-view mirror should our Russian friends show their faces again. But I have a distinct feeling they’re going to be busy for a while. That’s when something dawns on me.
“Sarah,” I say, glancing into the back. “Why don’t we do the Russians a favor and report their little stuck-in-the-mud situation to the police?”
“You really wanna get the cops involved?” she poses, squinting her eyes. “The Sergeys might spill the beans about our going after the Dutch Schultz treasure and then we’ll be out of business even before we start digging around.”
“Guess I should have thought of that,” Edge says. “Excellent plot point.”
Rob turns to me while driving. “Lady knows what she’s talking about, dude,” he says, extending his right hand, making a fist. “Give me the rock anyway.”
I do it, even if I do think contacting the cops is the right thing to do. After all, the Sergeys have been trying to kill me all morning.
The Albany skyline is once more visible beyond the Hudson River as we crest a hill.
“Where to now?” Rob asks.
“We’re not actually going to Albany quite yet,” Sarah says.
“We’re not?” Edge says.
“What Edge said,” I add.
“We’re going to Cohoes,” she says. Then, leaning into Rob. “Go north on Route 787. It will take us right into the heart of Cohoes.”
Rob pulls onto the highway and heads north as directed.
“What’s so special about Cohoes?” I say.
“It’s where Dutch Schultz murdered the man who was stealing from his personal treasure trove, and why Schultz decided once and for all to bury it. And it’s also where someone very special to me witnessed the murder first hand.”
“Who is that?” I say.
“My great grandfather Wiley’s little boy,” she says.
10
We drive into the old, dilapidated city of Cohoes which, geographically speaking, is positioned right on the spot where the Hudson River meets the Mohawk. We drive on past Cohoes Falls which are dry right now due to the damning of the river by the electric powerhouse located further upstream. We pass by the many signs that contain skull and cross bone warnings meant to dissuade idiots who might want to wander onto the riverbed since, according to the wording under the bones anyway, a good amount of water is released each evening.
WARNING!
UNEXPECTED RAPID FLOOD WATER RELEASES!
There’s even a barbed wire-topped fence that’s meant to prevent bystanders who visit the falls’ overlook from climbing down onto the riverbed.
Passing by the falls, we drive over the train tracks to Mohawk Street and an old hotel that looks like it was built two centuries ago. The five-story stone and wood structure is called The Harmony Hotel. That is, judging by the old sign that hangs outside the front stone steps leading up to the front glass and wood doors.
As we exit the Jeep, Edge takes on a skeptical expression. He lights a cigarette, blows out the initial hit of blue smoke.
“I don’t get it,” he says. “Why don’t we just go to the cemetery and dig up your great grandfather’s head right now. Then we’ll have our map. We can cut to the chase and be back at the bar by five this afternoon.”
“It’s not as simple as that, Edge,” Sarah explains, finger combing her long black hair. “First of all, we can’t just start digging up graves. We need permission, or at least, the cover of darkness if we’re going to act illegally. Plus, there are other things we need to know about the skull itself.”
“Like what?” Edge says.
“Like if it will explode as soon as we touch it,” she retorts.
Edge laughs. “You been reading too many Chase Baker novels,” he says.
She giggles. “You know anything about Schultz, Edge?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “He was a gangster, like Legs Diamond and Al Capone.”
“He was more than a gangster. He loved violence. He once cut a man’s heart out just because he didn’t like the guy. He also loved to play with booby-traps and explosives. He once set a time bomb underneath a flatbed truck that was delivering his homebrewed beer down to a speakeasy in New Jersey after he found out the driver was skimming off the top. The driver never knew what hit him.”
“Schultz sounds like a bad dude,” Rob says. “Down in Phoenicia, he’s kind of a local hero.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” she says. “And if the skull is the only map around that tells us the exact location of the treasure, makes sense it won’t be too easily accessed.”
“Nothing happened when it was transported to its new grave in St. Agnes,” I point out.
“Chalk that up to dumb luck, Chase,” she says. “We also need to find out what we might face if we do happen to find the treasure. What surprises wait for us there.” She heads up the stairs to the front door and turns back to us when she reaches the landing. “Well, what are you waiting for boys?”
As if on cue, the three of us glance at one another. Sure, it was Edge and my idea to leave the conference and come north to seek out our own “suspense” in the form of a search for legendary buried treasure. But why is it I have the feeling we’re no longer in charge of the search?
11
Stepping into The Harmony Hotel, or should I say The Harmony Home for the Aged, is like entering a time warp. The tall townhouse is narrow with high tin ceilings that have been painted white. The walls are a dark wood paneling, and there’s a long reception desk positioned on the opposite side of the vestibule as you walk in. A man wearing a blue cardigan sweater is seated on a stool behind the desk reading a magazine.
Sarah approaches the balding man. He peels his eyes away from the magazine, smiles.
“Well, I’ll be,” he says. “Is that you Sarah Winston? Look how grown up you are.”
The old man comes around the desk with all the enthusiasm and agility of a much younger man, takes Sarah in his arms. He hugs her tightly then takes a step back to gaze upon her, looking her up and down.
“You are a grown woman,” he says, “and a beautiful one at that. How long has it been, Sarah?”
“Too long, Sam,” she says.
“You must be married with some little ones running around by now,” Sam beams.
Sarah brushes back her hair so that one side is locked behind her ear.
“Sadly, no little ones,” she says, not without a nervous laugh. “But I do have my first divorce behind me.”
When she says divorce our eyes automatically connect as if by some odd force of nature. The word, as horrible as it is (take it from me), can sound absolutely wonderful coming from the mouth of a single woman as beautiful as Sarah.
Sam takes on a faux sad expression. “I’m sure it’s all for the best,” he says. “I hope he didn’t hurt you.”
“We’re still friends,” Sarah says. “We just weren’t meant to be married.” Then, waving her hand in my direction, and the direction of Rob and Edge. “These are my friends. We’re here to speak with my uncle about something very important. He isn’t sleeping, I hope.”
Sam takes a moment to size us up.
“That’s some hairdo, sonny,” he says, not without a laugh. “I get it that you must color it with red dye. But how on God’s good earth do ya get it to stand up like that?”
Rob bites down on his bottom lip and runs his open hand over the top of the Mohawk.
“That’s a secret, old dude,” he says. “Let’s
just say it takes some practice. And a lot of product.”
Sam shifts his gaze to Edge. “And you, sir,” he says, his eye squinty and inquisitive. “Haven’t I seen you someplace before?”
Edge pulls a cigarette from the pack in his jeans pocket, pops it between his lips.
“You a reader, Sam?” he asks.
“A book a week.”
“Ever read, The Bitch?”
Sam’s eyes light up. “That’s you?” he says.
Edge lights the cigarette with his red Bic lighter.
“Well, not the bitch per se,” Edge says, releasing some smoke through his nostrils. “But I did write the book of the same name.”
“Edge, no smoking,” Sarah breaks in.
“I just love that hard-boiled fiction,” Sam says. “And we don’t mind smoking here. Half the old guys who live here still smoke, never mind the oxygen canisters they cart around. One of these days this place is gonna blow sky high.” Heading back around the reception counter, he adds, “Hey Edge, did you know the city of Cohoes was the playground to lots of gangsters back during prohibition?”
“So I hear,” Edge says.
Sarah, sensing my ever-growing loneliness, breaks in.
“And this is Chase Baker,” she says. “Chase also writes books. He’s also an adventurer, an explorer, and all around Renaissance man.”
“That so,” Sam says, holding out his hand over the counter.
I take it, shake it.
“You written anything I know about?” Sam asks.
I let go of the hand.
“Well, if you gotta ask . . .” I mumble. Chase the deflated.
“Message delivered loud and clear,” he says. “Well, send me something for my Kindle. I’m always willing to try new authors.” He giggles. “Not much else to do around here but read and watch the Weather Channel.”
“So, is my Uncle Pat up?” Sarah says.
“Just finished lunch. He’s sitting in the living room, looking out the window. He’ll be so happy to see you, Sarah.”
Chase Baker and the Dutch Diamonds: A Chase Baker Thriller Book 10 Page 4