Dugan's Luck

by Howard Freedman

  Chapter 4

  The woman behind the TransContinental ticket counter was preoccupied with filing her long fingernails. When the cop approached, she took but a cursory glance at the badge held before her.

  Amanda Biggs pushed forty-five and had lived a less than luxurious life. Regardless, in her social circles, she still was considered an alluringly attractive woman having managed to manipulate the effects of her advancing age. Long, rich black hair, a color bought at the beauty counter along with the other adornments for her noticeably highlighted facial features, was tied in a ponytail behind her back. She had to deal with all kinds on her job and the cop was full of swagger that only served to put up her defenses. The toothpick bobbing in his mouth accentuated his conceited demeanor. Still, she wanted to cooperate and put this nastiness behind her. Violence in the work place didn't make anyone feel secure.

  “How can I help, detective?”

  “Let's start from the beginning. Tell me what you know about the incident.”

  “It was around ten, I think. There's this bum. He lives around back. In a box.”

  “How cliché.” Brogan delivered the remark in his usual lack of empathy for the lower echelons of man.

  “Yeah, well, he's harmless enough. Usually.”

  “Usually?” Brogan piped in, as if the case might be already solved.

  “That is he's never caused any real trouble to my knowledge. We don't encourage the members of the little cardboard commune out back, but if they don't loiter inside, there's a policy of moderate tolerance. So it wasn't unusual that 'the Wiz' was seen coming out of the bathroom. But the look on his face certainly was.”

  “The Wiz?”

  A sort of half chuckle slipped out of her, the irony not lost on the nickname that had been given to the commune's resident Simon Abernathy. “Yeah. They say the guy used to be a stock broker wizard. Made a fortune once upon a time, then lost it all somehow.” She let loose another little laugh. “I imagine the look on his face when he came out of the restroom was not unlike that on the day he lost it all.”

  “So you saw him come out of the john?”

  “No, not really. But when I looked up and saw him coming right towards me, he was coming from that direction. And of course, he came with the news of the man on the floor.”

  “You didn't see anyone else acting peculiar this morning?”

  “No, but its not my nature to spy on others. At least no one else came running out of the restroom that I saw.” It had been a relatively slow morning. Then again, she may not have seen much at the crucial moment except for her boyfriend's face hovering close as they flirted with each other.

  “OK, miss. Anything else I should know before I go?”

  Amanda gave it a hard thought, sensing maybe there was something. Then she remembered one other thing different about the Wiz today. “He was carrying a suitcase. I never really gave it much thought before, but now that I think about it, I'd never seen him with one before. His wardrobe was pretty limited, always wearing the same thing, like the rest of his pals. Come to think of it, the shirt he was wearing may have been new.”

  Detective Brogan gave the woman a big smile. “Thank you, miss. You've been very helpful.”

  The Wiz had retreated back to his domicile feeling pretty damn good about his luck. At least how he perceived that luck considering the overall outcome. After all, there were a few bumps along the way. Good and bad.

  The bad:

  Wrestling with a thug for a box that should have been rightfully his if his nemesis had played by the code of law of their little community.

  The good:

  As it turned out, he certainly didn't want what was found in the box anyway. Obviously, neither did the guy that threw it away. The question was why would anyone want it? Simon 'The Wiz' Abernathy really didn't want to know. So that was one scavenger hunt he was glad to loose.

  However, what came next, ended on a much higher note.

  But first, the bad:

  Trauma of encountering the prostrate body of a blood soaked man.

  Then the good:

  One heck of a find in a new wardrobe. The shirt he wore, while only a cotton and polyester blend, and maybe a little loud for his taste, the first clean shirt he'd had in months, felt like pure cashmere upon his skin. And the shoes he liberated from the man's feet were obviously of fine leather, however one of them felt a little uncomfortable. The right one had a spot where he suspected a foreign object had somehow come between the shoe's inner sole and his foot. When he went to take the shoe off to investigate, his foot slid just beyond the blanket serving as the door to his cube. Rudely, someone grabbed him by the ankle and, with an aggressive force, pulled him out.

  “The Wiz, I presume?” Brogan inquired.

  “Who wants to know?” Abernathy may be destitute and therefore subject to the vulnerabilities of an uncaring world, but he fought to maintain his dignity, especially in the clutches of an assailant. He'd lost one tug-o-war already and he'd be damned if he'd give up ground without a fight.

  Brogan flashed his badge. A toothpick still performed acrobatics in his mouth along with the smug jeer that seemed to be a permanent part of his face. “You're the one that found Dugan?”

  “Who's Dugan?”

  “Sorry, I guess you two weren't introduced” the cop said quite snidely. “The guy from the john. Who do you think, bozo? How many people have you found today?”

  Abernathy didn't respond right away. He considered his answer. Yeah, he had found the guy on the floor in the restroom, but if you wanted to get technical about it, there was sufficient argument for having found at least one other person today.

  “I haven't got all day, Mr. Wiz.”

  “Yeah, I found him. That a crime, officer?”

  “It's detective, and no, finding's not a crime. But assault with a firearm is. And nobody but you was seen leaving that restroom.”

  “Hey, man. I did the right thing here, trying to be a good citizen and all. Would I have reported it if I had anything to do with it?”

  “OK, then. Did you see anyone suspicious?”

  Talk about suspicious. Seems like everyone he came in contact with the last couple of hours fit that category. And then he flashed on a little detail that failed to register before. The shirt worn by the bloodied man. He'd seen it before, just a short while before.

  “Yeah. Nothing but suspicious.” The sudden apprehension struck a pose across Abernathy's face, a look that wasn't missed on Brogan.

  “What is it?”

  Abernathy figured he better start with suspicious person number one, who also happened to be the victim. “I think I saw the victim out here first. I was in my cube, but when I heard someone deposit something in the dumpster I looked out. It was just as he was leaving, but I'm pretty sure I recognized the shirt he was wearing.”

  “That's a pretty nice shirt you're wearing too, Wiz. Did you attack the man for it?”

  “No, no. It was nothing like that” pleaded the Wiz. “After the guy walked away from here, I went to see what he left in the dumpster. He must have made a hasty attempt to cover it up, but I saw the red box poking out under some trash on top. When I went to pull it out, someone else tried to grab it from me. The box fell open and that's when we both saw it.” Abernathy paused as the vision came back to him in living, no, make that un-living color.

  “Come on, man” Brogan barked. “Saw what?”

  Abernathy looked into the man's eyes, his own face still stiff with disgust. “A head. A real girl's head, like it had been sewn up and preserved or something.”

  The color in Brogan's face went pale. It was no small wonder that the toothpick fell from his gaping mouth instead of going down his throat. By the time he had gone back to the park in order to search the dumpster there for the rest of Angel, it had already been emptied. What in the hell was Dugan doing with her head? He certainly didn't seem like the type to have the stomach for such a gruesome act like chopping it from the girl's body.
And if not, why didn't he turn it over to the police? Who had he shown it to and why had he decided to get rid of the evidence?

  “Where is it now?” Brogan asked while trying the veil his panic, but the tone of his voice betrayed him.

  “The goon took it. He was too strong for me. He ran off into the parking lot. That's when I went inside. I needed to get a drink and settle my stomach.”

  “You see this goon leave? What car he was driving?”

  “No, I didn't see. But now that I think about it, someone bumped into me as I headed for the restroom. And he looked kind of like the one that took the box.”

  Brogan demanded descriptions of the two men as he took out his pad and pen. He wouldn't end up needing them though. The noses, the eyes, the girth of each man, the scar worn by the one encountered at the dumpster. He only knew of two men that fit those descriptions. DelGatti's goons, the Hogan brothers. This could be very troubling for him. Very, very troubling.

  Brogan's character came shining through with everyone he tried to intimidate. He was a cop, but he was a dirty cop who pressured DelGatti to buy his silence and protection. So he wasn't comfortable with a piece of evidence in this particular crime in DelGatti's possession. Even though he had nothing to do with its removal, he didn't like the idea of a loose end. So to speak.

  “Don't leave town, Wiz” Brogan said. “I'll be in touch.”

  The cop left leaving the Wiz a little shaken, although with a new suitcase safely stored in his cardboard box, a new shirt on his back, and a pair of fine leather shoes on his feet. Even though one still didn't feel quite right.

  A few hours later, Benny came to. The room was white and evenly lit. This was in direct contrast to his apartment where he was accustomed to waking. What hit him first was the lack of dull shades of peeling brown walls. His dark bedroom remained in a state of relative obscurity, thanks to the dim illumination that only spilled in from holes in his seldom open curtains. The odor now was definitely different too, but it was a familiar antiseptic smell. As he breathed in the medicinal bouquet, combined with the sight of the railing up on the side of the bed in which he currently lay, not to mention the clear tube that ran from the hanging bag of pharmaceutical fluids down and into his arm, Benny Dugan had a pretty good idea where he was. And while the shock of waking in a strange environment temporarily clouded his train of thought, his memory was quickly coming back.

  Benny moved by putting a little weight on his elbows in an attempt to sit up. A pain in his side suddenly became quite sharp, an acute reminder of why he was wherever he was.

  Someone else had been sitting across from the bed watching the TV mounted in the corner, the sound barely audible for the sake of the formally sleeping patient. Marion didn't seem to mind. The news was on but at the moment it was nothing but the usual fluff that the local channels all seemed to accept as requirement for appeasing the masses. Or perhaps it was just to dull the viewer’s senses in preparation for when it was time to report the real tragic stuff. He held the remote in his hand as he watched. If they reported Benny's story, he'd be ready to turn it up.

  The patient's movement, particularly Benny's grunt of pain, turned his brother's attention bedside.

  Marion got up, walked to the side of the bed and put his hands on the railing. He stood there and just stared at his brother, apparently at a loss for words.

  “How'd you get here?” It was Benny who asked the question.

  “Cops called me” Marion told him. “Apparently I'm merely listed as 'Brother' in your cellphone's contacts.” Surveying his pale brother, he added “I think I should be asking the 'How'd you get here question?'”

  “Long story short, one of DelGatti's men shot me.”

  “Huh. Good reason, I presume?”

  “Another long story” Benny said. Then remembering earlier that morning, he asked “Did you get my note?”

  “What note?”

  “Uh, oh.” That response wasn't only about Marion's reply. It was Benny's turn at watching the TV. Just as he bothered to look past where his brother hovered over him, he caught the newscast. A picture of the TransContinental Bus building filled the screen behind the anchorman.

  “Turn that up!” Benny said pointing to the television.

  “And on a more serious note, this morning a man was found shot today as he lay on the floor of the restroom at the bus station....”

  The picture changed to footage of the man in question being brought out on a stretcher. From the view, the man's face wasn't visible, only a body being carried away.

  “It is unknown at this point who the perpetrator is. Also, we are told that the victim has ties to a local crime syndicate. They are not releasing the identity of the victim at this time while the police continue their investigation into the case.”

  Benny looked to his brother. “I guess I better fill you in.”

  Marion pulled into the lot, parking near the edge closest to the back end of the building. Where he was told to go was not hard to find. Just as it was described, the three-sided weathered wooden fence was clearly visible from the confines of the van. From where he sat, the west side blocked his view of what lurked behind.

  A sweeping look around the lot produced no sign of Brogan, DelGatti or any of his goons. Likewise, after a cautionary gaze into the gathering near the alcove, where those seemingly non-aware of anything or anybody beyond the borders where their smoking brethren gathered, no bells of alarm had been set off. Still, quite reluctantly, Marion took a deep breath and opened the door to the van. Out of the back seat, he grabbed the wooden oar, a memento to a long since abandoned canoe that represented happier days of childhood. Armed for the task, he began what felt like a long, solitary journey into an underworld abyss as he approached the enclosure.

  The back side, as well as defining the length of the stockade, marked the line of cardboard dwellings of a few unfortunate citizens of the city that had homesteaded behind the dumpster. This part was not as described, for his brother Benny, preoccupied with the package in hand and whose only focus within the perimeter was that of the dumpster itself, had not noticed the nature of the surrounding space.

  A few homeless individuals huddled together in the far back corner. One man seemed to be the focus of the discussion. It was the one in the back of the pack who led what was no doubt a dire conversation based on the somber look of their faces. Or perhaps it was just the status quo for those who lived in a box, taking turns reflecting on the travesties life had bestowed upon them. To Marion Dugan, life resided in his own set of somber dalliances of daily life, but whatever the distraction the group had concentrated on, he was most grateful for it. He would make his attempt, vain as it probably was, but one comprised of a necessary evil that his brother had placed upon him. Not that his brother would even approve, but it wasn't even any of his business. And she wasn't his to take from him.

  The lid to the dumpster, held on by the hinge, leaned against the back side leaving the container open-faced. Having placed the oar into the contents, Marion commenced a methodical sweep across the upper layer of refuse consisting of mankind's relics in assorted states of decay.

  As he dug deeper into the abominable abyss, the sound of shifting garbage increased in volume along with the effort used to continue the search for a very specific buried treasure. The sound equated to nothing short of an alarm among those previously engrossed in conversation near the back of the enclosure.

  “Hey!” one cried. “What are you doing?”

  It wasn't Simon “the Wiz” Abernathy who did the yelling. His boldness had been placed on temporary hold. He already had a number of encounters today with strangers within their tiny cube of a world. But he looked on at the man who had already overstayed his welcome. As he did, feelings of panic turned to bewilderment because he didn't believe in coincidences. This was no ordinary dumpster diver, and he certainly didn't belong to their clan. Abernathy already knew, he could feel it even before Marion Dugan's eyes latched onto him wearing what so
on would appear to be a very familiar shirt, that it was the hat box, or more probably its contents, that had summoned him.

  It didn't register at first when Marion caught sight of the one bum. He was mostly obscured while being surrounded by his buddies. Besides, Marion had been too self-absorbed in his quest to recognize any overt peculiarities. However, when one of the more bold members of the group yelled at him, he immediately stopped stirring the proverbial pot of mystery. The first reaction was a tinge of fear aroused by the tone of the voice. Frozen in place, he looked to the men for the first sign that his feet had better start running. The situation was quickly turning from just an undesirable necessity to one where consequences might alter the balance of priorities.

  No one moved. The others gave the bold one of their group the evil eye for tempting fate. At this juncture, Abernathy and the rest of his cardboard commune neighbors considered any confrontation with curious strangers a risk not to be taken lightly, especially considering the disappearance of one of their own. Nate “Scruffy” Mason may not have been all together there, more than a little forgetful once he took to bottle in a paper bag, but his friends still suspected foul play when he wandered off a few days ago and never returned.

  The standoff remained silent since the impetuous one had been subdued. It was now the homeless who searched their adversary's eyes for any intent on harm. They apparently saw none. Marion sensed the situation defusing as the group's posture lightened. The men broke from a tight group and began returning to their individual habitats. The last man, the one who had been huddled around by the rest, was left alone. He and Marion considered each other. Marion's expression changed with a revelation. The bum's shirt. It was his. How did he know? Because he had just bought it last week. Years of wear had not yet taken a toll on its brilliant red and white stripes, quite unlike the dirty and somewhat tattered apparel that comprised the remaining items of Abernathy's wardrobe. Marion didn't believe in coincidences either, at least not on a day where that shirt seemed to travel from his closet, to a suitcase and down to the bus station mere yards away from where they stood.

  It was at this moment that something deep inside him began to boil, something that had been quietly waiting since childhood for just the right impetus to break out from under the layers of repression he had been buried in. He had kept his distance from the world, but now the world was invading his private life and leaving a wake of destruction in its path.

  “Where did you get that shirt?” Marion, now the bold one, demanded. He wanted answers. First Angel. His Angel. Now the shirt. Why was everyone screwing with his stuff? He began walking toward Abernathy who was left with nowhere to go, his back against the wall in the far corner of the enclosure.

  “I believe that's my shirt” Marion told him. “Take it off.”

  “What makes you think it's yours?”

  Marion relayed to the bum how his brother had taken his shirt and other clothes for a trip and now his brother was in the hospital.

  “Hey, man. I didn't touch your brother. He was already unconscious when I got there. Under the circumstances, I thought a little charity on his part was a small price to pay for alerting the cops.”

  “It was you who found him? Did you see who did it? Could you identify him?” Benny already told his brother who shot him, but an eye witness would prove helpful.

  “I saw someone leaving the building as I was coming in. He appeared to be in a hurry, and he looked like....” Abernathy stopped abruptly as a calculation in his head put two and two together. “So, just what were you looking for, mister?” was his question as he pointed to the dumpster.

  “Something of mine got inadvertently thrown away today. I was hoping it was still there.”

  “Let me guess” Abernathy said, his calculations now complete. “A red hat box?”

  “You know about the box?”

  “Yeah, and what's in it.”

  This wasn't good, Marion thought. Not good at all. He had to know. “Where is it now?”

  The hat box sat on the top of the desk, right in the middle above the blotter. The majority of the dark paneled room remained in its usual dim, ominous state. The lamp on the desk, just off to one side, was aimed downward at the center. The red box seemed to soak up the rays of light only to spew them back out with an accumulative intensity. It seemed as if the heat generated would cause the box to be set ablaze at any moment. The Hogan brothers sat quietly at their usual spots on the sofa near the door. They watched their boss pace the room.

  DelGatti couldn't believe it. He had known Benny Dugan practically all of his life. Once childhood friends, brothers in relatively minor illegal endeavors. Even as adults, Benny never gave him cause to doubt Dugan's loyalty as DelGatti rose to be the one ruthless enough to claim his spot at the top of the food chain. And now? It was like he hadn't known the man at all. Not only did it look like Dugan was double crossing him, could he really have been capable of murder, a gruesome one at that?

  DelGatti was a cautious man, had to be to get to where he was. That's why he sent the boys along to keep an eye on things during Dugan's deal. That was just good business. But deep down, DelGatti never dwelt on any real possibility that Dugan would try to hustle him out of that kind of money.

  But that wasn't bad enough. Joey, usually the more capable of the two Hogans, the one he counted on to execute a chore with discretion, had failed to do so. But it appeared that the only thing executed was Benny Dugan, and without retrieving the money. This DelGatti contemplated as he paced up and down in front of his big ornate desk, the box on top only having added another layer of mystery of the man he thought he knew.

  Something mimicking a doorbell emanated from the computer. Previously the sound in the room was an empty void except for the scrapping of DelGatti's shoes as he moved about. He made his way to the table behind the desk and pressed a key. That brought up on screen the image being transmitted from the main gate of the DelGatti estate. There in a somewhat hazy black and white representation stood the likeness of Detective Brogan.

  It wasn't the first of the month. Pay-off day. Usually that was the only time he had to deal with this slime of the police department. A necessary evil, an unwritten rule of doing business in this town, his kind of business. But Brogan's timing today felt troubling, as if he needed any more trouble. He just wanted his money, and without any grief from Brogan. So, DelGatti speculated, why was he here? Did someone finger his bumbling errand boy at the scene of the crime? Was someone else in the restroom when Joey Hogan accidentally wasted Dugan? Does he think he's going to try extort more money out of him?

  But then it occurred to him that maybe the box, or more specifically what was in it, might buy him a little leverage.

  “Joey. Go let the scumbag pig in.”

  Simon “the Wiz” Abernathy grimaced. He was bending over, sticking a finger into the right shoe, pushing it around across the insole. Something was lodged in there, but he couldn't find it. Marion Dugan grimaced too, but his trouble stemmed from the knowledge Abernathy had just given him. The description of the bum's assailant could be anyone, but Marion had a good idea who the likely suspect was considering he knew it was one of the Hogan brothers who had attacked his brother just inside.

  But why would they want her? Unless of course, they wanted to hold it over his brother. As far as they knew, it was Benny who had something to hide. He would have to either give them DelGatti's money, or they'd go to the cops.

  The Wiz was bouncing on one foot, his hand still lodged in the other shoe. He tried quite ungracefully to keep that other foot in the air while probing the inner surface of the shoe for the protrusion. That battle was lost when his balance broke and he fell on his ass.

  “What are you doing?” Marion asked incredulously. It wasn't until then that he noticed the monogram on the now worn, but once expensive, Italian leather shoes. Two initials. BD.

  Abernathy took off the shoe. The insole easily lifted up. He jerked it all the way out.

  �
�Well, what do we have here?” the bum said, his eyes suddenly enlarged from the excavated treasure.

  He took the gold key in his hand and held it up for a closer look. He knew from experience, back when his not so distant former life included such things, that this was no ordinary key. Marion tried to grab it from him, but Abernathy proved to be too quick.

  Marion couldn't help but state the obvious. “That doesn't belong to you.” But what was obvious to him held a different version for Abernathy.

  “Finder's keepers.”

  “You're just a thief” Marion said scornfully. Keep the damn shoes you stole from my brother. Give me the key.”

  “What's it worth to you?”

  The next few seconds of silence were all Abernathy needed to read Marion Dugan's eyes, a telltale sign of a calculation going on in his head. Or at least a number, a likely large number, being reaffirmed front and center into consciousness. A number he wasn't about to divulge so easily. Abernathy began putting a few things together.

  One. A man throws away a hat box with a severed head.

  Two. A goon comes to retrieve said box.

  Three. He finds the first man lying unconscious on the restroom floor after almost being run down by another.

  Four. Anyone who hides a safe deposit box key in their shoe surely has something to hide. If the two goons weren't looking for the key, they were surely looking for whatever the key reveals.

  “I know what this key is” Abernathy told the younger Dugan. “A safe deposit box key.”

  “Yeah? How do you know that?”

  Letting out a heavy sigh, the Wiz explained. “I once was successful. Had lots of money. A stock broker by trade. Then my account got hacked, and...” He waved his hand around him. “The rest is history.”

  “Sorry to hear about your falling on hard times, but the key belongs to my brother.”

  “What's in the safe deposit box?” Abernathy asked confidently, thinking he was the one who held the cards now. At least the one clutched tightly in his fingers. The King of Keys. “Considering the company your brother keeps, my guess is it's a lot of money. Money that doesn't belong to him. Maybe he's the thief.” Abernathy's eyes lit up with one more card he held. “And maybe he's a murderer, too. Huh?”

  Marion Dugan debated his options. His whole world had gone to hell. “What do you want?”

  “I'm a reasonable man” the former financial wizard told him, smiling at the key. “All I need is a break to get back on top. I know of an investment deal, a real honest to goodness deal of a lifetime according to a reliable source. It will all happen in the next few days. All I need is someone to front some money and I'll triple it. You help me with that obstacle, and I'll just forget about your brother and the hat box.”

  His brother and the hat box? Screw that. He just wanted back what was his. When Marion stared hard at the bum, trying to read just how much of what he said was pure bull, he suddenly caught the resemblance. The nose was the same, the eyes, similar enough, although his were filled with a smattering of sincerity absent from one who could pass for his twin, that is if this Wiz character were to sport the same sleazy thin mustache.

  “I'll tell you what. We'll go see my brother. But I want you to help me do one more thing. But let's not tell my brother about it.”

  Joey led Detective Brogan down the hall and opened the door to the office where DelGatti held court. Sammy Hogan, sitting on the sofa just inside, glanced up offering the dirty cop a smirk in recognition. DelGatti had already returned to sit behind his desk of authoritative bulk, the red box moved to a less conspicuous spot on the table behind him. When the two men made eye contact, he presented a polite smile to the visitor. He needed to maintain a degree of civility, at least until the nature of his visit had been made clear.

  “What a pleasant surprise, Brogan. What brings you here today?”

  “Rumor has it, you are in possession of something I want.”

  “Me? What might that be?” DelGatti asked in what he hoped hadn't sounded overly insincere, at least not what was beyond the usual repartee between the two men. It hadn't occurred to DelGatti until that moment that someone may also have observed his equally, if not more so, inept goon liberate the box that now sat on the table. The real question was just how many people know of the actual contents.

  Brogan's eyes drifted to the table behind DelGatti. The red box rested among assorted piles of papers near the computer monitor. If he hadn't already known better, the contents could have been nothing more than documents that underworld characters accumulated in the course of their daily business. Ledgers and whatnot. But he did know better thanks to the bum Simon “the Wiz” Abernathy.

  “I think you know, DelGatti.”

  “Oh? Enlighten me?”

  “Don't play me for a fool. Our little arrangement can always be altered if you push me hard enough.” Brogan bellowed. His balls, usually tucked safely further up during his visits, were now swinging free, with a significantly diminished sense of intimidation in a man with more at stake. “I know what's in that red box behind you.”

  DelGatti turned to it. He thought about continuing the charade, but what was the point. Brogan must know, but what did he know of Benny Dugan?

  “You on an investigation, Brogan?”

  “I know the girl in the box belongs to a body lying in the morgue. I know she used to be part of your Temptation Hotel operation. I know Dugan was seen depositing the box in a dumpster before your goon over here decided to take the evidence. Coincidentally, it was about the time someone sounding a lot like your other pal here was seen leaving the bus terminal, also coincidentally at the approximate time Dugan was left bleeding in the john.”

  So, DelGatti had his answer. He knows. But he didn't say dead. The words were 'left bleeding'.

  “Give me the box and I'll forget about your associates' little altercation with Dugan. I just want to put a feather in my cap. You know, solve a pending murder case. Put a bad guy in prison.” Now, Brogan was the one acting, hiding his true motive - concealing evidence that could possibly lead to a conviction, his own. Just how he wasn't sure, but why take chances. Better to pin it on Dugan while he still could.

  DelGatti had to ask “Do you know where Dugan is now?”

  “He's in the hospital, recovering from the gunshot wound. But don't worry, he'll live.”

  Benny Dugan's not dead? DelGatti all at once felt a small wave of relief pass through him now that he knew what Brogan was doing there. But another wave consisting of the antithesis of relief overtook the first. If Dugan was alive, it changed things. He still needed to recoup his money one way or another.

  “Hey boss!” Joey piped up from where he sat next to his brother in the back of the room. They were watching the TV mounted on the wall with the sound off. “Look at this?” he said pointing to the screen. The likeness of Benny Dugan appeared in an inset next to the news reporter.

  “Turn it up.”

  With his hospital gown pulled all the way up, nearly to his arm pit, Benny Dugan tried to lay still while rolled over on his side. Dr. Abram wore blue latex gloves. With each prodding by his nimble fingers, the touch felt warm, yet none too soothing, the friction of the gloves intensifying the heat. Dugan tried not to let the pain show through his voice, but he still found it difficult not to grimace when the doctor's attempt at what he called a delicate touch slipped beyond a reasonable definition of the term. He stole a glance here and there at the relatively small hole that had been stitched together. There was hardly any more bleeding. The lightheadedness Benny felt when he first awoke had subsided. He felt more sore than weak.

  The patient finally made a little noise as the doctor removed his prodding hand. The sound was a sigh of relief, the torture over. Whatever kind of pain relief they had administered was obviously enough to dull the sensation only as long as exploratory pressure wasn't applied.

  “You're lucky, Mr. Dugan. The bullet didn't hit any organs or major arteries. The blood you lost wasn't enou
gh to put you in any real danger. My guess is you felt pain and fainted from the shock of being shot. You'll be just fine in a few weeks.” The doctor opened a new gauze pad, applied a thin layer of ointment and re-bandaged the wound. Benny was positioned again on his back and Abrams took out the needle from his arm ending the flow of medicinal fluids. With a reassuring pat to the patient's shoulder, the doctor said “I'll write a prescription for an antibiotic and one to help with the pain. The nurse will come in shortly to process you for release. You can get dressed now.”

  The doctor passed the threshold of the door and proceeded on his way down the hall to the nurse's station. Within seconds, at the opposite end of the hall, the elevator quietly announced its arrival with a subdued ding. When the door opened Marion and Abernathy exited and began to walk around the perimeter of the floor which was divided into a ring of rooms filled with patients. The air smelled slightly antiseptic, a familiar odor to Marion Dugan. Still, he found the openly lit environment anything but comfortable. Except for a number of aluminum carts being pushed busily up and down the corridor, everything else was in a wash of white. Something about the hospital, similar to the morgue yet in other ways quite diverse, put him at unease. It was the illumination more than anything else. Here, everything was so bright, a stark contrast to the dim gloom of the morgue he found considerably more tranquil.

  Benny Dugan had managed to make it to the edge of the bed when Marion and his new friend appeared at the doorway. They stopped just short of crossing through, as if checking for doctors, nurses and other demons that may impede their mission.

  “Well, you're back” Benny said as his brother decided to enter the room. Abernathy trailed behind, at first unnoticed by the elder brother until both visitors came to stand side by side. They remained closer to the door than to the bed where Benny was trying to get up, still in the white hospital gown, the back of which could be viewed by the visitors in its awkward open state. “Who's your sidekick?”

  Benny obviously didn't recognize Abernathy from when he first arrived at the bus station. The man known as the Wiz had been watching him from the safety of his cardboard home, waiting for his opportunity to see what was being added to the treasure trove in such a nice red box. Not that Benny would have paid him much notice since at the time his thoughts were transfixed directly inward. At that time all he considered were the implications of what he had found and the rationale of its disposal.

  “I'm Simon Abernathy” he said boldly. “We haven't officially met.”

  “Officially?”

  “No. Just in passing, as it were.” Abernathy grinned at the pun. “The hat box passing from you to the dumpster, and then, ever so briefly to me.”

  Benny Dugan's eyes grew into a hard stare, a wave of panic illuminating them. With all else to deal with, now extortion?

  “Marion, what did you do? Why did you bring him here?”

  “It's OK” Marion tried to assure him. “He's on our side. He's also the one who found you unconscious in the bus station.”

  “Our side? Just what is our side, anyway? I was only trying to protect you.” And then he heard all of what Abernathy just told him. All except for some missing detail the man skipped right over. He looked at Abernathy. “What do mean 'ever so briefly'?”

  “It seems DelGatti's goons took her” Marion explained.

  Benny Dugan's expression was now one of pure disbelief. Of all the sorry excuses for luck, how could things get any worse?

  “Don't worry, brother. We have a plan.”

  Those words did little to offer any degree of comfort. As if on cue, like when tension builds to a crescendo in a thriller movie, Benny's cellphone came to life, its chilling ringtone piercing the air. It was actually the theme song from Marion's favorite movie, Psycho, but the haunting sound attracted him. He set it up as kind of a joke one day when every time the phone rang it was one distressing problem after another. Now it seemed that none of those problems measured up to what had transpired since conceiving his deal to screw over DelGatti.

  The theme song continued to play. Benny pushed himself off the edge of the bed and reached for the phone lying on top of his clothes on the nearby chair. The display read 'Thornton'. “Hello, Dexter. Not really a good time.”

  “Oh? Sorry. I just wanted to let you know that our little film is about to be played. I thought you might want to see it live on TV. Channel five.”

  The film. “Oh, crap.” He almost forgot. Without another word, Dugan hung up. The TV was already on, the volume muted while some daytime soap opera filled the screen. He took the remote off the table next to the bed, changed the channel and brought up the volume. A handsome news anchor was delivering the end of another story. The camera angle then changed as the newsman looked into the camera with a face that exuded a direness true to the tragedy he was about to relate.

  “A shocking event happened earlier today when a man carrying a backpack stepped off a TransContinental Bus during a routine rest stop. The following film clip was made by a bystander who happened to be at the scene while intending to shoot video of the usually more serene and scenic vista.”

  Then the film that Dexter and his buddy helped produce came on screen. After a bus pulled away, it looked as though Dugan was left standing by the railing where no one else remained. An explosion filled the spot where he seemingly had been standing a second ago. But when the smoke settled, no one could be seen.

  “Reports have it that due to the extreme nature of the explosion, only small fragments of the body could be found. However through DNA testing, the victim has been identified as one Benny Dugan” the reporter said as the scene played out. “The exact cause of the explosion is not currently known.” The camera angle changed again. The reporter's face went from somber to sporting a huge smile when he continued with “On a lighter note, Fluffy the polar bear gave birth to a new cub today at the city zoo...”

  That was all they heard. Benny aimed the remote at the TV, turned it off and hobbled over to the chair. “Help me. I've got to get out of here.”

  Which they all three did, the white hospital gown hanging down, Benny having taken time only to pull on his pants, unbuckled and unzipped, as he held on to them with one hand, his jacket in the other. They tried to walk nonchalantly, yet swiftly in unison to the stairwell at the end of the hall.

  By the time the door closed behind them, a nurse ambled over towards the vacated room with prescriptions and release papers in hand. Upon reaching the room, and not finding any patient, she let out her own shrug of exasperation. To herself, she mumbled “Looks like somebody around here screwed up again.” Back at her desk, she threw the paperwork in the trashcan and went about her business.

  “What the hell, Brogan?” DelGatti turned to the cop. “I thought you said Dugan was in the hospital.”

  Brogan stared at the TV, or at least in its direction. It didn't matter where his eyes were pointing. They were on hold, no longer processing. It was some layer of his subconscious that had taken over. At the moment, he only saw visions from within his head that tried to make sense out of the information. But something wasn't right. There had to be some sort of mistake.

  Only he hoped that there wasn't. Brogan didn't know just what Dugan knew or what he may have seen that night. Why in hell would he cut off her head, keep it these past few weeks, then suddenly try to dispose of it before getting on a bus? If Dugan was really dead, who would be left that knew anything? None of these answers came to him, and that made him very, very nervous.

  “Brogan?” DelGatti didn't get an answer. He then looked to his two bumbling goons who sat on the sofa. The news clip left them with expressions that also carried a weight of confusion. However to them it seemed more like a riddle and they were still waiting for the punch line, the bigger picture still covered with a blank slate.

  “Joey” DelGatti demanded “Did you or did you not shoot Dugan at the bus terminal?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “No mistake. You're sure it was
him?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “And Sammy,” as if talking to a child, DelGatti asked, “Are you sure it was Dugan who dumped....the package?”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Brogan? Are you listening to me?”

  The cop finally turned in DelGatti's direction. “Yeah, yeah. I'm listening.”

  “So did you see Dugan at the hospital, or not?”

  “No, I didn't see him there. After investigating the shooting at the bus terminal, I came here.”

  “Brogan, you want the box? You go find out what's going on. If Dugan is dead, you make sure he stays dead. And come back with proof. Then I'll give you the box. And what's in it.”

  How much did DelGatti know? Had Dugan told him anything? Why did DelGatti want Dugan dead anyway? In lieu of answers to all these riddles, one thing became crystal clear. Whether Dugan was dead or alive, he needed to dispose of what was in the red box.

  After the cop left, DelGatti told the Hogan brothers to check out the hospital. If Dugan is alive, he still wanted his money. Of course, if he isn't, all wasn't lost. He would just need proof to give the insurance company. How convenient would it be that he wouldn't have to be the one to provide Dugan's demise. An accidental death, just like the policy covered.