by Michael Kerr
Groaning aloud against the pain, Frankie somehow dragged himself across the floor using his left arm and right leg to cover the ten feet to the bottom of the steps. He was not a quitter. He reached Lennox’s body and crawled over him, hardly smelling the stink of defecation that rose up to fill his nostrils. By the time he made it up to the third step from the top he guessed that at least thirty minutes has passed since Logan had left. He rested, summoning up the strength he needed to carry on. Maybe he lost consciousness for a while, he wasn’t sure, but when he looked up to the lit doorway above him he knew that his efforts had been in vain. Dusty Quaid was standing there with a gun in his hand.
“I need help, boss,” Frankie said. “I didn’t say a word to Logan, even when he shot me.”
Dusty didn’t believe him, and didn’t even bother to reply. Just took careful aim and put a bullet through his forehead, up near the hairline, due to Frankie being below his level and looking up at him. Frankie ceased to exist; already dead as he fell backwards like a dropped marionette, oblivious to the second slug drilling through his throat and exiting the nape of his neck. What had been Frankie Baker was now just a slack form sprawled over his former partner.
Dusty took a couple of steps down the staircase and put it beyond doubt that Washington and Baker were dead, firing an extra slug through each man’s head. He then checked their pockets, took their wallets, and was not surprised that their cell phones were missing. There were two handguns in the basement, though, and so after holstering his own, he picked them up for disposal later. Cops always got really pissed if they couldn’t find murder weapons.
Smiling, Dusty climbed back up the stairs and shut the door on the basement, which was heavy with the stink of cordite, blood and shit, to go to the kitchen, rinse his hands and seek out a plastic shopping bag to put the handguns in. He then left the house, walked down the street and climbed into the rear of the shiny-black Lincoln MKT Town Car that was parked near the corner with the engine running.
Sonny Gilmore said nothing. He was Quaid’s driver, and knew that like a well brought up kid he should be seen but not heard. He was happy to just drive wherever he was told to and follow instructions. Sonny had been a moderately successful stock car driver on the NASCAR team till a crash at the O’Reilly 300 at the Texas Motor Speedway six years ago resulted in a broken back and twenty other assorted fractures. Pinned together with metal and screws, his racing days were over, but a bud had put him together with Quaid, whom at the time was looking for a new personal driver.
“Put that CD of the music from Apocalypse Now on, Sonny; the track with the birds and Robert Duvall. What do you call it?”
“The Ride of the Valkyries, boss,” Sonny said, quickly taking the disc from a tray, removing it from its case and feeding it into the slot and selecting the track.
Dusty rested his head back and closed his eyes. “Take me home,” he said as the music started, and then he whispered the words that Duvall, as the character Lieutenant Colonel Bill Kilgore, had said in the Coppola movie, and which he had memorized, but not verbatim. “Can you smell that Napalm, son?” Dusty said. “There’s nothing else in the world smells that good. I love the smell of napalm in the morning. You know, one time we had a hill bombarded for twelve hours. When it was all over I walked up to the top, and I couldn’t find one stinkin’ dink body. But the smell of gasoline was heavy in the air. The whole hill stank of it, and it smelled like…victory.”
He was almost dozing as the car smoothly cruised south to mid Manhattan. But his mind was working, scheming; wondering what would be the best course of action to employ in the hunt for the elusive ex-cop. Knowing who he was didn’t help. He probably used another name, and was smart enough to know all the right moves. But one thing was certain. He would come at them. Frankie hadn’t known a lot, but would have given up descriptions, addresses, and his and Lennox’s phone would have contact numbers that could be traced. Who would Logan target? Moving on Trask in the clinic would be too obvious, so it would be Dalton or himself that would be in the firing line first. He would be ready, and have men watching his back, and also Max Dalton’s. And he would not underestimate Logan, who knew the city, had worked it as a cop, and by being at the house in Tuckahoe and getting the drop on Baker and Washington, displayed that he was very capable. Talking with him on the phone had given Dusty insight. You could tell a lot from the way a person spoke. There had been no hint of nervousness in Logan’s voice. He had sounded totally calm: a man that fed on pressure and was confident in his ability to deal with any given situation without foregoing caution.
“We’re here, boss,” Sonny said as he drove down into the parking garage.
Dusty opened the door, then hesitated and put his hand inside his blouson and grasped the butt of the pistol. Logan could be here now, standing in deep shadow behind one of the concrete support pillars, or kneeling behind another vehicle, ready to shoot him down as he walked over to the elevator. Paranoia was loose and running amok in his mind. He was used to instilling fear, not suffering the trepidation that was now raising the hairs at the back of his neck. He breathed out and recited one of the old SEAL sayings under his breath: ‘Don’t bother running, you will only die tired’.
Stepping out of the car he angled across towards the elevator; eyes flitting all around, ready to drop to one knee to aim and fire. Hopefully at Logan. It wouldn’t do to blow the shit out of some fellow tenant who’d just returned from a late night out.
Nothing untoward happened.
“Be here at eight a.m.,” Dusty called to Sonny, who had locked the Lincoln and was walking to his own much smaller Ford.
“You got it, Boss,” Sonny replied.
Dawn was still a few hours’ away. The nights were long and the days short at this time of year. Logan thought of darkness as a friend; one that cloaked you from the absent sun, to let creatures of the night go about their business with maximum privacy, while most of humanity slept.
He pulled off the highway midway between Jersey City and Bayonne, just across the bay that fronted Newark International Airport. The diner he’d stopped at was called The Liberty and had a twenty-foot replica on its flat roof of the big lady that had stood in New York Harbor since 1886. The original colossus was faring better than this mini look-alike, which had somehow lost two of the spikes from its helmet and the torch that should have been held in its right hand.
They sat in a booth. They all ordered coffee, but neither Della nor Benny were hungry. Logan was, and had a fully-loaded Liberty burger and fries.
They didn’t say much. They had covered everything on the drive back. And Logan was busy consuming his food, uninterested in making small talk.
Back in the car, Benny fell asleep and Della just withdrew into herself, unable to push away the horrific episode that had taken place at her house. She could still feel the sensation of spearing the man on the stairs. She had gripped the broom handle tighter than a drowning man would hold on to anything buoyant that was in reach. And the adrenaline had somehow given her added strength. There had been a split second’s resistance as the broken end of the broom had punched through his clothing, then his skin and the underlying muscle, before it sank deeply into much softer tissue. She could vividly recall the loud exhalation of hot breath from his mouth, which had the smell of garlic. Like so many other bad experiences in life, she would have to somehow get past this one; add it to the catalog and move on. She had been under threat and responded to it. She refused to let guilt burden her. The man had broken into her house with evil intent in his heart, and she had done what was necessary to protect herself. And thank God that Joe had turned up. The other guy was about to kill her. What right did some people think they had to threaten and harm others? The answer was, none. It seemed these days that the world was full of sick fucks that used terror, torture and murder to get what they wanted. They were predators that, like vermin, needed to be eradicated.
“How’re you doing?” Logan said as he drove back over Bayonne
Bridge onto Staten Island.
“There is at least one dead body in my basement, probably two, and I was that near being shot that I wet my panties, Joe,” Della replied. “And now I’m on the run, probably from the police as well as strangers that want me dead for some reason. So I’d say that I’m not doing too well. I’m scared stiff.”
“No need to be,” Logan said. “It’ll all work out.”
“You think?”
“Yeah. I know the players, and where to find them. Once they’ve been dealt with you’ll be able to get back to your life. And as for what happened at your house; you weren’t there when it went down. You have no idea why a person or persons unknown broke in. Stick to that and there’s no reason for the police to think that you were a part of it.”
“I’d need an alibi.”
“Say you were with me…spending the night in a motel.”
Della managed a smile. “And ruin my good name?”
“You’re over twenty-one. What you do for fun is no one else’s business.”
The idea of spending a night in a motel with Joe was appealing. After Ray had died she had physically and mentally closed up like a clam. When she had met Joe at Margie’s and Arnie’s house a few weeks after the funeral, he had somehow broken through her maudlin state of mind. He didn’t have a lot to say, but what he did say was meaningful. She remembered that Ray was mentioned, and that she couldn’t talk about him, and that tears formed in her eyes. She had gone through to the kitchen to regroup, and Joe had followed her.
“You need to remember all the good stuff and talk and smile about it,” he’d said, facing her with his hands on her shoulders. “Grieving is necessary, but it’s like being in a long, dark tunnel. Eventually you have to make the transition and come out of it into the light. Decide to let go of sorrow, Della. Don’t let it eat you up and stop you from getting on with life. Think of it as a rest stop on the journey you’re on.”
If anyone else but Joe had said that to her she may have got angry. But he wasn’t being patronizing or just talking BS. What he said was from the heart, and from a past that was full of experiences that he had put behind him and moved on from.
Logan parked outside room nine, noting that the only light on at the Blue Heron shone through the curtains from the window of number eight, where Margie was. Unlocking the door to nine, he shouted, “We’re back, Margie,” to let her know who it was.
Margie had just sat on the edge of the bed for most of the time they had been gone. She was totally exhausted but could not sleep. At the top of her list of concerns was Arnie. He could be dead for all she knew. Not being able to phone or visit the hospital had her as tightly coiled as a spring. She needed to be with him, not sitting in a cheap motel room across the river. And she was also worried about Logan, and for Della. What if they didn’t make it back? The hours had dragged by, but now that they were here, she rushed through the adjoining door to greet them; hugged Logan, then Della, and even Benny, who just went a little red in the face with embarrassment and grinned. He hadn’t been hugged by anyone for a long time, and suddenly felt as though he was part of a family, or at least with friends and not strangers.
“What happened?” Margie asked.
“You tell her,” Logan said to Della. “I need to write down all the numbers in the phones I acquired, and then get rid of them before they’re traced.” And to Benny he said, “You can make yourself useful and brew some coffee.”
“Okay, boss,” Benny said. “I’m on it.”
“Drop the ‘boss’,” Logan said. “We’re just four people that need to resolve a problem together.”
Margie and Della went through to the next room. Logan found a cheap ballpoint and a Post-it sized notepad, both with the motel’s name on them and a motif of a bird that could have been a heron or any one of a dozen species of long-beaked wading birds. When he had made a note of all the names and numbers in the phones, he switched them off, removed the cards and used his knife to damage the small integrated circuits. SIM was an acronym for Subscriber Identity Module, and Logan was well aware that with the right equipment their location could be traced. Being extremely cautious could mean the difference between life and death, and he wasn’t going to die because he had underestimated the enemy’s capabilities.
After drinking two cups of coffee, having a shower under water that was almost stone cold, and brushing his teeth, Logan decided to sleep for a couple of hours, during which time he knew that all the information he had gathered would settle out and a plan would form in his head. First, he knocked on the internal door and waited for Margie to invite him in before opening it. “I’m going to grab some sleep,” he said to the two women. “One way and another it’s been a long day.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Della said.
“I need to see Arnie,” Margie said. “Tomorrow…I mean today. I’m not going to hide out here while he’s fighting for his life in a hospital bed.”
Logan could see that to argue with her would be a waste of breath. “I’ll take you in a few hours, when we’ve all rested up.”
He said goodnight and closed the door. Benny was already in bed, snoring lightly. Logan could see that he was still dressed, but had at least taken his shoes off. The guy needed to shape up and turn himself around.
Dusty called Max at seven a.m. and told him exactly what had happened, apart from the fact that he had whacked Frankie; he laid that off on Logan.
“We need to find this piece of shit, get what he has on Mr F, and take care of him,” Max said. “What do you intend to do?”
“Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly?”
“What’re you talking about?”
“He’s going to come for us, Max, straight into a web. We’ll be waiting for him. I gave a cop we own a call. He knew this Logan character a few years back. Gave me a description; Six-four, looks a little like that actor in Taken, but is more powerfully built. Hard to miss. And the cop said that Logan was like a dog with a bone. He sees things through. Doesn’t like unfinished business.”
“And you think that he considers us as unfinished business?”
“Yeah. I’d say that he has declared war on us. He’s one of those stubborn knucklehead’ that don’t know when to quit.”
“So we ‘circle the wagons’ and wait for him.”
“Exactly. Everyone on the payroll will have a description of him.”
“I don’t like being bait,” Max said. “He may be better than you think, or get lucky.”
“Relax. He thinks that he’s a faceless, unknown quantity to us, and that will be the death of him.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Benny drove up the ramp and found a slot on the third floor of a parking garage on 30th Street between First and Second Avenues, close to Bellevue.
“We’ll make this quick,” Logan said. “I’m sure that one of Fallon’s mob will be inside the hospital, waiting to see if Margie visits him.”
“So you’ll be followed when you leave?” Benny said.
“No,” Logan said. “I’ll make sure that we lose any tail.”
Margie and Logan got out of the car, and Della stayed inside it with Benny.
The nearer that they got to the hospital, the more anxious Margie became. A little voice was telling her that she would be informed that she was too late; that Arnie had died. She linked her arm through Logan’s and held on tight until they were within sight of the entrance doors.
“You go on ahead,” Logan said. “I’ll be a few yards behind you. I want to see if anyone takes an interest when you walk in.”
Margie made her way beneath the sheltering overhang and, passing through one of the transparent glass entrances, was once again slightly awed by the opulence of the huge building. She made her way through the maze of corridors to the West Wing and took the elevator up to the second floor.
Nick Roach was sitting on a plastic contour chair and ostensibly reading the sports section of The New York Times. He had been gi
ven a photo of Margie Newman, didn’t expect that she would show up, but kept watch on the people entering the main doors to the West Wing. If Dusty Quaid had his facts right, she would in all probability be accompanied by a very tall, broad-shouldered guy by the name of Logan, who was an ex-cop and was now playing bodyguard. If they were stupid enough to visit the comatose guy in the ICU, Nick would phone Quaid and keep out of sight. And if they left before backup arrived, he would follow them.
He almost missed her. She was alone, looked a little thinner in the face than the image in the slightly out of focus photo that had obviously been taken from a distance with her face angled down. He quickly checked the mug shot he’d been given again. It was definitely her.
Following her to where she took an elevator up, Nick went over to another waiting area, got a coffee from a machine and phoned Quaid.
“Are they at the hospital?” Dusty said after checking the caller ID and answering.
“Just the woman,” Nick said. “Whadya want me to do now?”