Molly Brown

by B. A. Morton

  “Sure I have. Just being polite, that’s all. I was going to ask after your day, like how’s your day been, Tommy? But you look beat up, so I figure it’s been a rough one. Have you had a rough day, Tommy? Someone been yanking your chain? You want to tell me all about it? I’m a good listener. I listen all goddamn day. This place is just a big bucket of noise. Got to filter it out to get to the good stuff. You hear me, Tommy? Lots of people yakking about this and that, about how they didn’t do what they’re accused of doing or maybe they did. Who knows, Tommy, lots of lies and liars, a man’s head could fill to bursting with all the noise in here.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “That’s why it’s best to come at night,” continued Pearce, “when it’s quiet as a grave. All you can hear now is your own noise, your own thoughts and I’m betting you got plenty of those, Tommy, all fighting for space. Like I said, gotta learn to filter, Tommy. Get rid of the crap. It just isn’t worth worrying about. Are you a worrier, Tommy, the type of man who allows something to gnaw away inside? I’m betting you are. Nothing wrong with that. Shows you have a conscience. Some men don’t and that’s the problem with the world today.”

  “Is there a point to this?”

  “There’s a point to everything, Tommy. Even the things you figure don’t mean a shit.”

  “Luther, you want to philosophize on the world and the evils within it, go right ahead. But you can do it to the guy who shares your cell or the guard who locks you in at night. I don’t have the time or the inclination to sit and listen to you.” Connell pushed back his seat, placed his hands on the table to and began to rise.

  The guy just liked the sound of his own voice and Connell was done listening.

  “I wanted to know how it felt,” said Pearce slowly, drawing Connell’s attention back. He resumed his seat reluctantly. Okay, so he’d give him another couple of minutes. He stretched out his legs, eased the cricks in his neck and turned back to Pearce with a sigh.

  “How what felt?” he asked.

  “Helplessness, pain, impotence, fear.” His voice drifted off, his thoughts elsewhere, his eyes momentarily unfocused.

  Connell shrugged. ”You’ve lost me, Luther.”

  Pearce pulled himself back and flashed his black smile. “When your boy was taken, when an evil man held a gun to his head, how did it feel, deep inside, in that part of your gut that you hide from the world? Were you tempted, Tommy?”

  Connell had been warned not to let Pearce manipulate the conversation, firstly by Gerry who’d told him his job was to get information, and secondly by the prison guard who had repeated that Luther Pearce was crazy and would have nothing but craziness to share, that he would attempt to get into Connell’s head and on no account should he let him. Connell wasn’t sure how the guard had managed to form such an opinion when the guy hadn’t opened his mouth for six months, but even so, he was unprepared for his own response to Pearce’s words. He felt a shift in his gut, deep down, as Luther had said, in a dark place that was rotten with guilt and self-loathing.

  He closed his eyes briefly to shut him out and suddenly he was there on the bridge, snow on the ground, a gun in his hand unable to pull the trigger, indecision coursing through him as Joe implored him with eyes brimming with tears. He felt his skin prickle with heat, swallowed to ease his suddenly constricted throat and knew that despite his attempt at self-control, Pearce had seen it.

  He cleared his throat and bought himself an extra few seconds to steady his voice. “We’re not here to talk about me, Luther. You said you had something important to tell me. If that was a lie, a game on your part, then you’ve wasted my time and we’re done.”

  “A game?” Pearce pulled himself up straight as best he could with his wrists manacled to the seat. “This isn’t a game, Dee-tec-tive Connell. This is very serious indeed. But if you insist on the analogy, then I should warn you that you’re in grave danger of losing what little advantage you have.”

  “I’m no longer a detective, Mr. Pearce,” Connell replied, adopting the same drawl.

  “Sure, no badge, but you still got the nose, the instinct. Just can’t help yourself, isn’t that right, Tommy?”

  Connell eased back in his seat, a poor attempt at nonchalance when all he really wanted was to reach across, take Pearce by the throat and squeeze the madness out of him. He flicked a glance at the camera up high in the corner of the room. When he returned his gaze, Pearce smiled slyly.

  “Go on, give it a try. Sometimes you just have to go with your gut, don’t you?”

  Connell ignored him, reined back his revulsion and attempted to regain control of the conversation. “You shared a cell with two felons who are now deceased. Can you tell me anything that might help in identifying those responsible for their deaths?”

  “I can tell you about one of them.”

  Connell cocked his head and gave a resigned shrug. He hadn’t expected this to be easy. His five minutes was rapidly disappearing.

  “And are you going to?”

  “That depends on you, Tommy. You choose. In box A is Musgrave the corrupt cop who endangered your family. You wanted him to pay for what he did, didn’t you, Tommy? Let’s be honest, deep inside, you wanted him dead. Wouldn’t you like to know who stole the job you would have sold your soul for, who settled the score so you wouldn’t have to? Maybe you don’t. Maybe it’s better not to know the identity of the other you, the one who believes in right, regardless of the consequences. Perhaps you’d prefer box B. Brown, the fall guy whose family remains in danger despite what you might have been told. There’s still a wrong waiting to be put right on that one, still a chance to purge the guilt, Tommy. You choose - A or B? You can’t have both.”

  The idea that Pearce knew anything, or that any of what had recently occurred was linked to him, was obviously ridiculous, the product of a mind with nothing better to do than weave fanciful connections from snippets gleaned from news reports and eavesdropping. The guy was a fraud. Even so, Connell was hooked like a fish on the end of a taut line.

  “What do you know?” hissed Connell. “Who are you?”

  “I’m a good listener. That’s who I am. I listen when men whisper in the darkness, when they ask for forgiveness in their prayers and when they throw back their heads and crow about their exploits, their unholy deeds.” Pearce inclined his head, encouraging Connell to lean further. “I know everything about you, Tommy, even the things you’d rather not remember yourself, things you tell yourself you’ve forgotten. And I know everything you want to know about Musgrave and Brown. I’m what some might call a collector of knowledge, a sponge to the world’s ills, an oracle, if you please. I could be your friend, Tommy, a very valuable friend.”

  Connell stared at him and felt horror and fascination curdle inside and bubble its way to the surface till he could taste it like bile on his tongue. He was inexplicably drawn, tempted almost beyond reason. He craved to know what Musgrave had divulged in the dead of night when he knew his life had been ruined by Connell and he faced an uncertain future in jail. The silence between them lengthened until all Connell could hear was his own rapid breathing. He needed to know what Pearce knew, and crucially, what he wanted in exchange.

  “What do you want?” As soon as the words were out, he regretted them. He watched Pearce’s mouth slide into a slow smile and knew that he’d given an unforgivable amount of ground in a battle which he sensed had only begun.

  “A very good question, Tommy, but you need to answer mine first. Do you choose box A and catch a killer before he catches you or box B and save a child? I hate to hurry you, Tommy, but the clock is ticking.”

  Connell shot a glance at the clock on the wall. The pointers were silently skimming the face. In his head they were ticking louder than a drum. Pearce was still smirking, blinking lazily as if he had all the time in the world. Connell clenched his fists on the table top until the knuckles shone white. Behind he heard the buzzer sounding the end of his allotted time and the code being punched in
to the door.

  “Fuck you,” he muttered.

  “A or B?”

  The guards appeared, bustling through the doorway. Anxious to get on, to get Pearce tucked up in his cell so they could turn in.

  “You all done here?” asked the guard who had shown Connell in.

  Connell glared at Pearce, maintaining eye contact despite the mockery. Pearce was unlocked from the seat and for a moment he stood at liberty, unrestrained, unshackled. He smiled, shoved his hands in his pockets casually as if he were about to take a stroll, and cocked his head.

  “Last chance, Dee-tec-tive.”

  The guards caught at his arms, pulled roughly at his wrists and he gave a final shrug before turning away as if it didn’t matter who lived or died. And in that split second Connell realized just how much it mattered to him.

  “B,” he shouted.

  Pearce whipped his head back around with a snarl. The guards, unprepared for such a transformation, were slung aside with such force they were unable to prevent Pearce as he lunged at Connell, grasping him by the throat. Flung backwards with the weight of his attacker, Connell fought to pull free. The guards scrambled to restore order and in the confusion Connell felt Pearce’s breath hot against his ear, his spittle wet against his skin.

  “Good choice, Tommy,” he growled. “You’ve upped your game. 8/10.”

  Pearce was yanked back and slammed against the wall as restraints were forced around his wrists. Connell lay momentarily stunned by the speed of his attack.

  “Wait,” he yelled at the guards as he struggled to his feet and they wrestled Pearce from the room. “What were you going to tell me?”

  “You made your choice, Tommy. It’s up to you now.”

  “No! That can’t be all there is. You told me you knew. What do you know?”

  Pearce turned and smiled. “Next time, Tommy. Gotta run.”

  Connell picked up his things and headed to the car, frustrated to hell and massively spooked by his meeting with Pearce. He flung himself into the driver’s seat. He didn’t care that it was late. Gerry had some explaining to do. He switched on the overhead light and pulled out his phone. Along with it came a scrap of paper that hadn’t been there before. On it was the name of a club downtown, a club he knew very well indeed, and the name of a man he knew equally well, Frankie Vasin. Luther Pearce had delivered, even if it had been by unorthodox means and way too late.

  Luther thought he knew something Connell didn’t. He was wrong. He knew nothing that wasn’t already common knowledge. He was a conman, a fraud and Connell had just about had enough of being jerked about.

  He checked his watch. The night was still young by club standards and there was something to be said for striking while the iron was hot.

  Chapter Twenty

  He hadn’t planned on calling Marty. He figured he’d stretched that friendship to the limit, and when all was said and done, he wasn’t in a very convivial mood. He didn’t want to run the risk of offloading onto his best buddy the crap that, by rights, should be piled in Gerry’s lap. But when Marty called to say he had news, Connell decided one beer between friends couldn’t hurt.

  “Is this wise?” asked Marty when they met on the street outside the club where Frankie was suspected of doing all the stuff not noted on his corporate resume’.

  Connell shrugged. “Probably not, but what the heck, Marty, I just need to straighten a few things out.”

  “I thought Frankie was supposed to be under surveillance. How come the place isn’t crawling with operatives?”

  “How do you know it isn’t?” Connell cast an eye at the vehicles parked up in the street alongside his. They were all empty - no guys slumped in their seats with telescopic lenses trained on the club. “Maybe they’re already inside propping up the bar.”

  Marty grinned. “That sounds about right, and just what we’re planning, so I don’t reckon we can complain about it.”

  Connell raised a brow at the sullen doorman, and the guy stepped aside and let them through without any trouble. He looked half-asleep or half-canned, as if he’d drawn the short straw and had been working a few shifts back-to-back. Back in the day, you needed a personal recommendation or a hefty bribe to get in the door. Now, it seemed exclusivity had fallen by the wayside. There was no crowd at the entrance to push their way through either, which was unusual. It had always been a jumpin’ place, but maybe the notoriety of being linked to organized crime had put off the regulars, the law abiding preferring something less dangerous and the low-lifes somewhere less obvious. Connell paused just inside and scanned the interior. If the clientele numbers were anything to go by, the place had to be losing money. The music still pumped out and the booze was still flowing, but there was an unhealthy ambience simmering. Men nursing drinks, women gyrating round poles, a seediness that may well have been present all along but Connell didn’t recall it quite like that. Sure, he still had nightmares at what had gone on here - lives lost, mistakes made. There had been violence and corruption but it had been delivered beneath a veneer of exclusivity. Now it reeked of a twisted underbelly gone bad. Connell exhaled slowly. There would likely be trouble before the night was out.

  “You okay?” asked Marty.

  “I’m fine,” muttered Connell. He wasn’t. He could feel anxiety thrumming gently and sought to dispel it. “You want my opinion?” he continued as he hailed the bartender, “surveillance is a joke - two guys, tops, who are probably in Frankie’s pocket anyway.” He shouted his drinks order above the din of the music, relieved he didn’t recognize the young guy behind the bar. He didn’t want a conversation on why he hadn’t been around since the club had changed hands. He had a long and checkered history at the club that he’d rather not rekindle.

  “Are you sure you’re okay, buddy? You look a little wired.”

  “Sure, Marty. Quit worrying. I’m just tired.” He passed a bottle to Marty and took a swig from his own. He wasn’t in the mood. The sooner he caught up with Frankie, the better.

  “So why aren’t you home in bed?”

  Connell smiled wearily. That was exactly where he wanted to be, preferably with Lizzie. “That’s where I’m headed. Just got to tie up a few loose ends first.”

  “I thought you went by Frankie’s house this morning.”

  “He wasn’t home. I bumped into Gibbons instead.” Connell took another mouthful of beer. It was warm. He scowled his annoyance at the bartender’s back.

  “Yeah, I heard what happened.”

  “From who?”

  “Who’d you think? Gerry called me. He wanted the lowdown on what I’d seen outside Frankie’s. He seemed mighty interested in the girl - what she did, how she looked, did she say anything? did they do anything? That kind of stuff. I don’t know where he figured I was lurking when all this activity was meant to be going on. The girl couldn’t string two words together, not in English anyway.”

  “Really? He couldn’t give a shit about the girl when I spoke to him. I wanted to go check out the house. You know, sniff about while it was empty, see if I couldn’t catch Frankie with his pants down. But no, I was told in no uncertain terms to get my hide out of there.”

  “And did you?”

  “In a roundabout way.”

  “He was probably trying to keep you out of trouble.”

  “Oh sure. Covering up some secret agent shit, more like it.”

  Marty leaned back against the bar and studied Connell. “He’s worried about you, Tommy. We both are.”

  “There’s no need Marty, I’m fine, or at least I will be when Gerry quits jerking my chain. He’s been playing games again. This whole situation with Frankie is a pile of shit, a multi-agency operation according to Gerry, which basically translates to a pissing match between departments. They’re likely running a book on who gets him first. The city could be littered with bodies but as long as the right department makes the arrest, who gives a fuck?”

  “He told me you went to see Luther Pearce.”

  “Y
eah and that was a waste of time. The guy’s a conman, some crazy fuck who thought he’d try and rattle my cage.”

  “And did he?”

  Connell replaced his beer on the counter top and took his time replying. Oh sure he’d been rattled, though he wasn’t entirely clear why. “I guess, just a little. He knew some stuff that he could have picked up from anywhere, probably did, but there was something about him that was, I don’t know, just plain weird.”

  “There’s been a lot of weird stuff going on lately, Tommy. Did he say anything about Brown?”

  “Kind of, in a cryptic, weirdo way. He said Molly was still in danger, that Frankie was the guy, and he even named this club, like I didn’t already know.” He pulled out the crumpled piece of paper that Pearce had shoved in his pocket.

  “What else did he say?” Marty watched as he smoothed it out on the counter top.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tommy, don’t lie to me. He said something, otherwise you wouldn’t be spooked.”

  Connell shrugged, took a moment to consider his response and decided if he couldn’t confide in Marty he was in deeper shit than he thought. “Okay,” he sighed, “he intimated that he knew who had killed Musgrave. Kind of suggested that the guy had done me a favor, that I should be grateful, or maybe even pissed that he got there before me.”

  “And are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Pissed that you didn’t get to finish Musgrave yourself.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Sometimes it takes someone else to put into words what you feel inside. Hey, the guy almost cost you Lizzie and Joe’s lives. You took a bullet because of him, so no one is going to be shocked to hear that you would have happily pushed him under a train. It doesn’t make you a bad person, Tommy, just human.”

  “You reckon?”

  Marty reached out and landed a heavy punch on his shoulder. “I’d give you a hug, buddy, but hey, in this place it might be misconstrued.”

  Connell smiled. “Marty, if I ever feel the need for a bro-mance, you are definitely the guy. I’m feeling the love.”