The Last Second Chance: An Ed Earl Burch Novel

by Jim Nesbitt

  “Got nothin’ to say, Big ‘Un? That’s a first. Takes a helluva lot to shut you up. Not sure you and I could stand another round of what it takes to keep you from flappin’ your lips.”

  He tried to ask ‘where are you?’ It came out garbled and slurred, like slow-poured gravel from a plastic bag.

  “You askin’ where I’m at, I think. Better you don’t know. And better if you don’t try to talk. Your jaw got busted and had to be wired up. You’ll be drinkin’ dinner for a while. Ribs are busted, too. And we had to get your face and wrists stitched up. Your chest, too.”

  He looked down at his chest and saw the twin rows of stitching that closed deep cuts on either side of his sternum. He could feel the swelling along the right side of his face. He held up his right arm and turned it over, staring at the long, jagged line sewn up down the middle of his wrist. He knew it as the deep mark of a serious suicide, not a shallow, cross-cut cry for help. And not the usual choice of a killer who wanted to bleed him out.

  ‘How?’ he tried to say. More gravel poured from the bag.

  “How? How are we still alive? Luck of a blind pig or more of that spooky voodoo shit. The madrina wanted T-Roy dead but couldn’t bring herself to kill him or have her sons do it. Said the spirits told her I was the way to make that happen. Handed me the .45 just about the time T-Roy was ready to make your ticker a midnight snack. Let us go. You were a mess so her boys hauled us to a friendly medico on this side of the border. Motel you’re in belongs to him. You’re safe there -- the madrina’s boys keep it that way and the law stays away. Paid the doc enough to keep you tended to until you mend up.”

  He steeled himself to punch through the gravel, one slow word at a time.

  “Saw … you … kill … sumbitch. Too … fast.”

  “Too fast? Well fuck me runnin’. Didn’t exactly have time to make it a slow, painful death, did I? I guess I should have let him cut your heart out before wastin’ his sorry ass. Could’ve took my time that way.”

  “Fine … by … me.”

  “Don’t give me that martyr shit, Big ‘Un. We got in this together, we got out of this together. Killin’ T-Roy came from the both of us. For Uncle Harlan, your partner and your ex. Don’t matter who pulled the goddam trigger.”

  “Not … enough.”

  “You’re right about that. It doesn’t bring them back. And it never goes away, does it? The pain of losin’ them.”

  “No … never … does.”

  They stopped talking, the long-distance hiss the only sound between them. She broke the silence, her voice small and drained.

  “This is goodbye, Big ‘Un. You won’t see me no more. You take care of you.”

  A loud click on the line. The dial tone in his ear. He looked at the scars on his chest and the wet spot on the sheets. He touched his swollen jaw and felt the pain in his ribs.

  Battered but alive. Alone in a border motel.

  About the Author

  For more than 30 years, Jim Nesbitt was a roving correspondent for newspapers and wire services in Alabama, Florida, Texas, Georgia, North Carolina, South Carolina and Washington, D.C. He chased hurricanes, earthquakes, plane wrecks, presidential candidates, wildfires, rodeo cowboys, ranchers, miners, loggers, farmers, migrant field hands, doctors, neo-Nazis and nuns with an eye for the telling detail and an ear for the voice of the people who give life to a story. He is a lapsed horseman, pilot, hunter and saloon sport with a keen appreciation for old guns, vintage trucks and tractors, good cigars, aged whiskey and a well-told story. He now lives in Athens, Alabama. This is his first novel.

  Read on for an exerpt

  from Jim Nesbitt’s next novel

  THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER

  An Ed Earl Burch Novel

  Available Summer 2016

  Chapter 1

  It wasn’t San Francisco or London, but the fog was thick and flowing -- like tufts sucked from a bale of cotton, carrying the muddy tint of a used linen filter. It made him think of trench coats, lamp posts and the low warning moan of a ship’s horn sounding somewhere out on the water. Rolling across the flat fields, it made dark gray ghosts of the trees that huddled along the far fence lines and left cold beads of moisture on his skin and memories of old black-and-white movies in his mind.

  But there were no ships in the harbor, no waterside buckets of blood, no Rick or Ilsa. Just lightless farmhouses, barns, open-sided equipment sheds and squat corrugated feed bins for cattle, all cloaked by the fast-moving fog, glimpsed only if the wind parted the curtain of stained white wetness as you rolled by.

  And it wasn’t the Left Coast or Britain. It was Texas and the scrubby coastal country north of Houston, beyond the Intercontinental and its roaring planes. Take a left off the farm-market road with the four-digit number. Find the third dirt road on the left, take it for three miles. Splash through the potholes and set your teeth against tires juddering across the washboard track. Hit the T of another dirt road. Look for a faint gravel trail at your 10 o’clock. Rattle over the cattle guard. Close the gate behind you.

  Easy to remember. Hard to do with visibility down to zero. Even with the window rolled down and the Beemer’s fog lamps flipped on. Nice car. Leather seats the color of butterscotch taffy. Mahogany inserts flanking the instruments and fronting the glove box. Killer sound system and a cellular phone. Shame to bang this baby along back roads, splashing mud and gravel against its polished flanks of forest green.

  Not his car. Not his problem. Fog and time were. He was already a half hour behind schedule when his contact finally drove up with the car, the briefcase of bills and the directions to the meet. Fog was adding more minutes to his travel time. He had to double back when he missed one turnoff and that made him slow and leery of missing another.

  Not good. Not good. Patient people weren’t on the other end. They never were. But they would wait because he had the money, they had the product and both sides wanted this deal closed tonight. And if they were pissed and wanted to wrangle, he could deal with that; a matte-chrome Smith & Wesson Model 6906 with 13 rounds of 9 mm hollow-point nestled in a shoulder rig underneath his black leather jacket.

  Always the chance of a wrangle on a run like this. Ripoffs were a run-of-the-mill business risk, even between long-time associates. But on this deal, the probability of gunplay was low. He was just nervous about running late. It wasn’t professional. He thought about using the cellular phone but shook the idea out of his head. Not something a pro would do.

  And not something his people would appreciate. They were security-conscious and worked the high-dollar end of the street. No cowboys. Pros only. Running a well-oiled machine. Not that he knew them well. He was strictly a cutout man, a well-paid delivery boy who made it his business to stay ignorant about those who hired him and their business partners.

  He wasn’t totally in the dark about his paymasters; no prudent pro ever was. But he kept his curiosity in check and his focus on the amount of money he was paid and the demands of the night’s job.

  It was a relaxing way to make a living. A phone rings. A voice on the line gives him the name of a bar or cafe. A man meets him with an envelope and instructions. And he goes where he is told -- to deliver money, to pick up a truck or car loaded with product, to put a bullet through the skull of someone he doesn’t know. Command and control. Just like the Army and those over-the-border ops in Cambodia.

  A sputtering string of electronic beeps startled him. The car phone. He glanced down and saw a red pin light flash to the time of the beeps. He pulled the receiver out of its cradle.

  “Talk to me.”

  “Where the hell are you?”

  “You don’t want me to say.”

  “You’re late and that’s making some people nervous.”

  “Your man was late and this phone call is making me nervous. It’s not very smart.”

  “We decide what’s sm
art. We pay you to get things done and be on time. How long till you get there?”

  “Ten.”

  “Get there.”

  He snapped the receiver back in place and shook his head. Not good. Not good. Lots of snoopers scanning these cellular circuits. A pro would know this and wouldn’t risk a call unless the other side was making a ruckus. Made him wonder if the players in this game were as big league as he thought they were.

  Those thoughts rode with him as he wheeled the Beemer down the dirt road, looking for the T intersection. There it was. He looked for the gravel trail, slowly turning the car to the left, letting the fog lamps cut a slow sweep across the far side of the road. There. At his ten o’clock. Just like he was told. He stayed alert, but his nagging nervousness and doubts started to fade.

  The trail led from the gate and crossed the field at a sharp angle. He crept along, easing the car through ruts and washouts. He saw the shrouded form of a tin shed and weaved the car so the lights would pan across its open door. The yellow beams caught the wet metal of an old tractor and two men in dark slacks and windbreakers -- one tall, bald and lean; the other short, squat and slick-haired.

  He stopped the car, fog lamps still on. He pulled his pistol, letting his gun hand drop to his side and rear as he stepped out, keeping his body behind the car door.

  “Wanna cut the lights, guy?”

  A purring voice from the short guy, coming from a full, sleek face that made him think of a seal.

  “Not really. Let’s keep everything illuminated. Makes me feel safe.”

  “You’re among friends, guy. Nobody wants monkeyshines here. We just do the handoff and the call and we can get the hell out of this fog. You’re late and we’re cold.”

  “No arguments from me, my man. But let’s do this by the numbers.”

  “Numbers it is, guy.”

  He stepped away from the car.

  “Money’s in the front seat. Have your buddy do the honors.”

  A nod from the talker. His companion walked to the passenger side of the Beemer and leaned in. He heard the latches of the briefcase pop open.

  “Looks good to me.”

  “Make the call. That okay with you, guy?”

  “By all means. Make that call. Tell Mabel to put a pot of coffee on.”

  A laugh from the talker. He could see the other guy reach for the cellular phone. Somewhere across town, a phone would ring. Assurances that the money was in hand. Somewhere else another phone would ring. Product would change hands. Then the Beemer’s cellular would ring again and the night’s business would be done.

  He was alert but relaxed, ready to wait, the screwups behind him and the deal running smooth and professional now. He had a clear view of the talker and his companion. He had his gun in hand. He was thinking about a cup of coffee when the baseball bat cracked across the back of his skull.

  “Cut those damn lights. Secure the money.”

  A nod from the companion. The talker moved toward the third man, the man with the baseball bat, a hulk with the arms and shoulders of a lineman and the on-the-balls-of-the-feet stance of a third baseman. They stood over the slumped body.

  “Give me a hand with this sumbitch. He’s heavy. Get that gun, Jack.”

  “Got it. Who’d this guy piss off?”

  “Nobody you need to know about, guy. Or me. He’s just a poor soul somebody wants whacked.”

  “Awful lot of trouble just to whack a guy. What the fuck are we stagin’ this thing for, Louis? Why not just pop him and get it over with?”

  “Not your worry, guy. Just muscle him into the driver’s seat and let me dress him up pretty. Bill, did you wipe your prints?”

  “Does it matter?”

  A glare from Louis. The companion shrugged, pulled a bandana from his back pocket and leaned into the Beemer. When done, he hoisted the briefcase and walked back toward the shed.

  Louis kept his eyes locked on the bald man as he walked away, his head swiveling like a table-top fan, his eyes popped with anger. He broke the stare and fussed with the body, pulling the head back, reaching into the mouth, then his pocket, then back into the mouth. Jack watched and shook his head.

  “Bill!”

  “Yo!”

  “Get me that bundle, guy. The jacket and the raincoat. And bring that bag with the stuff in it.”

  “Yo.”

  Bill hustled to the car. Louis patted him on the shoulder, thanking him in that purring voice, his face soft and placid again. He turned back to the body, peeling off the leather jacket and unfastening the shoulder rig. He fished through the pockets, pulling wallet, keys and a checkbook, leaving loose change. He replaced these items with wallet, keys and a checkbook he pulled from a crumpled brown paper bag. He pulled a ring from the right hand and a fake Rolex from the left wrist, digging a wedding band, a class ring and a real Rolex -- an Oyster Perpetual Datejust -- from the bag.

  The raincoat and jacket came next. Louis started to sweat as he pulled and smoothed the clothes onto the body. He unbuttoned the shirt down to the navel, then reached into the bag and pulled out a squeeze bottle, the kind with the thin nozzle that could poke through the bars of a footballer’s facemask. He squeezed water onto the body’s chest then reached under the dash to pop the hood of the Beemer.

  “Jack -- hook up those cables, guy.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I know it’s unpleasant, but just do it for me, guy.”

  Louis fired up the Beemer’s engine then waited for Jack to hand him the twin clamps. Clamps to the body’s chest. The smell of burning flesh and electrified ozone. Again. Again the smell. And again. Clamps to Jack. Engine off.

  “Bill. The acid, guy.”

  A glass bottle of sulfuric acid. A small glass tray. Fingers and thumb from one hand in. Then the other hand. He handed the tray to Bill.

  “Careful with that, guy. Dump it.”

  “Yo.”

  Louis turned back to the body. He pursed his lips as he lined up the shoulders, the head and the arms to stage the proper angles of a kill shot.

  The head was the difficult part. Without a helping hand to hold it in place, it rolled about and wouldn’t stay upright. Louis pulled the hips forward then shoved the shoulders deep into the folds of the leather seat, pressing them into place. The head was now resting lightly against the butterscotch leather padding of the headrest.

  That’s how it would line up. He stood up and pulled a .357 Colt Python from the paper bag with a gloved hand. He eyed the angle for another second then nodded Jack away.

  Louis shoved the pistol into a sagging mouth, eyeing the angle one more time. He pulled the trigger, blinking at the pistol’s flash and sharp report. He dropped the gun to the floor. The bullet had blown off the back of the man’s skull, obliterating the pulpy mark of the baseball bat and spraying a dark stain of brains, blood and bone shards across the light-colored leather seats. The impact canted the body across the console and gearshift, head and shoulder jammed between the seats.

  “Jesus, Louis.”

  “What?”

  “Christamighty, it’s one thing to whack a guy up close like that, another to do all that shit with the battery cables and the acid. But to have to fish out his dentures first? They’d have to pay me double to do that.”

  “They are, guy. They are.”

  “Whadja have to do it for?”

  “They were making his gums sore. He needed a new pair.”

  “Like he’ll need ‘em where he’s going.”

  “You never know. Blow the car, Jack. We gotta get us back on home, guy. Get us on the outside of some gumbo down to Tujague’s.”

  “I’m for that. A shame, though. This is a nice car.”

  “That it is, guy. Blow her just the same. Make it burn pretty.”

  “Lotta noise. Lotta flash. Cops’ll be here like flie
s on a dead fish.”

  “Do it quick then, guy. So we can be long gone.”