“Just answer.”
“Fevers make you feel like hell. What’s your point?”
“Fevers makes your body a hostile environment to invaders,” Ryan said. “You feel like hell. It’s worse for the invader. It can’t last after such a hostile welcoming.”
“Matt, life isn’t a movie. You understand that. Right?”
“Think about it.”
“We have laws. Rules and regulations. You feel like talking about all this for the fun of it, fine. But we can’t just set up roadblocks for unknown assailants. There’s only two of us. The chief is almost sixty. Look at him. People love him but he’s a damn time bomb. Then consider how the troopers are stretched thin. Fact is, this state isn’t set up to handle even half of the shit we’re in. Our town can’t handle anything.”
Ryan said. “You used to be a competitor when you were pitching fastballs in the zone. You liked winning.”
“Don’t do that.”
“I didn’t start this.”
“I know,” Chuck said. “You’re right. I’m just venting a little.”
“Go ahead and vent. We still have to deal with it. I do, anyway. And just so you know, I’m not giving up the money.”
“You might consider it.”
“No way. Even if I turned it over, publically or privately, these people would still be pissed. They’re still out a lot of cash, and they know it’s floating around somewhere.”
“True.”
“Think they’ll sleep well knowing someone else is enjoying their easy money?”
“No.”
“Say I turn it over. You think you can keep it secret forever?”
Chuck muttered, “The town would argue about what to do with it. Then the press would find out. Then we’d be in the crosshairs.”
“I think we’re already there.”
“Shit. You’re probably right.”
“See, it was already a problem before we knew it.”
“Gawdamn it all,” Chuck groaned. “If I wanted these sort of problems, I would’ve moved to a city.”
“Maybe we’re overestimating them,” Ryan said. “Maybe these guys are too stupid to pour piss out of a boot.”
“That would be too good.”
“The one that came this afternoon wasn’t very bright. Not joking. I’m not sure how he even ties his shoes.”
Chuck said, “So we’re better off than Sheriff Bell.”
“There’s no professional prophet of destruction on his way. At least not yet. I think we’d need seven figures for that.”
“I’m way too young to retire, Matt. Too old to figure out something else to do. That’s my real problem.”
“We’ll figure it out.”
“Well, thanks for letting me know. I’ll be drinking extra coffee, keeping my eyes peeled all night.”
He stood up and adjusted his belt. He was on duty for the night and clearly didn’t want to be.
“I’m not viewing this as a victim,” Ryan told him. “I hate all that poor me shit. But I am taking it personally. This is my place. I live here. The guy who stashed the money rented the unit from Rosie, not me. She’s trusting. He took advantage of her as well as me. I take that personally.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“And I say we make this place completely inhospitable for anymore bullshit.”
Chuck kept quiet.
Ryan watched him.
“I’m not saying you’re all wrong,” Chuck finally said. “But this stuff is all easy for you to say, in your position. That’s not an insult.”
Ryan shrugged.
“Look, you know I can only cover for you so much.”
“I know.”
“So don’t push back too hard. This ain’t a hockey game, Matt. We’re adults. I am, anyway.”
“You and Kerry both.”
“What?”
“Giving me shit. You don’t like your life? Simplify it.”
“Whatever, Matt. I’m saying in your house and on your property, you’ll be justified pulling a gun. Away from here, it starts getting a little hazy. Just be careful, okay?”
Ryan nodded.
“I’m dead serious here,” Chuck said. “I find you shot to death, I’m gonna be seriously pissed off at you.”
“You could ask for a little help from the neighboring towns.”
“True,” Chuck said. “I know a few of those guys. They might ride through town a few times. Donate an hour or two. I just feel like a schmuck asking them.”
“Better safe than sorry.”
“It’s weird,” Chuck said. “A few years ago I never thought we’d have problems like this in our state, never mind our town. We’re a friggin’ vacation state. Drug wars happen somewhere else. We’ve got moose and snow storms to think about.”
Ryan sat again and said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Charles Bronson will come up on vacation. Make a Bronson storm. Help us out a little.”
“He’s dead, you sarcastic bastard. Let the man rest in peace.”
“I choose not to be miserable.”
“Okay, let’s stay in fantasy land. Maybe Stallone will come on vacation with Bronson. Maybe Arnold will tag along.”
Ryan said, “You know what’s happening, don’t you?”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“People want drugs and money. They want to feel good, float, and get easy money. That’s what’s happening.”
“You know what’s behind it?”
“Times change. I don’t know what to say.”
“Times haven’t changed,” Ryan said. “It’s the same old world it’s always been. People have changed the game. Survival of the fittest is the oldest rule. People had to be strong or smart to get by, preferably both. Not anymore. The game has changed. Society constructed all sorts of safety nets for the dumb and the weak. Now they get to keep on living, being carried and protected by the strong and the smart.”
“Don’t say stuff like that too loud.”
“I’m serious.”
“That’s the scary part.”
Ryan said, “Watch a few shows about Special Forces training. Tell me what sort of guys you see. Without guys like that, all the weenies and whiners would be conquered in no time. This country wouldn’t last another year.”
“Seriously, I see your point, Matt. I see how we got here. Life is hard and some people don’t handle it well. But right now I’m thinking selfishly. Guys like me need to wear flak jackets to enforce basic traffic laws. I need to patiently tell people that it’s not a good idea to drive home drunk. Don’t you see my angle?”
“You know why wolf packs pick on the omega?”
“Why, Matt?”
“They’re trying to toughen him up. They know life is hard.”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing,” Ryan answered.
Chuck said, “I can’t handle your zoo speech right now.”
“You know I’m right,” Ryan said. “Kids would be way more respectful if those glass partitions were removed from the lion habitat.”
Chuck stood again, his hands on his hips.
“Take some money for the pony fund,” Ryan said. “You’ll feel better.”
Chuck just shook head slowly. Made a face.
“I’m not touching it till this thing is resolved,” he said. “Thanks, though. It’s good of you to offer.”
“Maybe you’ll have a surprise near Christmas,” Ryan said.
“I’ll appreciate it, my friend. Truly.”
“I never thought I’d have to go pony shopping.”
“You handle the building materials for a little stall, maybe a few bales of hay to get us going. I’ll handle the pony with my own savings.”
“Deal,” Ryan said as he stood up. It was November and the daylight was fading fast, and he had a few things to do before dark.
But first.
He had a donut.
Chapter 9
Man and land shark walked out t
o the aisle of small storage units, to Ryan’s own personal one, which was the nearest one to the apartment’s door. He unlocked it and opened the door and sifted through an old hockey bag. It didn’t smell great. He found a paintball gun, paintballs, and a few coinciding tanks. He closed and locked the door again and they walked over toward the woods behind the nursery.
He screwed the tank into the gun and tested it. Sharky was fascinated. The gun worked fine, sending nasty little yellow paintballs against the tree trunks. The tanks still had enough pressure.
Good to go.
He brought the stuff into the apartment and placed it in the corner of the living area. Then he went upstairs to the small bedroom he rarely slept in to get his AR-15. He knew it was in good working order. He took good care of his firearms, out of old habit. It was always ready to go.
He sat on the bed and loaded two extra magazines, then brought the rifle and the mags downstairs and pressed them halfway between the cushions of the central part of the big sectional sofa. Right there, easy to reach with his right hand. Just in case. Hopefully not necessary.
Sharky was watching him the whole time. He didn’t know what was up. Most likely he was thinking it was about time for supper. Hoping, at least.
“One more thing,” Ryan said and he called Sharky outside with him.
They walked up the trail behind the storage complex. About a half-mile, up over the hill and then partly down the other side, to his parents’ house, all alone in the woods. A mile-long driveway going off toward one of the side roads. A gate keeping nosey drivers out.
At the back door he punched in the alarm code and went inside. The place was all shadowed under the trees in the fading daylight. It was almost full dark inside. He went up the stairs to his old bedroom and got his BB gun. Gave it a shake. Plenty of rattling from within. Plenty of ammo.
Good to go.
***
Ryan poured Sharky some expensive kibble. It came highly recommended by Kerry Jamison. Supposedly very healthy. Sharky seemed to like it. He never complained or let a morsel get away.
“Eat slowly and enjoy it,” he told the dog.
Sharky inhaled it like an industrial vacuum cleaner. Ryan was impressed.
He shut him in the apartment and walked over to Enzo’s to get his own dinner.
No one called Enzo owned or operated the place. Leo and Elena Russo ran it. Sometimes people mistook Leo for Enzo, and he never bothered to correct them. He loved Enzo Ferrari and his beautiful red cars, hence the name of the establishment. No big deal if people didn’t get the connection, as long as they paid for their food and as long as nobody went near Leo’s red Testarossa parked out front. The quintessential 80s Ferrari, still beautiful. He sometimes stood by the front windows of the restaurant, just staring out longingly at that car.
The restaurant was split down the middle, with the counter and tables on the right, an arcade on the left. Old arcade games from the seventies and eighties, mostly still in great shape. Two PAC-MAN games, side by side, the most popular.
On the weekends the arcade was a gold mine. Kids would funnel in and change bills they’d begged from their parents into quarters and then pump the quarters into the games as fast as they could. Matt Ryan had pumped a few quarters into the place over the years, helping Leo maintain his used Ferrari habit.
He went up to the counter and ordered his usual spaghetti and meatballs, always with an extra meatball included for Sharky. They were great meatballs. Almost the size of baseballs. Sharky loved them. So did Ryan.
After ordering he went across the street to talk to Sal Mamund. He was in the market amid the big island, smiling as always. Happy to be there. Thin brown guy in his forties, wearing his American flag tees or sweatshirts almost every day of his life. He loved the USA. It had been good to him for more than thirty years now. He drove a Mercedes and lived in a nice house without any tribal strife outside his door. No bin Asshole for a neighbor. He had become quite a Patriots fan over the years, flying the logo all over his establishment.
“I owe you, my man,” Sal said when Ryan got to the counter.
“You don’t.”
“I do,” he insisted, and reached and pulled a white Marlboro carton from under the counter. He had written Matt Ryan on the carton with a marker. He held it out, smiling bigger than usual, as if presenting something beyond grand.
Ryan said, “Honestly, you don’t owe me. That guy wasn’t here to rob you. It only looked that way.”
The conversation didn’t go smoothly. They got into a whole thing about it. Sal didn’t believe him at first. Then he finally came around. He didn’t like the idea of thieves or strange guys looking for money any more than thieves casing his store. Ryan didn’t specify the amount of money in question, just several grand of suspected drug money. Sal kept on trying to give him the Marlboro carton. He insisted it was the thought of watching out for a friend that counted most. He truly appreciated it. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. He was a persistent little guy. That’s why he did so well. That’s why people liked him.
***
Ryan got home fifteen minutes later with a carton of smokes and a bag of hot Italian food. Life was pretty good. He was grateful. But also a little bit annoyed that he still hadn’t been able to get through the entire two-hour Alexander show.
***
Life wasn’t quite as good down on Lawrence Street.
The guy with the crappy car whose pants had fallen down and who had subsequently been chased out of Fall River by Matt Ryan was now sitting with his cousin, Denny, along with some neighbors, all crowded on a narrow porch. They were sort of an unofficial gang. Right then they were a cold and frustrated gang. Things weren’t going their way.
Of course, the guy neglected to share the part about his pants falling down. He just told his crew that he hadn’t gotten to his gun in time.
Now they were meeting outside on the porch because they couldn’t meet in the house. They couldn’t go in the house and warm up because the guy with the crappy car lived with his mom, and his mom had banned the rest of the guys from her house. She barely tolerated them on the porch.
Not just because she was mean. Because the other guys got her son into trouble. He wasn’t so bad until they turned him astray. And sometimes they stole her cigarettes when she was dozing in her favorite chair while watching General Hospital.
So they were all relegated to the porch.
The same scenario was true with all the other moms in the other houses of the guys from Lawrence Street. Everything was the other guy’s fault. The mothers all raised decent boys that were corrupted by sleazy neighbors, potentially derailing lucrative professional sporting careers. They were all banned from the other houses. Which meant in order to iron things out, it was either talk on cell phones, or meet in person on someone’s porch.
“We gotta think,” said Denny Hutch, the oldest one. Forty-seven and living with his mom. She did all the laundry, folded his underwear. Money came in, and money went out. Fun times were had, and his wallet was always empty. It always astonished him.
The other guys all agreed that someone should think of something. And each earnestly hoped that someone else would step up and do said thinking.
Denny said, “Our sneakiest guy went up there and got arrested. That ain’t good for our side, boys. We need to figure this out. And soon. Before we lose that money for good.”
The other guys were quiet. They were deflated and didn’t have any ideas. They were hoping Denny would handle everything. He was typically the brightest of the bunch.
“We can’t go against a guy with ten other guys in his crew,” Denny said. “Too risky.”
The guy with the crappy car whose pants had fallen down said, “I don’t believe him. He might be DEA, but he ain’t leading a country boy meth crew. If he is, he never touches the stuff. He looks like an athlete. He’s probably training every day for DEA health standards.”
“I don’t like DEA,” Denny said.
Every
one agreed.
“But if he is a dealer, he must be good,” Denny said. “Running a crew and never touching the product is tough. Add serious training on top of that. Maybe he’s playing both sides, getting rich. That means this guy is dangerous. We should be very, very careful.”
The others agreed.
“Only one thing to do,” Denny said. “No other good options. We gotta tell the coyote where his lost money is. After all this time, he’ll be very happy to hear it wasn’t confiscated by the pigs.”
The guy with the crappy car said, “No, we can’t do that. If we tell him, then we’ll miss out on the money. What are we supposed to do, go get jobs?”
“Bullshit,” Denny said. “We’re smarter than that. Listen up, boys. I got an idea.”
They all stared at Denny. The brightest of the bunch.
“Here goes,” he said. “I say we let the coyote deal with Fall River. Okay? He gets the money from the DEA athlete guy, then we take it from him. That’s it. Game over. We’re all set. How simple is that?”
Everyone looked around at each other, considering and nodding. Denny really was the smartest of their crew.
The guy with the crappy car said, “How do we do that? The coyote has been around.”
“There’s four of us,” Denny said. “Only three with the coyote, counting himself. Four guns against three. That’s more.”
Everyone nodded in agreement. Four was definitely more than three.
Crappy car guy said, “What about the guys the coyote gets shipments from? We should think about them.”
“They won’t care,” Denny said. “They don’t know us. They’ll just get someone else to distribute up here. Maybe a biker crew or something. They only want to move stuff and get paid. Don’t matter to them who does it. And we’ll have money. We can find new guys to get stuff from. Maybe better stuff. We’ll make even more money.”
Crappy car guy said, “I’m nervous. When the coyote finds out it was our dead friend that stole his money, he might be mad at us.”
“No, no,” Denny said. “We play dumb. How hard can that be? We can act parts. Actors ain’t rocket scientists. Besides, we’ll say we didn’t know that guy very well anyway. He was just trying to hone in on our action. He got a chance, and he blew it. That’s it. Nothing to do with us.”
I Warned You_Welcome to Fall River Page 7