Tales of River City

by Frank Zafiro

  “Two corrections officers.”

  “Not cops?”

  “No. Jailers.”

  “Armed?”

  “Yeah, they carry guns.”

  “The route?”

  Dom pulled out a piece of paper and drew. “They have a special entrance and exit from the building right here. Once they’re inside, there’s a short hallway, a pair of double doors, and they’re in the courtroom hallway.”

  Johnson pointed to the outside door. “Where’s this lead?”

  “Just outside, onto the Public Safety campus. They have to walk him about a block to get back to the jail.”

  “They transport him outside?” Peterson interjected.

  Dom nodded.

  Peterson shook his head in wonder. “Who plans their security? A retarded monkey?”

  “Is the campus closed?” Johnson asked.

  “Only from cars. It’s open to foot traffic.”

  “No checkpoints?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “How close can you get a car?”

  “From this exit? About a block.”

  The two men from Kansas City exchanged another glance, both with slight smiles.

  “Your boy going to be wearing a suit for his hearing?” Johnson asked.

  “Brand new one, yes.”

  Peterson and Johnson nodded at the same time.

  “This will work,” Johnson said.

  Back at the hotel, Peterson asked, “Whattaya think?”

  Johnson shrugged. “I think that if this mope wasn’t the boss’s nephew, I’d be banging a showgirl at Taps right now.”

  “No, I mean the plan.”

  Johnson shrugged. “Like I said, it’ll work. We snatch the guy, turn him over to his crew and we’re out of here.”

  “I wish we could fly back. It’s a long fucking drive.”

  Johnson put his bag on the bed. “We got satellite radio. It’ll be fine.”

  “I wonder what they’re gonna do with the guy once we snatch him.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I didn’t say I cared. I said I wonder.”

  Johnson considered a moment. “This ain’t Jersey, or even KC. They’ll probably make little frosted cupcakes together and have a good cry.”

  Peterson laughed. “Probably.”

  Johnson removed a roll of cash from his bag. “Come on, we gotta go to the hardware store.”

  The next morning, Isaac dressed slowly in his cell, relishing the feel of real clothing against his skin. Especially the shirt. It wasn’t silk, but the material was cool and smooth. Nothing like the rough, ill-fitting orange jumpsuit he’d been issued after being booked.

  He ignored the prying eyes of the guard at his door and took his time knotting the tie, adjusting his belt, and slipping into his shoes. Finished, he put on the jacket and smoothed the lapel. Even in the misshapen reflective film that served as a mirror, he figured his reflection looked good.

  He fussed with his hair for a few moments, wishing he had some gel.

  Dom waited in the car, sipping his mocha while Bassen checked out the house. It was one of the rentals he owned and was supposed to be empty, but sometimes kids or druggies broke in and camped. When Bassen found them, they didn’t come back, and word spread.

  Bassen appeared in the doorway and waved him in.

  Clutching his coffee cup, Dom climbed out of the car and went into the empty house.

  Peterson slid his pant leg down and tossed the masking tape into the courthouse bathroom trash can.

  Johnson hefted a wooden hatchet handle, smacking it into his palm.

  Peterson slid his own handle up the sleeve of his jacket and held it in place by bending his wrist. He met Johnson’s eyes and flicked his wrist. The wooden handle snapped into his hand.

  Johnson grinned.

  Judge Petalski looked up from the short legal brief and stared at Isaac Rainey. Isaac smiled back at her. She considered him for a moment, then dropped her eyes back to the brief.

  Isaac leaned toward his lawyer. “That judge is hot,” he whispered. “No wonder they called her Judge Petals.”

  His lawyer shushed him.

  Isaac watched the judge read, admiring her long black hair and pretty face. Even the librarian glasses she wore were sexy.

  When she pushed the brief aside and looked back at him, he shot her another smile.

  “Mr. Rainey,” she said, “this brief contains no legal reasoning for your lawyer to be removed from the case.”

  Isaac nodded, enjoying the sound of her smoky voice.

  “It is your prerogative to dismiss him if you wish, since he was not assigned by the court. But I will not rule that he has provided inadequate counsel.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” his lawyer said.

  Isaac tried to appear hurt.

  Judge Petalski acknowledged the lawyer’s thank-you and turned her attention to Isaac. “Frankly, Mr. Rainey, this hearing has been a waste of the court’s time and, I suspect, nothing more than a ploy on your part to spend some time outside of your jail cell. While I intend to ensure that you get a fair trial in the matter before this court, do not think that I will tolerate any chicanery or manipulation of the system. Is that understood, Mr. Rainey?”

  Isaac cleared his throat and stood. “Uh, yes, Your Honor. I’m sorry.”

  She regarded him for a moment, then gave them both a curt nod. “Very well. Dismissed.”

  When she banged her gavel, Isaac couldn’t help smiling.

  Johnson expected the transport deputies to flank the target. He was pleasantly surprised when he saw the large wooden courtroom door swing open to reveal them walking single file. The thin kid in between the two had his hands in front of him, the cuffs hidden by the length of his jacket sleeves. He kept the pace slow, but Johnson wasn’t sure if it was just simple defiance or him playing to the plan.

  Peterson stood near the exit door, looking at some legal paperwork they’d downloaded off the internet. He did his best to plaster a confused look on his face.

  Johnson fell in behind the second deputy, glancing at his watch and playing the part of a harried lawyer. He double-checked and saw that both deputies were armed.

  The first deputy, a lumbering fat slob with a scraggly black mustache, stopped at the exit door. He removed a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked the door. Peterson lowered his paperwork and gave a frustrated sigh.

  The deputy swung the door open wide and walked into the hallway without a backward glance. The second deputy, red-haired and red-faced, stepped forward and grabbed the door, holding it open for the target.

  Peterson made eye contact with Red. His face brightened and he stepped toward him. “Hey, officer, can you help me out? I can’t figure out where I’m supposed to go for this hearing.”

  Red shook his head. “Sorry, I can’t. I’m transporting a prisoner.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Johnson said, stepping close. “I can help.”

  Red looked over his shoulder at Johnson. “Thanks, sir—”

  Peterson flicked his wrist and the short axe handle appeared in his hand. He drove it into the deputy’s sternum and followed it up with a wheelhouse uppercut beneath the deputy’s chin.

  Johnson grabbed hold of Red and forced him into the hallway. Peterson bounded past him after the lead deputy.

  The door slammed shut behind them.

  Johnson let the wooden handle drop into his hand. He struck Red behind the ear, delivering three hard shots. The deputy collapsed and lay still.

  Johnson looked up in time to see Peterson reach the fat deputy. The deputy half-turned, his expression bored. When he saw Peterson bearing down on him, his eyes flared open wide in surprise. His hand flew to the gun at his side, but Peterson cracked him on the jaw before he was able to grab the handgrip of the pistol.

  Peterson swung several times in rapid succession, choosing a different target for each blow. The deputy crumpled to the ground, rolling in agony. Merciless, Peterson dropped his knee onto the
deputy’s back and struck him in the head until the deputy went limp.

  Meanwhile, Johnson plucked Red’s handcuffs from the case and cuffed the deputy’s hands behind his back. He pulled the deputy’s Smith & Wesson from the holster and tucked it into his own belt. Then he glanced up and down the hallway, searching the ceiling and above both doors for a security camera. He saw none.

  “Unbelievable,” he muttered. This place was definitely Hicksville.

  Peterson cuffed the fat deputy and took his keys and gun.

  The target stared at them both with wide eyes. “Wh-who are you guys?” he asked in a tremulous voice.

  “Never mind,” grunted Johnson. “Walk between us. Don’t look at nobody.”

  The men from Kansas City took up a position in front and behind the target and walked confidently out the door and into the courtyard.

  Isaac struggled to keep his face neutral. Adrenaline coursed through him as he walked between the two suited men.

  I can’t believe Dom just broke me out of jail!

  He realized he was smiling and forced his grin into a frown. The two men walked quickly but casually and he kept pace with them. No one approached them or even seemed to give the group a second look.

  Despite the cool air, sweat trickled down his back. The weight of events settled on him and his stomach churned. He kept expecting to hear yelling and gunshots from behind them. He glanced over his shoulder and saw nothing but people going about their business.

  “You look back again,” one of his escorts growled, “and I’ll break your fucking arm.”

  Isaac snapped his eyes forward, focusing on a point on the ground about fifteen yards ahead. He kept his eyes lowered. The trickle of sweat turned into a flood.

  A block from the courthouse, Joe Bassen waited in the driver’s seat of a white Ford Crown Victoria. Isaac heard the engine rumble to life as they approached. One of the suited men broke off and went to the passenger side. The other opened the back door and pushed him in.

  “Move across,” he grunted at Isaac.

  Isaac slid across the seat to the passenger side. The man climbed into the back seat and closed the door.

  “Go,” he directed Bassen.

  Dom sat in the canvas folding chair and watched the small TV on the kitchen counter. When he heard footsteps on the back porch, he snapped the TV off.

  Johnson walked through the door first. He ignored Dom and his eyes swept the room.

  Isaac came next, rubbing his wrists and smiling.

  “Hey, hey!” Dom said, holding his arms open wide. “He’s free!”

  Isaac leaned into the bigger man, who slapped him heartily on the back.

  “Thanks, boss,” Isaac whispered into Dom’s chest.

  Dom pulled Isaac away and held him by his shoulders. “You’re my best earner. I couldn’t let you take a fall.”

  Isaac beamed.

  Johnson cleared his throat. “Everything went off clean,” he told Dom. “We’re done.”

  Dom let go of Isaac and offered his hand. “Thanks.”

  Johnson looked at his hand for a moment, then shook it. “It was the job,” he said simply.

  Peterson opened the door and the two men strode out to the car.

  Assholes, Dom thought, watching them go. Arrogant assholes.

  “Who are those guys?” Isaac asked him.

  Dom shrugged. “Professionals.”

  “I believe it. You shoulda seen it, boss. They kicked the shit out of those two guards.”

  “They kill anybody?”

  Isaac’s face fell. “I…I don’t think so.”

  “Good.”

  Isaac swallowed. “What do we do now, boss?”

  Dom grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “We get you a fake ID and send you on a vacation. You like San Diego?”

  The Yukon rolled slowly through River City. Bassen navigated the SUV along the streets, careful to obey all traffic laws. Isaac hunkered down in the back seat, wearing sunglasses and a River City Flyers ball cap and smiling. He felt like whistling, but he knew he’d never be able to pucker his lips with the perma-grin plastered on his face.

  He glanced at the hulking figure of Dominic Bracco in the front seat. Another rush of gratitude washed through him. Dom could’ve left him hanging, abandoned him to do ten years, but the big Italian didn’t. He rescued him instead. He called in professionals to break him out. Isaac’s throat constricted a little and his eyes misted. The man in the front seat had showed him more love than his own father ever did.

  He leaned forward. “Boss? What do you want me to do in San Diego?”

  “Huh?”

  “San Diego. What am I supposed to do there?”

  Dom cleared his throat. “Keep your nose clean, that’s what. Hang out on the beach. Chase trim. Get a tan. Just don’t get busted.”

  “What about money?”

  “Deliver pizza or something,” Dom said. “I don’t care. But stay clean. And grow your hair out, or cut it off.”

  “Cut it off!” Isaac’s hands flew to his tangled locks.

  Dom laughed, a booming sound that filled the car. “Fine, fine. Grow it out. In a year or so, we’ll bring you back home. I want you clean and looking different. Everything will blow over by then.”

  “A year? That long?”

  “Better than never,” Dom said.

  Isaac squinted. “You really think this’ll blow over, boss? I mean, it’s a robbery beef, right? And then those guys clubbed the shit out of the guards. Plus—”

  “Fuggedaboutit,” Dom said, slipping back into his old Jersey accent. “In two or three months, the Russians will pull something twice as big and everyone will forget. Trust me.” He reached back, rested his hand on Isaac’s knee, gave it a hard squeeze.

  Isaac nodded, satisfied. He sat back and thought about bikinis and beaches.

  Dom sat quietly in his seat, watching traffic pass. When the Yukon dropped down toward the T.J. Meenach Bridge, he pressed his elbow against the hard metal of the .45 tucked in his belt under his jacket.

  “Turn here,” he directed Bassen, who took the narrow exit before the bridge. It led to a small two-lane road.

  “Where we going?” Isaac asked.

  “I told you. To see the guy about your fake ID.”

  “Nobody lives out here,” Isaac said.

  “It’s a shortcut,” Dom told him. “I wanna avoid traffic. You’re still pretty hot.”

  “Oh.”

  Bassen guided the Yukon along the wooded two-lane road. The land on either side of the road belonged to the small state park along the Looking Glass River, which flowed on their left.

  They passed the sewage treatment plant and kept on.

  A half mile before the Bowl and Pitcher picnic site, Bassen turned onto an access road that led north, away from the river.

  “This guy live in a cabin or something?” Isaac joked.

  Dom grunted.

  Bassen drove the Yukon along the road for another two minutes. A heavy silence settled in the cab. When Bassen slowed the vehicle without any houses in sight, Dom heard Isaac’s frantic voice from the back seat.

  “Oh, no,” he whimpered. “No, no, no, please, no.”

  Dom turned, but Isaac kicked the door open and scampered from the back seat. He landed on the ground awkwardly and fell in heap, but bounced back up immediately and broke into a run.

  Bassen stopped the Yukon and got out.

  Dom swung his door open and stepped out, drawing his .45. He took careful aim at the center of Isaac’s back and fired.

  The sharp crack filled the air, but the echo died on the trees and brush along the road.

  The force of the bullet threw Isaac forward. He collapsed face-first in the dirt.

  Dom strode purposefully toward the fallen man. His designer shoes snapped small pine needles with each step. He reached Isaac, who was struggling to drag himself forward, moving like a man in slow motion. A gurgle rose from his throat.

  Without hesitation, Do
m leaned forward and snapped off a second shot right behind the ear. Isaac jerked and lay still.

  Dom turned to Bassen, who lowered the hammer of his own gun and went to the rear of the Yukon. He swung open the rear door, tossed his gun into the truck, and pulled out a shovel.

  “I only brought one,” he said.

  “Good,” Dom said, “because I ain’t digging.”

  Dead Even

  “I need you to talk to this girl Madeline and see what she needs,” Angelo said in his velvety tone. It didn’t put me at ease. There was always an edge behind that tone. “Someone’s leaning on her and I want you to fix it.”

  “You’re kidding me,” I said.

  “Kidding how?”

  I sighed. “Uncle Angelo, this is kinda…” I searched for the right word. “Ridiculous” is what immediately came to mind, but that wouldn’t do. “It’s irregular,” I finished, settling.

  “Irregular?” He snorted. “How you can sit out there in flannel land and talk to me about irregular, I’d like to know.”

  You sent me out here to Washington, I wanted to say, but I bit my tongue.

  “Only thing irregular out there, I’m thinking, is if somebody don’t get their latte on time.” Angelo chuckled.

  I didn’t reply. The Pacific Northwest. Land of apples and pine trees. Thank you, Uncle Angelo.

  He continued. “What’s so irregular about doing me a favor?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Everything I do out here is for you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.”

  I noticed he didn’t give me the compliment, You’re a good earner, which was only second to You’re a stand-up guy. I repressed a sigh. “But River City is different than Jersey, Uncle Angelo.”

  “No kidding?”

  I ignored his sarcasm. “It’s a lot smaller here. People notice things. The cops already have me in their sights as an outfit guy. I have to be careful, you know?”

  “So be careful.”

  “No, I know that. I just mean, I gotta weigh the pros and cons of everything. Like what you’re asking me to do. I gotta do a cost/benefit analysis. Figure it against the risk, right?”