Marshall's Law

by Ben Sanders

  Marshall eased out tenderly and lifted the Cadillac’s back door. There was less storage than he thought: the TV and furniture took up most of the space, but above the fender, built into the base of the rear sofa, was a load compartment divided into three drawers. The top one contained toiletries: cologne, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste, razors and a mirror, two boxes of condoms. The next one down was bags of spare clothes: white shirts in their plastic wrap, socks and underwear, three suit protectors arranged neatly like index cards.

  He opened the topmost bag and found black trousers, a two-button jacket, and a matching overcoat. The next one down was a whitish two-piece, somewhere between ivory and cream, and the third was grey with a pale pinstripe. Black would do. He removed the overcoat carefully and let it hang from one finger. It was wool, probably cashmere or something fancy. He pulled off his own coat and made the swap. It was a good fit, snug through the shoulders, better than it would’ve been on Henry. An extra half-inch in the arm would’ve been ideal, but there was no question it was an upgrade.

  The third drawer was locked, but it wouldn’t take any of the keys on the truck ring. No doubt it was where the product samples lived. He locked the truck, and tried not to limp as he headed for the ground-floor entrance by the bookshop.

  Perry Rhodes’ phone was sitting on top of the MoMA book on the desk. The book looked worse by the cold light of day: he could see a little fillet of shadow along the bottom edge where the damaged back cover wouldn’t sit flat. He tried to ignore it, set the rock to one side and then pocketed Perry’s phone and sat down on the edge of the bed. His back was aching where the guy had kneed him, a deep tissue throb tuned to his heartbeat, almost nauseating. He put his hands against his spine and arched backward. He’d probably have red urine for a week.

  He sat forward again with his arms folded across his knees and gave himself a minute to get his thoughts in order. The stairwell would be a full-on crime scene now, tape strung up, evidence markers everywhere, detectives milling round looking solemn. Wouldn’t be long before they started lifting prints. Those metal handrails would be perfect. Not long before someone realised Marshall was their man.

  He didn’t regret killing the guy, but he regretted that it wasn’t tidier.

  He locked the door behind him again when he went out, and then headed down to the basement. In the dim light it looked like some museum archive, most of the space taken up with books. New stock, plus towers of old paperbacks the proprietor couldn’t bear to throw away. Against the far wall was a bank of six storage cages formed from steel mesh. His own looked forlorn, only three boxes of paperbacks stacked in the rear corner, and they weren’t even his.

  He opened his door and moved the top two boxes aside. In the bottom box, stashed among the books, was the getaway pack he’d brought from California. He checked the contents: the passport and driver’s licence the feds had given him six years ago, going mouldy in their envelope. A sheaf of photos, folded in half so he wouldn’t have to look at them. Polaroids faded almost white. Twenty grand cash. The rest of it was in a storage locker in Eureka.

  He didn’t count the money. It would either be all there, or all gone. He put everything back as he found it and then went up to the street. The guy outside the bookshop was still there, reading something on the back cover. Marshall got into the Cadillac and headed over to Second and turned south again, hung a right onto Sixth Street and parked. He turned on Perry’s phone and waited for it to do whatever phones do when you push a button. No messages. Maybe his approach with Perry last night had been too soft. All that talk about trying to be more civilised, but it had just pushed the killing a little further up the road. He still had a dead axe man to worry about.

  He dialled Henry Lee.

  ‘Yeah, Perry.’

  Marshall said, ‘It’s Marshall.’ The connection was crackly, probably wind noise. He pictured Henry out on his balcony, looking down at all the commotion.

  Henry said, ‘Christ, if everyone would just use their own phone it’d be a whole lot easier.’

  Marshall said, ‘Do you have surveillance in your basement?’

  Henry said, ‘Christ. Sounds like code for a colonoscopy or something.’

  ‘Are there cameras or not?’

  ‘Well, like, I have goods and stuff that get off-loaded down there—’

  ‘So no.’

  ‘Well, yeah, there’re no cameras. It’s just easier, you know?’

  He didn’t answer. The car was a liability, and he needed to ditch it, even if that locked drawer wasn’t full of drugs. But if no one was looking for it yet, he could ride his luck a little longer.

  ‘You there?’

  Marshall said, ‘I’m using the Cadillac for a while. I’ll let you know where you can pick it up.’

  ‘What? No, fuck you. Bring it back, or I’ll report it.’

  Marshall smoothed his hand around the wheel. ‘I wouldn’t do that, given the state Carl’s in.’

  Henry laughed, going for haughty but sounding forced. He said, ‘No, the cops have seen Carl, they don’t give a shit. Frankie took him down.’

  Marshall didn’t answer. He tilted the mirror and checked his reflection. No grazes. He couldn’t taste any blood. He leaned close and flared his nostrils. No damage there, either.

  He said, ‘The guy downstairs took a bullet from your gun. I don’t think you want the police to find it in your car. Which they might, if I’m pulled over.’

  ‘Yeah, but.’ He worked on it a second. Marshall heard the slider slam shut. Henry said, ‘You would’ve wiped it down to get your prints off. Which means you cleaned mine off, as well.’

  Marshall said, ‘Yeah. But I didn’t wipe your prints off all the bullets in the cylinder.’

  Henry didn’t answer. Then he said, ‘Hey, look, there’s other concealed shit in there too—’

  ‘I bet there is. So you better make certain that no one’s looking for this car.’

  ‘Yeah but like, be fucking careful with it.’

  Marshall said, ‘I’ll send you a text, let you know where you can find it. But I have people to see first.’

  Cohen

  He made it easy for his followers, keeping to 30 as he drove south through Brooklyn. The Lexus stayed well back, maintaining its buffer. He was curious about what they’d do. Presumably they’d just follow, but he kept an eye on his side mirror in case they planned to shoot him at a stoplight. It wouldn’t be difficult. Nowhere to go when you’re waiting for traffic.

  The GPS led him onto the interstate, I-278, the Lexus one lane over and three cars back. The phone in his pocket buzzed with a call, but he ignored it. They got off onto Vanderbilt Avenue ten minutes later, drove south again through a stretch of apartments that looked to Cohen like postcard Brooklyn: medium-rise places in brick and clapboard, all mismatched heights and colours, like a row of Legos. Not that he didn’t like home, but it was nice seeing something other than adobe.

  Another fifteen minutes, and he turned off Fourth Avenue into the Best Western parking lot. The Lexus slowed, but continued past. Cohen waited for it to come back for another look, and a minute later it did, slower again on the second pass.

  He found a pen in the glove compartment and wrote the Lexus’s licence plate number across the top of his rental agreement. Then he got out and locked the car and went to hotel reception, told the deskman he was expecting visitors and if anyone asked for him, send them straight to his room.

  His phone buzzed with another call, and this time he answered. It was Sean Avery, his FBI man.

  Cohen said, ‘You get my little message?’ He stepped outside and made a casual scan of the street. No Lexus.

  Avery said, ‘Yeah, I did. We actually got a dead Rhodes in an apartment building, Park and Sixty-second. Guy’s name’s Tolson, not Perry, but it made me think of your tip-off.’

  ‘They related?’

  ‘I don’t know, but the place was flagged because there’s a heroin dealer living there, used to work for Tony A
saro. So it’s forming quite a messy little circle.’

  Cohen said, ‘I better take a look.’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Marie

  She was worried Dexter would knock her out and put her in the trunk—too hard to drive and watch her at the same time. As it turned out, he made her play chauffeur.

  He had a black BMW he’d left a block up, and they walked there single file, Dexter behind her with his hand in his coat pocket, holding his gun. He unlocked the car with the remote from twenty feet away, told her politely enough to get in behind the wheel. No one around, so he could’ve been less discreet, but she wasn’t going to point that out. She just walked around the trunk and got in up front, her arms stiff. Fear screwing up her walk.

  Dexter climbed in beside her and tossed her the keys. She didn’t even try to catch them. They fell in her lap and she found the one for the ignition, made four stabs before she finally got it home.

  Dexter said, ‘You gotta twist it to make the engine start.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Bay Ridge. I think you’ll like it—bit nicer than what you’re used to with Perry.’

  She didn’t answer.

  He pulled his belt across, clicked it closed without taking his eyes off her. He said, ‘I think you’re learning an important lesson.’ He leaned closer and his mouth lifted on one side, cruel and hungry. ‘You don’t mess with other people’s business. You don’t call me up and tell me what Perry can and can’t do. You know.’ He sat back, still looking at her, used a knuckle to push his hat back a fraction. ‘All this feminist shit, about how men don’t own their wives, all that sort of thing, but you still got the gall to call me up and tell me how it’s gonna be with Perry. I don’t think so, missy.’

  She said, ‘Why are you doing this? I just wanted it to stop.’ Sounding way too meek.

  Dexter smiled. ‘Perry will get it. And that’s the whole point: you don’t have to think about it. If you hadn’t thought about it in the first place, we wouldn’t be sitting here.’

  She didn’t answer.

  Dexter said, ‘You’re kind of an incentive for quality control. Perry does as he’s told, he’ll get you back. Just a question of how long it’ll take.’

  She didn’t answer.

  He said, ‘You know, when you worked for me, I never had to worry about you, always just came in, did your thing. Now.’ He gestured with his free hand. ‘This is where initiative gets you. In my world, that’s a bad thing. Gotta know when to exercise restraint. Turn the engine on.’

  The car wasn’t new, probably fifteen years old, dashboard and leather showing splits, engine slow on the pickup when she toed the gas. She got on 278 southbound, and Dexter told her to take it all the way down to Flushing Avenue. He was slouched low in his seat, leaning against his door, one arm across his midriff, holding his gun under his coat. Probably a good position to shoot from, if he had to. He seemed relaxed about the whole thing, like it wasn’t any kind of ordeal. Maybe this wasn’t his first time.

  She’d wanted some more traffic, drag the trip out, give her time to think, but it was all moving too freely, taxis giving her horn when she held them up.

  Dexter adjusted his hat again, bringing it lower this time. He said, ‘If you fuck up, I’ll shoot you.’ Not like he was looking forward to it, just a matter-of-fact comment, the same tone he’d used when he gave her directions.

  She didn’t answer. Maybe she should have used the gun while she had him in the house. No chance of using it now, and she didn’t know what she was getting into at the other end. There was a cop car two lanes over, too far away to be any use to her. It glided on ahead of them, love-boat pace due to the small difference in speed. She needed something in her lane. Just her luck: if she hadn’t been kidnapped, she’d probably have cops on her tail right now, both of them peering in the rear window, making her nervous.

  Dexter gave a long sigh, sounding wistful, and said, ‘My wife’s been dead, what?’ He counted it off on his fingers. ‘Seven years now. So at least Perry’ll get a taste of that. Empty-house part of it, I mean.’

  ‘I’m sure your wife’d be thrilled.’

  He laughed. ‘I wouldn’t get too glib either, sweetheart.’

  ‘Would you really shoot me while I’m driving?’ Trying to call his bluff, make him hear his own bullshit.

  Dexter smiled. ‘You better hope I would. Better than making it home, and then you’d really pay for it.’

  Here we go: there was another cop car coming up on her left, growing slowly in her mirror. She focused on the car in front, held the needle steady, thirty whole seconds before the cop car tracked slowly by. It was unmarked, but the trunk antennas tipped her off. It was a grey sedan, two guys up front. Probably seasoned pros: she could picture them leaning in to talk, one on each side, toothpicks in their mouths as they watched you from behind silver aviators. Make Dexter shit his pants.

  She hit her turn signal and slipped in behind.

  It’d be so easy. All she had to do was rear-end them and then hit the brakes. Wait there in the lane until they came running. Her knuckles were turning white on the wheel, tendons showing as she flexed.

  Dexter said, ‘If you hit that car, the first bullet you’ll get is through your stomach.’

  She eased off the gas, couldn’t help it, the grey car shrinking slightly.

  He said, ‘The crash will cover the sound of the shot, and the air bag will hide your injury. You’ll be coughing up blood, but it will just look like crash damage.’ He nodded at the car ahead of them, even smaller now. ‘And then when those two are getting out to see what’s happened, I’ll shoot them both and take their car.’

  Marie didn’t answer.

  Dexter said, ‘Come on, speed up.’

  She gave it some more gas, feeling sick.

  He said, ‘I’ve been inside before, twenty-three months, and I said to myself when they turned me loose, I said, that was a onetime thing, hand to heart. And I’ll happily put a bullet through anyone who gets in the way of that.’

  He settled lower in his seat, seeming pleased with his little speech. ‘You won’t be on my conscience, either. Not that it matters, but, you know. Just want to make it clear I’m not going to hold back just because you’re a lady. I’ll waste you just the same.’

  She didn’t answer.

  He reached across and gripped her leg, smiled at her, gentler this time, kind of paternal. ‘You think I won’t kill you in public, or that I won’t shoot two cops if they stick their nose in, but I don’t think you appreciate my survival instinct. People have lost that real cutthroat Darwinism, but I haven’t. I don’t think like you do. I don’t think like normal people.’ He sighed again, tilted his head like he was delivering sad news to someone fond. He said, ‘That’s what got us here to begin with.’

  He had a place on Eighty-sixth, one of those tidy, solid places that looked kid-friendly.

  Dexter said, ‘Just pull into the garage here. Easy.’ Pointing with the gun, but sounding patient.

  She had that line in her head: ‘I don’t think like normal people.’

  He’d said it flat enough it made her believe he’d do anything. But then again, the things he could do behind closed doors were worse than what he could do in the street, which meant it’d be better to stop and flee. At least that would give her a chance to reach the gun. But by the time she’d processed all that, it was too late, and they were inside the garage, in the shadows, with the door coming down behind her.

  He made her walk ahead of him up the stairs to the entry hall. There was a dog waiting for them, some kind of yappy little thing that ran laps around her, skidding on the wood floor.

  Dexter said, ‘Comfy, right?’

  ‘Yeah, wonderful.’

  He waggled his pistol. ‘Follow that corridor there.’

  She turned and went down a short hallway, keeping her back straight so Perry’s gun wouldn’t crease her top. They came out into a kitchen, clean and industrial-looking, a bi
g island counter in the middle of the room and a huge stainless-steel oven standing behind it. There were wooden blinds over to the left, open slightly to give a view through folding windows to his backyard. He had a lap pool out there set in a golf course–grade lawn, a green checkerboard pattern thanks to careful mowing. A concrete wall blocking out the neighbours.

  Dexter said, ‘Take a seat.’

  She pulled out a stool from under the edge of the counter, sat half on it in a kind of sidesaddle position as Dexter went around opening drawers, still with his pistol in his hand. He said, ‘Isn’t actually my place, but it’s quite a nice setup. Owner’s in prison.’

  He opened another drawer and came out with a silver roll of duct tape and a carpet knife. She knew he’d need both hands at some point.

  She said, ‘They’re not going to mind if there’s blood everywhere?’

  He laughed, set the carpet knife down on the counter. ‘All comes down to how you play it. If you’re a good girl, and Perry does what he’s told, you go back to playing happy family. Otherwise, I dunno. We’ll see what I’m in the mood for.’

  He held the roll close and squinted at it as he picked at the end. The tape screeched as he unrolled a short length. ‘Come here.’

  She didn’t move—didn’t have a chance to. He leaned in and placed the length of tape across her mouth, muting her mid-protest as she told him to fuck off.

  ‘Don’t sweat it, just a precaution.’

  He cupped the back of her neck with his gun hand as if lining up a kiss, smoothed the tape with his other palm. He leaned back slightly, checking his handiwork, used a thumbnail to work out a bubble. The roll was still dangling at the corner of her mouth. As he turned to find the carpet knife, she reached behind her and grabbed Perry’s pistol from her belt.