The Usher

by Will Pettijohn

  Colt made his way over to the window again and looked at the van across the road. “So you don’t think that these guys are the feds?” he asked as he pointed at the van across the street.

  The Doctor walked over to the window and peeked out. “That is not the government.”

  “What makes you so certain?”

  The man looked disgustedly at Colt. “Because they are parked entirely too close, sir. Trained government agents would not park so that you could see them. Also, why would they need to park that close if they had a tracking device? They would simply park a few blocks away. They would still be able to hear your conversation, see you leave, and not be detected. Common sense, I presumed.”

  “So … I guess I’m a little confused. If it’s not the government, who is it?”

  “I would assume that you have an admirer, someone who wants to know where you are but not what you’re doing. They can simply follow you and make sure they can keep up with your whereabouts. That is only an assumption, mind you.”

  Colt turned and looked at Tony, and then turned back and looked at the van again. “Tony, if they’re not feds, do you think we could visit with them?” he asked, turning to look at Tony again.

  “Of course we can, Colt; I’ll just make a call and have someone bring them in here to us. Then we can have the privacy of talking to them without being disturbed. I have some new stuff that I’ve been dying to try out.” Tony rubbed his palms together in anticipation.

  “Okay, let’s see who these guys are and we’ll find out why they want to know where I am and where I’m heading.”

  Colt watched while Tony took his phone from the inside pocket of his long ostrich-skin jacket and made the call.

  Tony paused for a moment and then began to speak. “Hey, I need you guys to invite somebody over at the old place. Yeah, they’re across the street … Okay, I’ll be here waiting.” Tony closed his cell phone and placed it back inside his jacket pocket.

  Chapter 16

  Gamboni was a man of few words when he spoke. He finished eating his lunch and then told Berto to bring the car around. Berto complied, and Gamboni met him at the front door. Berto opened the rear door of the slick, black 2011 Lincoln Town Car and Gamboni climbed in. The windows were covered with limo tint, and there was a partition between the front seat where the driver sat and the rear sitting area of the car. The interior was first-cut tan calf leather. Once Berto had entered the car he asked, “Where to, sir?”

  “Drive to Fort Worth … I need to get some fresh air.”

  “Yes, sir. Which route would you like for me to take?”

  “I don’t give a fuck which way you go, Berto! Just get us there.”

  Berto didn’t say another word as he put the car in drive and exited the large circle drive at the front of the house. Gamboni pressed the button, and the dark partition closed. He took his phone from his pocket and dialed a twelve-digit international number.

  Gamboni paused and then began to speak. “Yeah, this is Uncle Mike; I need to speak to the farmer.”

  “Yes, sir, Uncle Mike. Hold for just one moment, please.” The speaker had a Russian accent.

  After a minute had passed, another voice came on the line with an even thicker accent than the first. “Uncle Mike … It has been too long since I have heard your voice, my friend. I trust all is well?”

  “No, all is not well. The pig farm has caught some sort of bug, and I need to find another place for them to be delivered.”

  “Well, I do have another place, Uncle Mike, but you probably wouldn’t like the cost for transporting them. Pigs are very … what you say, finicky.”

  “I can’t worry about the cost so much as I worry about getting rid of this damned bug. Where are we talking about?”

  “I know of a place. I will send to you the directions, Uncle Mike,”

  “Okay then, I’ll be waiting for them. If you’ll just make sure that I have the info before Wednesday evening, I can make arrangements to have them fed and watered.”

  “Okay. I will change the delivery place and I’ll get you an address to the new farm, comrade … Das vidania.”

  “Good-bye,” Gamboni said as he pressed the “end” button on the phone. After placing his phone back into his pocket, he lowered the partition. He could see that Berto was still sulking from him yelling at him a moment ago. “Berto … Berto, you know I’m just under a lot of stress right now. I didn’t mean to yell at you.”

  Berto grinned as he looked into the rearview mirror and nodded. Gamboni usually did not scold Berto, because of his years of service and his undying devotion to him and his family. But it was even rarer for Gamboni to apologize for anything. Berto was a good bodyguard and driver. He was always there for whatever Gamboni wanted him to do.

  Berto had been just a small boy when Gamboni met him for the first time. He sacked groceries at the local grocery store for minimum wage. Gamboni entered the store, escorted by two very large men. They were looking for the owner of the store. Gamboni wore a long fur coat draped over his shoulders, and under it a light gray Armani suit with a silver silk tie and handkerchief to match. His hands were adorned with gold rings, and his wristwatch was none other than a famed diamond-encrusted Rolex.

  Berto stared at the large men who escorted Gamboni and envied his power and status. As the owner walked around the corner, he noticed Berto staring and said loudly, “Alberto, you need to go and clean the storeroom, right away.” Berto snapped to attention and was gone in an instant. He walked around the corner and took a few steps, but the intrigue was too much to resist. He found himself peeking around the corner as one of the men walked to the front door and locked it.

  Berto’s eyes bugged and his eyebrows rose as he watched the other man pull a gun out and point it at the store owner. Gamboni’s voice rumbled through the quiet store, “What the hell did I tell you? I told you to keep your mouth shut. I told you to lie low, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, sir, but I only spent a little bit of it, Don Gamboni. I didn’t tell anyone where I got it from, I swear!”

  “I’m sittin’ in my den and the phone rings. I answer the phone, and who do ya think it is?”

  “I don’t know, Mike, I swear, I didn’t tell anyone!”

  “You have to be the dumbest man I’ve ever known. I have to tell ya … I couldn’t believe my own fucking ears when I heard that you went and bought a new Cadillac.”

  “Don Gamboni … I swear that’s the only thing I’ve bought; it’s all that I’ve spent. I swear it to ya!” the man begged.

  “I hear you paid cash for it. I hear you walked in and set the money on the fuckin’ counter.”

  “Oh my God, Mike, I swear I didn’t think about it! Please, Mike, I’ll make it right. I’ll take care of it, Mike.” The store owner continued to beg as his blue pants leg began to darken because of the piss that ran downward.

  “And then you have the balls to stand here and call me by my first fucking name? I already took care of it. I already stopped anyone from sayin’ anything. Now I’m gonna make it all go away,” Gamboni said as he looked at the gunman.

  A second later a shot rang out and echoed through the small store. The store owner fell to the floor, clutching his chest in agony. Gamboni looked around and then the three men walked out of the store. Berto was petrified as he watched the men leave. After they left, he ran to his boss’s side and knelt down. He didn’t care for the old man, but he had never seen so much blood either. The intrigue was … he had never seen anyone killed before.

  Berto was only a teenage boy when he first got a glimpse of Don Michael Gamboni, but it wouldn’t be the last time their eyes met.

  Years later Berto was a little more involved in the shady side of life. A life that didn’t have set hours and one in which he could make lots of money in a hurry. He was clearing out a trailer loaded with s
tolen televisions and stereos when he noticed a long black Lincoln pull up behind the warehouse. The driver’s door opened and the man walked around to the rear passenger’s door. He opened the door and Gamboni stepped out. Gamboni studied the surroundings and then made his way over to the trailer. Berto watched the man and remembered what he had done years ago. There was no hatred, no fear; he felt only respect for Gamboni.

  He was one of many men who yearned to be like Gamboni in every way. He wanted to be a part of this lifestyle more than anything else in the world.

  “Mr. Gamboni … we have everything listed there on that sheet, sir,” the man in charge told Gamboni.

  Gamboni looked at the manifest and noted that there were several things misspelled. “You write all of these things on here, Bobby?”

  “Yes, sir. I listed everything on there, just like you asked me to.”

  Gamboni looked at Berto and asked, “Don’t I know you from somewhere, kid?”

  “Yes, sir, I met you a few years ago when I sacked groceries at Dante’s market,” Berto’s voice cracked as he answered.

  “Oh yeah, I remember you. You were just a boy then; ya couldn’t have been more than thirteen or so.”

  “Yes, sir, that was me.”

  “What’s your name, kid?”

  “Berto … Alberto Fontanel.”

  “Fontanel, huh? Can you spell, Berto?”

  “Yes, sir … B, E, R—”

  “No, kid,” Gamboni interrupted. “I didn’t mean can you spell ‘Berto,’ I mean can you spell words?”

  “Yes, sir. I have a high school diploma.”

  “Well, I look at this list here and I see many things misspelled. I want to be able to read what the hell I have on these trucks. I think you’re my new guy, Berto. You want the job?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Gamboni. I’ll do right by you,” Berto said with a feeling of pride in his voice.

  That day Berto’s life changed forever. He would begin to work his way up through the ranks and would one day be Gamboni’s personal bodyguard. He would live in the same house and go to all the same places that Don Michael Gamboni went. He would be living the life he had always wanted to live. He had watched the crime boss walk into a grocery store several years ago and had wanted to be that guy … Now he had the chance to be next to him every day.

  Chapter 17

  Young lay in his bed. His mind wondered about the change of venue and the warrant. He didn’t know what Archer’s plans were; he knew only that if he had a plan, Young was in on it and thankful that he was able to avoid having the evidence be admissible. As he thought and wondered, his body began to feel heavy, and soon he drifted off to sleep.

  After a short time of being asleep, he awoke to a noise. It was the food port opening again. It can’t be dinnertime already, he thought as he raised his head to see what it could be. He watched as a package was dropped through the food port. A large manila envelope fell to the floor, and soon afterward, a blanket was shoved through the food port. The port was soon closed and then locked again. He moved his legs off the edge of the bed and placed his feet on the floor. He could feel that his hair was a mess, but he didn’t care. He moved toward the door and slowly picked up the envelope from the floor.

  It was sealed with tape, and the metal brad had been removed. He looked at the steel door and scratched his head in wonder. He shuffled the few steps back to his bunk and sat on the bed. He shook the envelope and listened to the contents, the way a child listens to a Christmas present. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed it. Then he slowly placed his finger in the opening and tore open the tape. He peered into the dark opening and poured the contents onto the old mildewed mattress: a legal-size yellow tablet and three crayons, a red one, a green one, and a blue one. They were not full-size crayons; they were very short and half the thickness of a normal crayon.

  Young scratched his head again and wondered why they would even bother with something like that. He had asked for writing materials, but he wanted a comfortable pen and tablet to write whatever might go through his mind. Now he began to get angry. He was not going to be treated like a typical criminal. He was still a person, and he had not been convicted of anything yet. He stood as fast as he could and stomped over to the steel door of his cell. He clenched his hand into a fist and rapped on the door as hard as he could. Thud, thud, thud …

  After several minutes of this, he heard a voice from somewhere: “You’re gonna break your hand if you keep that up.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Robert.”

  “Robert? Where did you go when I was talking to ya?” he yelled.

  “I had to get some sleep. I dream when I’m asleep. It takes me away from this place.”

  Young leaned against the wall and slid down to the floor. “I only dream of good food when I sleep,” he said in desperation.

  “You’ll get used to the food here. I sometimes have the same dream when I sleep. I dream of walking down the street and deciding what restaurant I am going to eat dinner in. While I’m there eating, a beautiful woman comes to my table and sits next to me. She seduces me and then I wake up.”

  “Huh … How long have you been here?”

  “It’s been about three months since I got arrested.”

  “What did ya get arrested for again, Robert?”

  “It’s a long story. One that I’m sure you wouldn’t want to hear.”

  “Please … please … talk to me, Robert. I feel as if I’m going insane in here! I just want to hear someone’s voice. I want to hear about it.”

  “Well, I was pinching cars for a guy I had met a few years back. Before long, they wanted the good stuff—you know, Mercedes, Jaguars, and stuff like that. I began to get bolder as I continued. Then one day I got the call to meet my contact. I drove to meet him, and he gave me a list of cars I needed to get for him. It was crazy, this time; it was only muscle cars from the sixties and seventies. I told him it would take some time to find all the cars, and he handed me a list of addresses. I should have known it was a setup. But, like an idiot, I went to work and began collecting the cars.”

  “Why was that such a bad thing? I would think that would cut down on some of the footwork for you.”

  “You never take a car that you haven’t sat on for a while. That is the golden rule of pinching. If you don’t sit on the car, you don’t know how to remove it safely. These people I work for had a list of seven cars that they wanted. A Shelby GT 500, a 1968 Dodge Charger—it was crazy cars like that. They handpicked the cars, and those were the ones they wanted. It never even crossed my mind that one of those old muscle cars would have a LoJack in it. The night I took the Charger, I rolled it out of the garage and into the street. Then I cranked it, and all hell broke loose. That car was crazy loud; it had a 440 Magnum in it. I paused for a second; the noise seemed to wake every dog in the neighborhood. Then I pulled the shifter into drive and hauled ass away from there. I figured it had to have woken someone up, and I didn’t want anyone to call the cops.”

  “So they called the cops and they caught you?”

  “I suppose they called the cops, but I didn’t see one until I got to the docks. The normal guys opened the gate and I drove through. I never expected to see a cop after I walked away from the dock. But there he was. He was sitting in the shadows of one of the buildings, and as soon as I walked past, he turned on his headlights. I continued walking; I never even looked at him. But I could hear the gravel under his tires as he slowly drove closer to me. Just then—”

  Robert was interrupted; a loud thud came at the door. “If I hear another fucking word come from these two rooms, I’ll throw you both in the hole!” a voice shouted from the hallway.

  Young paused for a second as if he were listening for another rant. He ran to the door and shouted, “Hey! I want to know why you guys gave me crayons inst
ead of pens!” but there was no reply from the guard. Young realized that he wouldn’t get any help from these bastards. He looked down and picked up the blanket off the floor, opened it up, and looked at it. It looked as old as he was. It was half the size of a normal blanket. It had holes in it and was the thinnest wool blanket he’d ever seen. He shook his head and walked back to his bed. He looked up at the door and opened his mouth.

  He wanted to scream and cuss at the guard for the insult. But he closed his mouth and said nothing as he lay back on the bunk and stared at the ceiling. Young was furious … but he knew the law didn’t specify what kind of blanket he was to receive. It didn’t mean he would have a fancy pen and writing ledger for his notes. It didn’t even specify that he was to receive anything he wanted. The bare necessities were all that the Constitution and the Geneva Conventions provided, by law.

  He was now one of the people who were in lockdown because he had put them there. He had never thought of it before, but not all prisoners are at a Club Med correctional facility. Some people actually had to do hard time. The longer they were in there, the worse their behavior became. It was evident that he was already turning against himself and his mind. He had no comforts, only necessities and life-sustaining things that didn’t have to be comfortable or even taste good. Prison is not built for comfort, as Special Agent Gary Young was finding out.

  Chapter 18

  Rick and T-Bone made their way to the Bennigan home. As they pulled up to the curb in front of the house, they sat and looked at the front door for a moment. The door was crossed with police tape. There were no police guards in front of the residence any longer. And there was no one to watch for marauders, as the public seemed to have a liking for crime scenes. It seemed as if the neighborhood was quiet and sad now. There was no activity outside; there was no one around at all. All of the other homes in the neighborhood looked abandoned, with the exception of a car in a driveway down the block.