40 Nickels

by R. Daniel Lester

  - Your eloquence is inspiring.

  - You call for a reason?

  - I did. You still want to show me how the tow game works?

  - I don’t know. You gonna be a good student?

  - All the coffee and apples a teacher can handle.

  - I’ll think about it.

  - I can live with that.

  - Hello?

  - Hi. This Wendell?

  - Yeah.

  - Tall fella, fists like anvils?

  - I suppose. What’s it to ya?

  - Finally. I had to call every mining company in the book to find you.

  - That right? I owe you money or somethin’?

  - No, other way around.

  - Heh?

  - Do you remember a daytime bar brouhaha you got into a few years ago in Toronto? A little fisticuff with a well-dressed handsome fella that ended in a handshake and pat on the shoulder?

  - Nah. I only punch losers.

  - Funny.

  - Flinch, wasn’t it? I remember. I bought you a beer and you lifted my nickels.

  - I did. Apologies. Not very neighbourly.

  - You called to tell me that?

  - It’s been weighin’ on me.

  - Ah, don’t sweat it. Those nickels only brought me grief, you look at it a certain way. Made me more likely to punch my way out of trouble than not. How’d they do for you?

  - Oh, like a charm, Wendell. Went straight to the track and put that two bucks on a horse that paid out 10-1. Then those winnings on a horse that paid out 50-1. People started noticing me after that so I started charging for my betting advice. Set up a little bookie shop and the phone rang day and night. Made a pretty penny. Then a publisher approached me to write a book, go legit, and I called it “Horses for Courses” and it sold a bunch of copies. Now I’m sittin’ on Easy Street.

  - Flinch, you magnificent bastard. How about cuttin’ me in on a piece of the action for my initial investment. Hello? Flinch?

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  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to all the creative influences that got me this far. Your work and spirit resonates. Most of all, thanks to my family and friends for the continued support. You keep me pushing. Now, please stop reading and go out and tell someone to buy this book. A writer gotta eat.

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  R. DANIEL LESTER writes into the void. Sometimes the void wins. Other times the words win. Over the years, his work has appeared in multiple publications, including Shotgun Honey, Bareknuckles Pulp, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Switchblade, Retreats from Oblivion and the clown noir anthology, Greasepaint & 45s. His novella, Dead Clown Blues, was nominated by the Crime Writers of Canada for a 2018 Arthur Ellis Award. Previously a longtime Vancouver resident, he currently lives in Toronto with his spouse and daughter. The battle with the void continues daily.

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  BOOKS BY R. DANIEL LESTER

  Dead Clown Blues

  40 Nickels

  Back to TOC

  Here is a preview of The Honorary Jersey Girl, a Big Island of Hawaii novella by Albert Tucher, published by Shotgun Honey, an imprint of Down & Out Books.

  Click here for a complete catalog of titles available from Down & Out Books and its divisions and imprints.

  1

  Agnes Rodrigues scanned the room and wondered what the ten-hour flight had been for. Rosen’s restaurant could have passed for Ken’s House of Pancakes back home in Hilo. A diner was a diner.

  And a red eye was a red eye. Her body was clamoring for coffee. She hoped they served it in New Jersey.

  They probably did, because the woman in the corner booth had a carafe in front of her. Her name was Diana Andrews, and changing her mind was the reason for this trip.

  Andrews was not exactly beautiful, but her strong cheekbones, stronger nose, and brown eyes with their slightly Asian cast issued a challenge—are you good enough?

  For years, Agnes knew, men had paid by the hour to find out. Diana Andrews had been out of that business for years, but Agnes needed this woman for what she was doing now. Andrews ran a company that specialized in personal protection.

  Bodyguarding. Agnes thought it might be more harrowing than going behind closed doors with any man who put his money down. Maybe she would get an opportunity ask about that.

  Agnes started toward the booth. Andrews looked at her without surprise or concern, but Agnes doubted that this woman ever revealed what she was thinking. Agnes had defended many prostitutes. Hooking taught them the value of a poker face, and for Diana Andrews a knack for giving nothing away probably helped in corporate life.

  Heads swiveled to follow Agnes, as she made her way through the breakfast crowd. She knew she issued challenges of her own, starting with the question of her ancestry. She was Hawaii on the hoof. Back home everyone understood that, but here, five thousand miles away, few onlookers would recognize the island mix of Portuguese, Japanese and Filipino genes that produced women like her the way the volcano pumped out lava.

  Agnes slid into the booth. The other woman’s “don’t fuck with me” look would have worked on most people, but Agnes had sat across the table from men who were facing life in prison, and for good reason.

  “I usually wait to be invited,” said Andrews in the voice Agnes had heard saying no on the phone.

  “I don’t have that kind of time.”

  “I told you, I won’t do it.”

  “Get paid to go to Hawaii?”

  “I’ve been to Hawaii.”

  “That’s why I called. You know the territory.”

  “Hawaii almost killed me. Twice.”

  Agnes studied the woman. Andrews looked serious.

  “Detective Coutinho didn’t tell me that part.”

  “Coutinho talks to defense attorneys?”

  “We’re not friends, but if he tells me something, I take it to the bank. He admits you’re the best in the business. Which impressed me, because I could tell you’re not his favorite person.”

  Andrews ignored the compliment, if that was what it was.

  “How did you find me here?” she asked.

  “I’m from the Big Island. I know small towns.”

  “And?”

  “It’s too early for the office. So I went looking for breakfast, and there aren’t many choices.”

  “I think Drake told you where I would be.”

  “Drake?”

  “Don’t play dumb. He’s been after me to take this job. Why would that be?”

  Agnes felt as if she had just made a rookie mistake in court, and Andrews was the judge who had called her on it.

  What does a lawyer do when she doesn’t know what to do next? She smiles her most confident smile and stalls.

  The morning waitress appeared and set two menus down. Agnes made a mental note to tip the young woman extra for the timely distraction.

  “I’ll stick with coffee, thanks.”

  By the time the waitress finished pouring, Agnes had decided on her next move.

  A frontal assault.

  “My client was acquitted,” she said. “He’s innocent. I don’t mean not guilty. I mean he didn’t do it.”

  No response. Agnes met the woman’s eyes. It took some effort.

  “Obviously,” said Agnes. “I investigated you. You’ve known some criminal lawyers. In both of your careers.”

  Andrews didn’t deny it.

  “So you know it’s my job to get up in court and say my clients are innocent. But do you know how many times I believe it?”

  Andrews wasn’t going to give her a thing, but Agnes went on.

  “This time I do, and the police aren’t taking it well. It was a cop’s wife who was murdered.”

  Still nothing.

  “Somebody took a shot at my client once already. His name is Hank Alves, by the way.”

  Andrews didn’t care.

  “I’m sure it was the cops.”

>   “Coutinho doesn’t do things that way.”

  Agnes filed that away. It was interesting that Andrews rose to Coutinho’s defense, when he could definitely live without her. It showed a fundamental fairness that Agnes hoped to exploit.

  “Tell him and I’ll deny it, but I wish they were all like him.”

  Andrews shook her head.

  “I can’t do it. For so many reasons.”

  Diana Andrews knew how to say no. That was another thing prostitutes learned early.

  “Thanks for your time,” Agnes said.

  She slid out of the booth and dropped a ten next to her cup. Andrews was looking down at her menu, as if the conversation had never happened. Agnes turned and headed for the exit.

  2

  Outside, she paused on the sidewalk and looked across the street. The municipal building in Driscoll housed the police department. For a few minutes she watched the uniformed officers coming and going. They mingled with detectives who didn’t need uniforms to look like cops.

  It was a scene that she saw every day back home. It made the long trip seen even more futile, and she couldn’t allow that. Agnes went into her bag for her cell phone and selected a number that she had recently stored in her contacts.

  “Drake,” said a male voice in her ear.

  “She’s not buying it.”

  “Okay, plan B.”

  “Are you sure? This is not a boss you want to piss off.”

  “That’s the point. She’s the boss, and this is what we do—protect people and get paid for it. There’s no good reason to turn this down.”

  “How is she about being challenged?”

  “From me she’ll take it. I know when she needs a nudge, and she knows I know.”

  “She has real issues with Hawaii.”

  “There are reasons for that, but this is still business.”

  “Okay. The ball is in your court.”

  Agnes disconnected and started to look for her car. What had she rented? Probably a Camry. It was what she drove back home.

  But when she pressed the button on the key fob, a black Maxima flashed its lights. She couldn’t remember a thing about this car that she had already driven a hundred miles.

  Talk about distracted. Agnes got in and started driving south to Morristown.

  Before booking her room, she had made sure the hotel had a bar. At ten that evening she made her entrance. Heads swiveled, as they always did in the Kohala resorts back home. She tagged a couple of prospects with mental bookmarks and made her way to the bar. As she slid onto a stool, she felt a glare scorching her from the right.

  A blonde in her mid-forties occupied the last barstool. Agnes looked back, and Diana Andrews came to mind again. There was no real resemblance, other than the laser-eyed lack of illusions. This woman was a pro, and this was her territory. Agnes didn’t know how things worked here, but it wouldn’t be unusual for the woman to have a local cop or two on her side.

  Agnes signaled the bartender. He came right over. Male bartenders always did.

  “Bourbon rocks, and give my friend at the end whatever she’s drinking.”

  The woman shook her head at the bartender and kept glaring. Agnes got up and approached.

  “Message received. I’m going to finish me drink and go. So you might as well have one on me.”

  “I keep a clear head while I’m working.”

  “Diana says hello.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Okay, she doesn’t.”

  Agnes returned to her seat. On impulse she got her cell phone out and selected a number that was figuring prominently in her Recents.

  “Diana Andrews.”

  Agnes wondered whether the woman was in her office at this hour. Andrews was unlikely to tell her.

  “Maybe you can tell me how much trouble I’m in.”

  Agnes explained. Andrews laughed shortly.

  “Heather. We used to be friendly enough, but she’s pissed at me for getting out of the life while she’s still in it. Don’t worry about it, but you might want to look for company someplace else.”

  “It was a bad idea, anyway. I don’t know the rules here.”

  There was a pause.

  “Drake will see you at the airport,” said Andrews.

  “Okay.”

  Agnes had a feeling that thanks wouldn’t be welcome.

  “Tomorrow, then,” she said.

  3

  One non-stop flight went from Newark to Honolulu each day. When Agnes found her gate the next morning, Drake was already waiting. He got up and shook her hand. Agnes suppressed a smile. She knew he was an ex-SEAL and over thirty, but many people would have mistaken him for a Princeton undergraduate.

  A woman joined them. Agnes had noticed her but hadn’t connected her with Drake. Agnes realized that someone with bad intentions might make the same mistake, and that was the point.

  “This is Tulla Konner,” said Drake.

  Uh oh, Agnes thought.

  There was a reason she had noticed Konner. Once in a while she saw a woman who activated her latent bisexual gene, if there was such a thing. It was often someone like this—six feet tall, with the shoulders of a male athlete tapering to a trim waist and then flaring into womanly hips. The trousers didn’t fool Agnes. Put this woman in a skirt and heels, and her legs would cause whiplash injuries in male onlookers.

  Her handshake was delicious, just hinting at her strength.

  Trust Diana Andrews to hire a woman like this without seeing her as a threat to her dominance.

  “Good,” said Agnes.

  She could see that the two operatives understood her meaning. They made an effective team—one intimidating bodyguard type and one who could blend into the scenery. Usually, the traditional sex roles had things the other way around, but this would work.

  “We have a long flight,” said Agnes. “I brought the case file, if you want to look at it.”

  “We don’t care what he did.”

  Okay, so Konner wasn’t perfect. Her voice belonged to a petite cheerleader.

  “Or didn’t do,” said Agnes.

  “Still doesn’t matter.”

  If her new companions weren’t going to take the file off her hands, Agnes knew she would obsess over it some more. She had been reading it again and again, as if there still might be something she hadn’t noticed, something that would implicate Don Savage his wife’s murder.

  They were traveling coach, because Agnes didn’t know how she would pay the bill she would run up with Litvinov Associates. She fit well into a coach seat, and Drake would survive, but Tulla Konner’s knees would suffer for ten and a half hours. The woman was a professional stoic, and she made no comment.

  Agnes did give her the aisle, even though her own bladder was already panicking at the idea of being trapped. Drake had the middle seat.

  “About your bill,” he said.

  “We need to talk about that.”

  “It’s covered.”

  Agnes turned and looked at him.

  “Diana has an angel,” said Drake.

  “What does that mean?”

  “A man who says he owes her. He writes six figure checks without blinking.”

  “There must be a hell of a story behind that.”

  “Someday I hope to find out.”

  “I wasn’t sure you could pull this off. Getting her to go along, I mean.”

  “Well, you helped,” said Drake.

  “I didn’t have that impression.”

  “Trust me, you did. She said you treated the waitress right. That goes a long way with Diana.”

  “Oh.”

  Agnes digested that. It made sense. A lot of people who hired prostitutes thought they had bought the right to treat them like garbage.

  “I’m still impressed that you have this influence on her.”

  “You know why she’s president of Litvinov Associates?” said Drake.

>   “I’ll bet there’s a story in that too.”

  “There is. The founder was Roy Litvinov. He hired her for a job. It went bad, and Diana was the only one who came out alive. Roy’s widow made her president, but then Bethany thought Diana would just be a figurehead. Diana disagreed, and we backed her.”

  “I think you mean you backed her.”

  Drake shrugged.

  “I guess I have some credibility with the guys.”

  Tulla didn’t blink. She must be one of the guys.

  The drinks cart came around. Agnes had coffee. Drake and Tulla took water. Agnes guessed that Drake drank water on the job, and that Tulla never drank anything else.

  The file had been burning into Agnes’s lap. It would just get hotter, until she opened it. She surrendered.

  Crime scene photos took her back to a road in Puna, the wettest and wildest region of the Big Island. Many Puna roads were mud, but this one was paved.

  The first photo was a framing shot of a Ford Escape stopped half on the road and half in the jungle. On this side of the Big Island the rainforest crowded right up to the blacktop, and only constant maintenance kept the roots from tearing up the roads.

  The vehicle had challenged an ironwood tree to a collision. The ironwood had won. More photos showed the damage to the front of the Escape and the condition of the tires.

  Then things got serious. A woman sat in the front passenger seat. She conformed to the contours of the seat in a boneless kind of way that would have told anyone, not just an experienced observer like Agnes, that she was dead.

  Her name was Marci Savage. She was married to Donald Savage, an officer in the Kona Division of the Hawaii County Police. Puna was on the Hilo side of the island, and about as far from Kona as anyone could get.

  Most people looked away from the ugliness of violent death, but crime scene photographs focused on it. So did criminal lawyers. Agnes studied three close-ups of the woman’s ravaged face.

  Agnes became aware that Drake was reading along with her.