by Trace Conger
Rollo didn’t look up at me. “Bishop sent you?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Where’s Lardo?”
“I’m new,” I said. “Taking over the drop for Sam.”
“You have a name?” said Rollo.
“Mr. Finn.”
“Ain’t that cute. You bring it?”
I raised the duffle. “It’s right here.”
Rollo looked up. He motioned to the man in beige, who grabbed the duffle. Another nod from Rollo and he dumped the contents onto the desk. Rollo stacked the bricks of hundred-dollar bills into four piles and looked over the printout. “You know how much is here?”
“No,” I said. “Bishop just said to bring it over.”
Rollo stared at me and then nodded. “Okay, you can go,” he said. “See you next week.”
I swallowed hard. All the saliva in my mouth ran for the hills back in the lobby, and my lips chapped somewhere in the hall. I slid my hand into my right pants pocket, rubbed my thumb and index finger against my pocket lining to dry the sweat. Then, I fumbled for the Navigator key fob and found the silver button.
Rollo looked up. “Get him out of here.”
The beige man approached and grabbed my arm. His second mistake. I pulled the key fob out of my pocket and pressed the button. The key, filed to a point, snapped out of the plastic base like a switchblade. A second later I’d shoved it into the man’s neck. I withdrew it and plunged it in again and again, finding the strategic targets of his windpipe, jugular vein and carotid artery. The blood spurted from his neck in steady streams, like water from a lawn sprinkler. I dodged most of it, but two streams painted my shoulder and arm a deep red. After the fifth jab, I grabbed the sawed-off from his tightening grip, and kicked him to the floor. It was over in seconds. To Rollo, it must have been a blur. He never had time to react.
I spun back around and trained the shotgun on Rollo. His eyes opened wide and he slid both hands below the desk, searching for something, probably a piece holstered under the desk. Or maybe an alarm trigger. I didn’t move. I just kept the shotgun trained in the center of Rollo’s head, letting my heart rate equalize.
His arms steadied. He found whatever he was looking for. I didn’t hear anyone scrambling down the hall. No alarm. Must be a weapon.
“You’re in some serious shit here,” Rollo said. “What’s your play? No way you’re gonna shoot me and walk out of here alive. If that’s what you think, you ain’t thought this through.”
“I’ve thought it through,” I said. “More times that I can count.”
“You think you’re the first person to point a gun at me?”
“No, but I’ll be the last.”
Rollo looked over my shoulder to the door behind me. “You might want to reconsider your options. If I die, you die.” Rollo’s right shoulder dropped slightly as he reached for whatever he found under the desk.
My eyes followed his hand. “You might as well try for it. I’m going to shoot you anyway.”
Rollo jerked a chrome handgun from under the desk and stood up. He hadn’t cleared the thick top before I fired the first barrel into his chest. The blast hurled Rollo into the desk chair, which rolled backward and bounced off the wall behind him, and then overturned onto the floor.
The stopwatch in my head approached zero. Not much time before the three men in the lobby got to the door. I grabbed the .45 from the beige man’s shoulder holster, tucked it in my waistband, overturned Rollo’s desk and crouched behind it. I re-gripped the shotgun and waited.
The two gym rats rushed into room. I peeked over the desk. The short man had a small black automatic, maybe a MAC-10, and the tall man had two handguns. They held them like they knew what they were doing. The inch-and-a-half-thick cherry desk might stop whatever the tall man was packing, but I had less faith against the short man’s street sweeper.
“Hang on. Hang on,” I said. “I’m not here for you guys. Just hang on a second.” I looked back over the desk. The old man walked through the doorway, a cane in his hand. He stared at the overturned chair and Rollo’s body, his blood splattered across the top of the desk.
“Whoa, son, you’re in it deep aren’t you,” he said.
“You could say that,” I said.
“Why don’t you come on out and we’ll sort this out.”
“I feel a bit safer here, thanks.” I wiped my hands across my pants, when the sharp pain from a cramp in my calf rolled up my leg. “I’m only here for Rollo. I’ve got no reason to shoot any of you.”
“That might be true,” said the old man. “But we got plenty of reasons to shoot you.”
I could get a shot off from the top or the side of the desk, but I only had one chance with the shotgun. Then, I’d have to go for the .45.
“How do you suppose we end this situation?” said the old man. “You can’t get all of us.”
“No, but I can do some damage. I’ve got one left in this shotgun, your friend’s .45, and in a pinch I can go for whatever Rollo had stashed under his desk. I figure I got enough leverage to warrant a negotiation.”
The three men were silent.
“I don’t want to kill any of you,” I said. “But I will if I have to.”
“We’re supposed to just let you walk out the door?” said the old man.
“I’m hoping that’s exactly what you’ll let me do. I’ve got twenty-five grand here, and Rollo’s safe is wide open. There’s got to be a few hundred grand in there. You can take it all and split it up however you like. How’s that sound?”
“Why don’t we just shoot you and then take the money?” the tall man said.
“Now that’s the kind of thinking that’s going to get someone killed,” I said.
“I don’t know,” said the old man. “I kind of like his idea better. Cut out the middle man.”
“No, that won’t work,” I said. “Think about your situation for a minute. I’ve got you from a fortified position. Even though there’re three of you, I’ve got the advantage. If this shotgun scatters the right way, I might be able to get two of you. Maybe take your legs out or at least put an awful lot of holes in your gut. If you think about it that way, my odds aren’t too bad.”
“If you’ve got such an advantage, why are you trying to buy your way out of this?” said the old man.
“Maybe I miss,” I said. “Maybe you get off a lucky shot. Still some bad things that can happen to all of us. I’d rather walk out of here without firing another shot.”
Silence.
“You even know how to use that thing?” the tall man said.
“It’s pretty simple, really. I pull the trigger and you fall down. Just ask Rollo here.”
The tall man stepped closer to the door.
“You just came for Rollo?” said the old man.
“That’s it. Just Rollo. It’s just business. From Detroit.” I lied about the Detroit part, but it seemed logical. “You let me walk out of here, you take the money and we all go home today with our insides where they’re supposed to be.”
“That ain’t gonna sit well with Rollo’s boss in Detroit,” said the old man.
“Or Hickman,” said the tall man.
“Hickman’s dead,” I said. “This operation is closed. It’s gone. Let’s face it. Your boss isn’t promoting any of you to the top of the chain. Think about your future. The only shot you got is to take Rollo’s money here and maybe clean out anything you can at Hickman’s place. That’s it.”
“How much is in that safe?” said the old man.
“Few hundred grand at least. Plus the bag I brought. All yours. Rollo’s out of business, and that’ll make a nice retirement fund.”
More silence. Thinking.
“Plus, if anyone asks, you weren’t here,” I said.
Hesitation.
“Okay,” said the old man. “How do we do this?”
“You all step out into the hall, and I’ll follow you out. I back down the hallway, get in the elevator and you never see me ag
ain.”
Silence.
“Okay,” said the old man.
The three men backed into the hallway.
“Keep your weapons pointed down,” I said. “I’ll do the same. No accidents.”
I peeked my head around the doorway. All three men stood against the back wall. “You all understand probability, don’t you?” I said.
“Explain,” said the old man.
“As far as I’m concerned, there’re only two of you because I’m not worried about the old man and his cane. If either of you two raise those weapons while I’m backing down that hall, I’m going to get a shot off. That means you two have a fifty-fifty probability of taking a blast to the gut. Keep those pointed down, and we’ve all got a one hundred percent chance of making it through the day. We clear?”
“Okay,” said the old man. “Come on out.”
I stepped out of Rollo’s office, the shotgun and .45 angled toward the ground, but high enough to level them off if I needed to. As I backed down the hallway, each step reassured me that I’d get out of this alive. I reached the elevator and pushed the call button with the muzzle of my .45. The elevator chimed, the door opened and I stepped in.
I TUCKED THE SAWED-OFF UNDERNEATH my suit jacket and walked out of the building’s front door.
Still no traffic.
I dropped the shotgun behind the driver’s seat, stashed the .45 in the glove box and grabbed my spare key. A lump clung to the inside of my throat, and I braced for my lunch to make a second appearance, but it stayed down. It took three attempts to get the key into the ignition and six deep breaths before my hands stopped shaking enough to send Bishop the text message telling him it was done. After hitting “send,” I fired the ignition and turned the wheel toward Manhattan Harbor.
XAVIER HICKMAN RAN ROLLO’S WEST-SIDE operation from a warehouse on Clifton Avenue in Avondale. One of Bishop’s hackers pulled information on Hickman and found that he owned a rental property with six units on Cornell Place, four blocks from the warehouse. He also discovered the city recently cited the property with seventeen code violations and smacked Hickman with thirty grand in fines.
Little Freddie parked his Volvo in front of the property and dialed the number Bishop gave him. Xavier Hickman answered the line.
“Hello, this is Ryan Thomas, with the Avondale Building and Zoning Department,” said Little Freddie. “I need to see you at your Cornell Place property. Can you meet me here?” “That’s bullshit,” said Hickman. “You guys told me I had six weeks to clear that up. It’s only been two and a half.”
“That’s correct, Mr. Hickman, but I’m not following up on your initial report. I’m responding to a separate complaint.”
“What complaint?”
“I can’t discuss it over the phone. That’s why I need to see you in person. Can you meet me at the property in fifteen minutes?”
“Fine,” said Hickman. “But after this, I don’t wanna hear from any of you until after my six weeks.”
“I’m sure you won’t.” Little Freddie hung up the phone.
TEN MINUTES LATER, A CADILLAC Escalade parked behind Little Freddie’s Volvo. Little Freddie sat on the building’s front stoop with a clipboard in his hand. Hickman climbed out of the SUV and walked toward the front door.
“All right, what’s this all about?” said Hickman. “I’m so sick of dealing with you guys.”
“Toxic mold,” said Little Freddie. “One of your residents called the department to file a complaint. They said they’d mentioned it to you before but that you never did anything about it.”
“I never heard anything about any toxic mold. That’s bullshit. I already got calls into a contractor to fix that other stuff, but no one said anything about mold.”
“Well, someone filed a complaint with our office, and I need to investigate it.”
“What, you want to go in and look around?”
Little Freddie shrugged. “Actually, I can’t,” he said. “I need to have a certified mold inspector come out. They have to wear special suits and everything. If they do find evidence of mold inside the building, you’ll have to have it removed. And that requires a specialist.”
“That’s just what I fucking need. Another specialist.”
“I just need your signature authorizing us to schedule the inspection.” Little Freddie flipped through the paper on his clipboard. “Damn, I thought I had the right form here. I think I have it in my car. Follow me and I’ll get you out of here in a few minutes.”
Little Freddie walked to his car and opened the trunk. Hickman followed. Little Freddie handed Hickman the clipboard. “Can you hold this for a sec?”
Hickman grabbed the clipboard as Little Freddie looked around the street. Then, he leaned into the trunk, pulled out a tire iron and slammed it into Hickman’s stomach. Hickman doubled over and grabbed the car’s bumper to stay on his feet. In one quick motion, Little Freddie grabbed Hickman’s ankles, lifted him into the trunk and slammed the trunk lid shut.
THE MANHATTAN HARBOR PARKING LOT was packed. Boat season was in full swing and Friday afternoon brought out the partiers who started drinking by mid-day. I found my father walking the perimeter of the lot, his face buried in a book. When I pulled up next to him, I realized he was reading my copy of Vanilla Ride.
I rolled down my window. “You’re not allowed to finish that before I do,” I said, concealing shaky hands below the steering wheel. “Been trying to check that book off my list for a week now.”
Albert dog-eared the page he was on and closed the book. “It’s not bad, but this Lansdale fella isn’t no Elmore Leonard.”
My hands rattled against my keys. “He’s not supposed to be Elmore Leonard. They’re two different authors. What happened to the library book you checked out?”
“I already read it,” he said. “They only let me get one since I’m a new member. Have to wait for my card in the mail before I can get more. This was the only book on the boat.”
“Sorry, not a lot of room on board for an extensive collection. Why are you wandering around out here anyway?”
He pointed to the dock. “Too much noise down there. People everywhere. Loud music and hollering. Came up here for some peace and quiet.”
“Welcome to Friday afternoon on the river,” I said. “It’s going to be a lot worse when the sun goes down. Want to get out of here and spend some time with your granddaughter?”
His eyes lit up. “Of course. Now?”
“I’m picking her up for dinner. But I have to shower first. Why don’t you keep reading, and I’ll grab you on my way out of the lot.”
“Deal,” he said.
I STASHED MY SUIT JACKET IN a plastic grocery bag and jammed it into the garbage can at the end of the dock. The rest of my clothes were clean. After a shower and a change of clothes, I was back in the SUV, heading toward Albert, who sat on the steps, his face buried in my book.
“Get in,” I said.
Albert climbed into the passenger side and tossed the book on the floor. “Becca stay with you on the boat?”
“Just on the weekends,” I said. “Brooke has her during the week.”
“She like it? The boat?”
“I doubt it. No one likes the boat.”
He smiled. “All the more reason to move.”
“We’ll talk about it later.”
MY HANDS STOPPED SHAKING BY the time we arrived at Brooke and Daryl’s place. It was surreal to take my father and daughter out for pizza after snuffing out two people a few hours earlier, but dinner was a welcome distraction. I’d planned to keep Becca for the weekend as usual and then head to Maine next week with my father to fish out his sunken treasure. Sticking around Cincinnati wasn’t the smartest thing for me to do, but I wasn’t about to ditch my daughter for a road trip to the Northeast, and Brooke would murder me if I took our daughter with us.
“Stay in the car for a minute, Dad. It’s just easier than explaining everything to Brooke right now.”
�
�Fair enough,” said Albert. “But you can’t hide me forever.”
Brooke answered the door and invited me in. I declined. I felt more welcome on the front porch than I did inside the house. Daryl had a thing about me being inside, and I didn’t feel like causing trouble. Brooke usually waited with Becca on the porch. Her overnight bag, a blue-and-orange penguin suitcase, always nearby. The beak squeaked when you squeezed it. But today Becca was still upstairs getting ready when I rang the bell.
I waited on the front stoop when Daryl stepped out of the house behind me.
“How are you, Finn?” he said.
“Good. You?” I’d hoped to retire the conversation there, but Daryl had other plans.
“What are you guys up to this weekend?”
“Heading to Dewey’s Pizza for dinner, and then, who knows? I’m sure we’ll find some trouble to get into.” I looked past Daryl and into the house to see if Becca had come down the stairs, but she hadn’t.
“How’s the doctor business?” I said. “People still getting sick?”
He laughed. “All the time. It’s good for business. Speaking of work, Brooke mentioned you were back at it. You’re working on a case?”
“Yeah, but I can’t talk about it. Client confidentiality and all.”
Daryl crossed his arms in front of his chest. “So does that mean you got your license reinstated? How does that work?”
Daryl knew I’d lost my license, and while he probably wasn’t versed in state law and PI ethics, it still seemed like a thinly veiled dig. “I mean, if I lost my medical license, I wouldn’t be able to treat patients.”
“Right, but if you saw someone choking in a restaurant and gave them the Heimlich, I doubt anyone would ask to see your license.”