by Deforest Day
“Well, the way your pants smell, you’re riding in the back of the truck.”
“Where we goin’, Chick?”
“You remember how to get to the Halloween House?”
“Across the river?”
“You got it.”
Downstairs, in the lobby, they ran into Alice. Chick said, “Hey, sticky fingers. My room’s a freakin’ mess. Go clean it up.”
“Chick, you ain’t due for fresh sheets until day after tomorrow. ‘sides, I got to go help Pudge with the supper crowd.”
“Don’t give me any of your crap tonight, Alice, I ain’t in the mood. Pudge can spare you for ten minutes.”
Chapter 58
Justice was up and over the fence before Pen turned the corner. He removed the fence climbers; pulling up the drawbridge behind him. Dragging a leafy branch across the trail. Covering his tracks. He flattened against the brick wall, listening for the dog that didn’t bark.
The door off the parking lot had a keyhole, no handle. Steel, four hinges, welded, not screwed. He felt for alarm tape. No tape, but no gap wide enough for his tactical entry tool. Det cord would open it quicker than the key, but civilian constraints negated that option. Besides, he didn’t have any det cord.
He continued along the wall, a fleet shadow in the shadows. He turned the corner into the narrow space between the building and the fence. Sumac had grown up over the years, obscuring the neighboring back yard. Through the foliage he could see a two story house, upper windows curtained, flickering blue light from a television in a lower one.
He clicked on his mini mag, ran the narrow beam over a window-mounted air conditioner. Ten minutes with the 5 in 1 freed the case from the sash and its rusty angle iron supports. The caulk was brittle and came away in chunks. He pushed cautiously on the frame, and the unit began to tip into the building. He grabbed the louvers with his fingers, and lowered it quietly onto the office floor, then climbed over the sill. He crouched, listened, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and the pain in his ribs to subside.
A desk, a few chairs, a filing cabinet, a phone. Justice slipped out to the shop floor. The old truck was a darker shape in the darkness. He snapped the red filter over the lens to preserve his night vision, and clicked on the flashlight. A ruby beam flowed across the floor. A step ladder stood beside the truck. How convenient. He climbed the ladder, studied the olive drab Claymore. “Son of a bitch, Baer, but you are one stupid bastard.”
He held his flashlight in his teeth and eased the blasting cap from the detonator well. Just in case. If it went off, it would hurt your ears, your ego. But there did not seem to be any chance of that happening. Hell, there did not seem to be any chance of the mine detonating, if he’d used bolt cutters on the digital lock.
There were two ways to set off a Claymore: with the clacker, or if that had somehow gotten lost in the fog of war, a PRC 25 battery and a trip wire. The SF favorite. Baer had combined both techniques and come up with a way that neither would work.
Justice was about ten when Papaw taught him that a little knowledge was a dangerous thing, and he’d encountered plenty of examples ever since. More than plenty in Afghanistan.
In three minutes he had the Claymore tucked safely under the bench seat of the truck. Now came the hard part.
He lay on his back, stuck his head under the dash, studied the maze of wires with his flashlight. He saw the ones hooked to the ass-end of switches; lights, four ways, heater, but the wires running up and out of sight into the steering column and the ignition remained a mystery. Now what?
Chapter 59
The front door of the Halloween House was more than a hundred years old. It was crafted from thick oak planks, and swung on heavy brass hinges. The Victorian lock set was made of ornate but brittle cast iron, and it shattered when three hundred pounds of Bumpsy hit it with a twenty-first century boot.
Fueled by a desperate need to inflict destruction on something, anything, after suffering embarrassment at the hands of a man half his size, he felt a blessed release of endorphins and followed Chick and Howie into the entry hall. Now, where the hell was that stinkin’ Major at?
He was at the hall table, opening the drawer, replacing the 1911A1, its barrel still warm from dealing with Sergeant Cortez.
Chick skidded to a stop at the sight of the big gun in his face, and Howie ran into his back, and slipped on the hardwood floor, and they both went down.
Bumpsy took one in the chest.
The ear-ringing report of the .45 echoed off the hard plaster walls and ceiling, and the air was filled with the acrid bite of spent gunpowder. Baer stared down at the three men on the floor. Why the hell had they smashed in his front door? Events, evidently, had overtaken him. Time for some damage control.
“Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you. It’s time to go split up the money.”
Two got up. Bumpsy stared at the ceiling. Howie stared at Bumpsy. “Hear that, dude? Money time!”
JD put his hand on Howie’s shoulder. “I think Bumpsy is dead, Howie. Look at his eyes. Just like that broke neck guy.”
Frikko. It was nothing like when Baer shot Tomczak in the face; pieces of the man’s brains, blood, everywhere. Bumpsy just had a little black hole in his big black shirt. He turned to Baer, bewildered. “Why’d you shoot Bumpsy?”
“Hey, it was self defense. It’s dark in here, the front door crashes open. How was I to know it was you? What is this, a local custom? You don’t knock at a friend’s door?”
Chick wasn’t convinced that it was an accident, was dang sure Baer didn’t consider them equals, let alone friends, but he was not about to argue with a man holding a gun. Not when he’d already seen Baer kill two other men as quick as smackin’ a mosquito buzzin’ your ear. He was about ready to tell the man that fifty was plenty enough for him, you take the rest, be my guest, just get out of Shaleville and leave me get back to life the way it used to be.
Baer thumbed the safety on, and offered the gun, butt first, to Chick. “Go on. Take it. Believe me, partner. I had no reason to shoot him.”
Chapter 60
Pen parked Bob's truck in her spot beside the garage. The first day, her landlord had spelled out his two rules. No overnight guests, and don’t block the doors. She left his gear in the back; wasn’t about to lug that heavy bag up the stairs, not in this outfit. Just walking in these hooker heels was an adventure.
She unlocked the door, tossed his wallet and keys and her cell phone on the table and put the kettle on to boil. The cheongsam went back in the tiny closet. The brief fantasy had been fun.
The first time she’d worn it was less than a week ago, when she and Davy had gone to a dinner theater. They sure had turned heads; due as much to Davy in his dress uniform, with all the ribbons and awards, as her oriental getup.
A warrior, protecting his fellow citizens. Several of whom had stopped at their table; for a handshake, a pat on the back, or sharing a quick word about their own son or daughter, also serving. And now he was dead. For what? For some stupid truck full of money.
She returned to her jeans and sweatshirt, and massaged her bare feet. The inventor of fuck-me pumps should be shot. She laid her rosary on the table and stared at the antique beads and silver chain. Somehow the idea of indulging in a litany of Hail Mary’s offered no help to the situation. The Lord helps those that help themselves. Trite, but true.
The kettle sang, and she began the secular ritual of brewing tea, as she waited for Bob. For Justice.
Chapter 61
Chick accepted the pistol, looked at it, lowered the muzzle to the floor. It was heavier than his dad’s gun. “What am I supposed to do with this?” He sure as hell couldn’t shoot it, not with his finger the size of a kielbasa.
“Get rid of it. The way you two are going to get rid of Blimpsy. I know he was your pal, but he’s gone now, and you can’t afford to be connected to this accident. Not when you boys are about to come into a lot of money.
“Load h
im in your truck, drop him and the gun in the river. Like I told you to do, with the other man. If you had listened to me the first time, none of this would have happened.” He turned to Howie. “Right, Sport? You see that, don’t you?”
Howie didn’t know what the heck he saw. Except that Bumpsy was dead. An OK guy to work with, but not no friend, like Chick. He guessed what Mr. Baer said made sense. As much as anything did, lately. “And then what?”
“Then you boys meet me at the garage. I’m heading there, right now. We’ll divide up the money.” He poked Bumpsy’s boot with his foot. “You two can split his share; it’s only fair.” From his many years in the accounting business he knew there was one overwhelming human trait that trumped all others. Greed.
With Baer’s help they hoisted Bumpsy into the back of truck; same place he’d been sittin’, not five minutes ago. Except now he smelled of blood, as well as piss. Chick rolled him over, so he wouldn’t have to look at a dead man’s face. He’d had enough of that in the past week to last him five lifetimes. Aw, Jeezums! That little bullet goin’ in the front had come out the back, leavin’ a hole you could put your fist in. Now it was not just the word BITCH that was red.
He carefully laid the pistol next to Bumpsy. He didn’t want nothin’ to do with anything that could make a hole that big.
“Frikko.” Howie said, “I’m gonna need to wash my rig again.” They headed for the river, arguing about the best place to put Bumpsy in.
Baer hurried back in the house, pulled up his trouser cuff, and secured the Taurus and its holster around his right ankle with the velcro straps. In the kitchen he uncorked the Glenlivet, and took two long swallows right from the bottle. Then he called the cops.
Clark picked up on the first ring. “Shaleville Emergency.” She rolled tape, checked the board. Unit Two was Code 7, at Paolo’s Pizza.
“I need to report a crime. A shooting.”
“Your name, sir?”
“Baer. Curtis Baer. Chief Schmidt knows who I am.”
So do I, she thought, and hit ONE for the Chief.
Who was behind his desk, doodling, mostly dollar signs, on a yellow pad, and drinking stale coffee. Waiting for Danny to report in. After Danny deactivated the Claymore, after they retrieved whatever money was still inside, he would drive the ancient tank truck up Mount Hagel, and roll it down one of the dozens of abandoned shafts. With luck, the Claymore would explode, bring down a hundred tons of rock, covering everything, forever. And Mr. Baer could go piss up a rope.
The phone rang. That would be Danny. He pushed back from his desk, stood. Time to go get rich. He picked up. “Hey, Danny.”
“It’s Clark, sir. I have a 911 call. A Curtis Baer. I thought you’d want to get in on it. I’ll put him on the speaker.”
“—damn fools came out to my place, drunk. About ten minutes ago. There was a fight, the fat one and the other two. They got hold of a gun of mine, the fat one got himself shot. They said I was next, unless I kept my mouth shut, and took off, with the body in their truck.”
Chapter 62
Alice headed upstairs to see what Chick was all pissy about. If anybody was around, like that nice man who talked funny, they probably could see smoke comin’ out of her ears. That’s how angry she was, what he said. Wasn’t but a few days ago she had changed his sheets, ran the sweeper, retted up his bathroom, just like always.
She liked her job, and was good at it, whether it was cookin’, cleanin’, or dealin’ with the customers in a pleasant and friendly manner. Not once in six years had Pudge ever spoke harsh to her for something she done or didn’t. So mister high and mighty ought to get offn’ his hobby horse and see how things looked from down here. Lettin’ him have the Presidential Suite was a mistake; led him to think he was better than he was. Humph!
She opened the door with her passkey and stared. “Lord have mercy!” Looked like the three of them had been having a tussle in here. Was why that hairy motorcycle man was holding a bloody washcloth on his face. Wasn’t more than an hour ago she was tellin’ that other man how dangerous them things was!
Plaster chunks on the floor. They’d got the bed turned over on its side, mattress falling off.
She didn’t know if she could muscle the frame back upright, it bein’ an antiquity and all, but she’d have a go. If Pudge saw this, she was liable to throw him out. Maybe not such a bad idea. Still, she’d give it a try. More’n once she’d been told she was stronger than she looked.
She grabbed one of the fancy brass acorns on the foot of the bed and lifted. It came off in her hand, and a bunch of paper flopped out.
A stack of money, a paper band around it, printed with a one and a string of zeros. She got down on her knees, and fished inside. There was three more. Hundred dollar bills. Holy Mary! Must be from back when they had had all kinds of kings and millionaires staying here,because the picture on the bills was an old timey guy.
Most probably gamblers and crooks, hiding their ill-got gains. She bet it had been in there for a hundred years. As long as she was in the position already, she said a prayer, and crossed herself, then got back on her feet.
Alice shoved two packs in her left pants pocket and two in the right. Went back down the hall to her room. Her husband would be tickled pink, he got home next week. And she could quit jerkin’ off jerkoffs.
Chapter 63
Justice found the hood release, climbed up on the front bumper, and explored the engine compartment with his mini-mag. There’s the battery, where that fool should have connected the Claymore, and there’s the ground wire, and there’s the hot one, and there’s the voltage regulator, and there’s a red and a green and a blue and a brown and a white wire going through the firewall. Now what?
Davy cuffed his ear, said, ‘it’s a Ford truck, Justice, like the one you just bought. Think, you dumb hillbilly.’
Yep-per. Steering wheel lock. Won’t do no good to start her up. He closed the hood, returned to the office. Business like this, stands to reason, with employees like he had just met, the boss would have another set of keys somewhere.
OK, Kemosabe, help me out here; two heads are better than one. Let’s think this situation through. Nothing in the desk. Filing cabinet. F for Ford. Nope. T for truck. Nope.
But, in the back, second drawer, behind XYZ, was a bunch of books. Pumps, power washers, hazmat filter masks, three separate ones for bug killer, and a Ford 5500.
Taped to the cover, a set of keys. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, and the sky above it. “Thanks for the kick in the butt, partner.”
Justice started the truck, hit the switch for the roll-up door, and was on the street a minute later. No way he could close the door from outside. What the hell, didn’t make no difference, now. We got the prize, can leave all the tracks we want.
He left the garage, turned the corner, drove several blocks, then pulled to the curb. Time to execute Phase Two. Recon the terrain. Determine enemy strength. Set up a communications net. Establish your command center.
Hell; he was the command center, commo was his cell phone in his shirt pocket, and the enemy was Mister-Major Baer, strength and location presently unknown.
Chick’s cell would help there- damn! He’d put the boy’s phone in his go-bag, along with the kid's gun. Davy wouldn’t have made that mistake.
Well, no great harm done; he’d stash this truck at Pen’s and pick up his own wheels, his go-bag. And the dang phone.
Take the high ground. Hoo-ah.
Chapter 64
The rotting stench of the dead cat assailed his nostrils as Baer left the mausoleum. Ten minutes had passed since he called 911. In a town as small as Shaleville even their pathetic police force should be able to find a bright red truck. One with a body in the back.
Lifting the boy’s fingerprints from the gun, then transcribing their confusing stories, would consume more than enough time for him to load the bundles of currency into the Navigator, and put miles between his money and Shaleville. He fished in his trouser poc
ket and dropped Tomczak’s keys on the leather seat beside the bottle of scotch.
His previous minor lapse in judgment would be more than canceled by his recent bold action. He smiled and turned onto Fourth Street. There had been a jumble of empty boxes in the burning RoachMobile garage. Ten, twenty, somewhere in that neighborhood. Maybe more; hard to tell in the heat of the moment, in the choking smoke. Ten boxes was forty million dollars. Twenty was eighty. Nice neighborhood!
The smile sagged into open-mouthed disbelief as he stared into the black hole that was the garage entrance. The roll-up door was rolled up. He cranked the wheel to the left, enough to let the headlights sweep the interior. A bright yellow fiberglass stepladder stood where the truck had been.
“Son of a bitch!” He smashed his fist against the leather-clad steering wheel, and felt no relief when the plastic cracked, and the metal beneath yielded to his fury. Blood pounded in his ears. He smelled the sour stink of rage.
He sucked in a breath and forced himself to relax.
Think-think-think.
He drove another ten feet, stopped halfway into the garage. Leaving the engine running, the lights on, he hurried inside.
No Claymore. No digital lock. No shrink wrap. No puddles of toxic goop on the concrete. He rushed into the office, turned on the light. Under the buzz of the flickering tubes, he saw the Ford 5500 owner’s manual on the desk. And the air conditioner on the floor, the empty hole above.
Obviously, Schmidt still had keys to his father’s shop. But not, just as obviously, keys to Tomczak’s truck. Those were still lying on the Navigator’s passenger seat.
The buffoons? Possibly; extra sets of keys were a given in this sort of business. Why then, break in through the office window? For that matter, why break through his front door!