Niceville

by Carsten Stroud

  “It’s all fixed, Mr. Deitz. I ran a full diagnostic. It was the motherboard for the SensoMatic module—”

  “Great, Bock, great,” said Deitz, waving him off. “I owe you anything?”

  “No sir,” said Bock, smiling at him. “All on warranty. We’re sorry for the inconvenience to you and your family.”

  “Okay, well, thanks.”

  Bock turned to go, but Deitz called him back

  “Oh, wait, one thing,” he said, as Bock’s knees turned to rubber. “This is for you,” he said, holding out a fifty.

  Bock hesitated.

  “Ah, sir, we’re not allowed to accept—”

  “Fuck that. You been here fucking two hours. Buy yourself some breakfast, kid. Okay.”

  Bock came forward, folded the bill into his hand, stuffed it into the pocket of his smock.

  “So, it’s all good now?” said Deitz.

  “Oh yes,” said Bock. “It’s all good now.”

  They watched Bock walk down the drive, get into his van, drive slowly away.

  Deitz leaned forward.

  “No, look, Phil, this is how we play this. You go get the thing from the Chinks, take it back to Slipstream right away, no point holding it any longer than we have to—”

  “It’s early. They don’t have to give it back until noon.”

  “Okay, so go sit in the lobby until noon. Have a lime rickey and a Waldorf salad. Just get it in your hands and put it back where it belongs.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Stop looking so freaked, Phil. I heard you. I’m not gonna do anything nutso. I’m just going to go out to Charlie’s place, like a buddy, dropping in, like, and I’m going to ask him a few hard fucking questions and get some fucking answers.”

  “What about Coker? Those two are tight, and Coker’s even crazier than Danziger.”

  “I can handle Coker. I get what I need out of Danziger, I got Coker by the balls. I work this right, we get my money back, maybe I might even let those two keep some of what they took from Gracie. Thing is, I roll Charlie Danziger, we own both their asses, now and forever. We win and everybody else loses. That’s how I like it. Now go. I gotta get some gear together.”

  Phil stood up, looking nervous.

  “Deitz, I think you should sit on this until I get back. We should talk about it some more.”

  “Fuck talk,” said Deitz. “You work for me, Phil. Go earn your pay.”

  Holliman flipped his glasses on, nodded his head, and walked away towards his truck. Deitz watched him go, thinking, Jigs, they’re all the same.

  He was in his Hummer and halfway to Danziger’s ranch north of the city when his OnStar phone rang.

  It was Andy Chu.

  “Chu, what is it? I’m busy here.”

  “This won’t take a minute, boss.”

  “If it’s about that fucking e-mail snitch, Andy, then you’re a day late and a dollar short.”

  “It’s not that, sir.”

  “Then what the fuck is it?”

  “Perhaps you’d like to pull over first?”

  “What the fuck for?”

  “Mario La Motta. Desi Muñoz. Julie Spahn. Arthur Desoto.”

  Shit.

  Shit shit shit.

  “Look, Andy … those names? Can I ask where—”

  “Pull over now.”

  “But …”

  “Mr. Deitz, with respect, if you wish to complete your business with Mr. Dak and not go to a federal prison for the remainder of your life, you would be well advised to comply with my request.”

  Deitz shut up and pulled over.

  He was still listening to Andy Chu explain exactly how a new day had just dawned and how Byron Deitz now had a new silent partner when he got a call on his cell.

  He looked at the call display: PHIL HOLLIMAN.

  “Look, ah, Andy, can I put you on hold for a minute? Okay? Would that be okay?”

  “Certainly. Please do. I will wait.”

  Deitz flicked his cell open.

  “Yeah, Phil, what’s the—”

  “They’re gone, Deitz.”

  “Gone? Who’s gone?”

  “Zachary Dak and his whole crew. They checked out thirty minutes ago. They’re in the wind.”

  “Jesus. What about the item?”

  “I’m standing in their room. There’s nothing here. Nothing. They’re taking the item with them. They were always going to take it with them.”

  “Jesus H. Christ on a Fucking Crutch.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll give Him a call then, if you think He’ll help.”

  “No, wait—the Lear. It’s at Mauldar Field. That’s a half hour from the Marriott. Call the field boss, tell him not to give that Lear clearance to take off until I get there—”

  “I’m a just security guard, Deitz—”

  “Tell him whatever. Make sure that fucking plane never gets spooled up. Go. Now.”

  Deitz flipped the cell phone shut.

  His head was so full of that walnut-cracking sound that he thought it was coming from the entire fucking universe, that the whole universe was made up of this walnut-cracking sound, like from the Big Bang. He got back to Andy Chu.

  “Andy, I got to go—”

  “We have much to discuss.”

  “I know, look, and I hear you, I really do, it’s just that I’ve got this emergency, it affects the company—”

  “I think of it as our company now, yes?”

  “Yeah, of course, Andy, you and me, a whole new thing, I’m totally okay with all that, you know, business is business, right? We can talk about the details later, but right now I really—”

  “I understand fully. Please have a very nice day. And remember to drive carefully.”

  “Good. Yeah. Okay. I promise. Gotta go.”

  He hit the OFF button and was already wheeling the Hummer around, almost putting it on two wheels. He punched the pedal flat, gritting his teeth all the while, thinking about the best route to take to get to Mauldar Field—straight down 366 and then hang a left on Pewter and cut across on Shiloh—he had the engine howling and was now doing a flat one-forty going southbound on Arrow Creek Road and he could see traffic flying by at the intersection of Arrow Creek and 366—he looked at his watch—he could not believe the day he was having—fucking wily Asiatics.

  He was fumbling for his cell phone to make a call to Mauldar Field himself—make sure that God-damned Lear never gets wheels up—he took the curve onto 366 at eighty and almost rolled it, recovered, punched it again as he got zeroed onto the straightaway, pushed it to one forty-five, had the cell, punched in the numbers, and got Mauldar Field Tower—

  “Yeah, Mauldar, let me have your controller.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Byron Deitz, I’m the head of Securicom. Have you got a Chinese Lear spooling up?”

  “It’s fourth in line to go. Why?”

  “You gotta stop it, okay? Gotta stop it.”

  “Who are you again, sir?”

  Deitz tried not to lose it.

  “I’m the head of Securicom for Quantum Park—”

  “Are you a law enforcement official?”

  “No, listen, wait, yes, I’m FBI. You—”

  A siren.

  He could hear sirens.

  He looked in his rearview mirror.

  There was a State Police car right on his ass, his lights flashing, his rack strobing like a fucking clown car.

  Oh fuck.

  “May I have your ID number, sir?”

  “My ID num— Look, you fucking asshole—”

  The State car was pulling alongside, the window coming down—

  “Sir, without an ID number I can’t stop a—”

  “Yes, you fucking can, you dumb cock—”

  The line went dead.

  Deitz looked to his left and he was looking at a young black female cop who was looking back at him and making a pull-the-fuck-over sign.

  Deitz powered his window down
.

  “Look, I’m FBI, okay—”

  The wind was whipping his words away.

  She shook her head at him, made an emphatic gesture for him to pull over.

  Now the driver was on his bullhorn.

  Pull to the right and stop.

  Pull to the right and stop now.

  Deitz thought about pulling away. He also thought about shooting them both dead and then pulling away. He could not believe the day he was—

  Bam.

  He jumped in his seat, the wheel going bats under his hand, looked to his left and the young lady cop was holding a Remington 12-gauge out the window and she was aiming it at his left front wheel again, steadying it on the window frame.

  The truck was already wobbling and he had to fight to keep it from rolling—it was weaving crazily from side to side, lurching like a moose on a log—he jammed on the brakes, the nose took a dive, and he managed to get it settled enough to roll it onto the right shoulder.

  He shut the engine off and looked up at two highly pissed-off State cops leaning on the far side of the cruiser hood and he was also looking down the muzzles of a Remington 12-gauge and a Glock 17.

  He popped the door, thinking how was he going to chill these cops, maybe even get them to stop the Lear—no, he’d have to tell them why and then he’d be—

  “Stay in your vehicle,” the lady cop was shouting. “Stick both hands out the side window. Do it now.”

  Deitz did as he was told.

  “You shot my fucking car!”

  “Just stay where you are.”

  The male cop moved out to the left to get a line of fire that allowed the lady cop to come up to the driver’s-side window without getting in his way. She still had the shotgun in her hand, but the muzzle was pointed down.

  She stood there at his window for a second, breathing hard, her eyes wide and angry. Deitz had his license out and he handed it to her.

  “You shot my car, officer!”

  “No idea what you’re talking about. You had a blowout while speeding … Mr. Ditz.”

  “Deetz, officer. It’s pronounced Deetz.”

  She looked down at his license, shoved it into her uniform pocket.

  “Insurance and registration, Mr. Ditz.”

  “Deetz. Not Ditz. Look, officer, I’m sorry about—”

  “Insurance and registration. Now.”

  Deitz leaned over to open the storage panel beside him. As he did this, he felt the shotgun muzzle come up again. She was one totally wired cop, that was for sure. He moved very slowly, riffled through the compartment, came up with the vehicle ownership and the insurance binder.

  She was watching his hands as he did so and when he gave her the papers he saw her eyes slip past and focus on something in the cup holder. Her expression got even harder.

  He looked where she was looking.

  Saw the pill bottle.

  Thad Llewellyn’s Happy Caps.

  “You taking medication, Mr. Ditz?”

  Deitz looked at the bottle, and then back at her.

  “No. Ah, those belong to a friend—”

  “May I see the bottle, please?”

  Illegal search, he was thinking. This is just a speeding bust. Gives her no rights to search the fucking truck. I don’t have to show her dick all.

  “Ah, look, officer …” He looked at her name tag. “Officer Martinez. I’m the head of Securicom—I’m ex-FBI—I’m real sorry about all this and I’m sincerely apologizing for the speeding. I’m in the middle of an emergency here and I sorta lost it back there, but how about you just write me up and let me—”

  “The bottle, Mr. Ditz.”

  “Look, lady, I’m a cop too, in case you fucking missed it, and the fact is, I don’t have to show you any fucking thing other than my license and—”

  “Plain sight, Mr. Ditz. That bottle is in plain sight. During a traffic stop, I have the right to examine any object in plain sight. Are you refusing to show me that bottle?”

  Deitz sighed, picked the bottle up, and handed it to her through the window. She turned the bottle in her left hand, reading the label.

  “This prescription medication is not in your name, Mr. Ditz. It’s in the name of a T. Llewellyn.”

  “Yeah. I know. He’s my banker. I guess he left it in the car the other …”

  His voice trailed off as she unscrewed the cap and looked inside the bottle.

  She looked up at him again.

  “Do you know what these are, Mr. Ditz?”

  His belly took a slow roll and his neck muscles tightened. He was afflicted with a terrible doubt. This must have showed on his face.

  “I believe they’re Ativans, Officer Martinez.”

  “I believe they’re ecstasy, Mr. Ditz. An illegal substance. Please get out of the vehicle.”

  Deitz blew up.

  “Look, for fuck’s sake, you goddam bitch—”

  This was not helpful.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting in the back of the cruiser, scraped and bruised and pepper-sprayed, his hands cuffed behind his back. Two more State cars and one deputy car had arrived and he was watching them all jerking around playing grab-ass while Officer Martinez, who was obviously a major whack job, went through his truck from grill to taillights, who the fuck knew why—probably, if he knew cops at all, looking for something else, anything else, to nail him for, along with speeding and failure to stop and possession of a controlled substance.

  He wasn’t all that worried about the ecstasy beef. Even a third-year law clerk could lay that off on Thad the Banker without breaking a sweat.

  What he was worried about, sitting there watching Officer Martinez tear his truck apart, was that fucking Learjet, now wheels-up and heading for the wild blue yonder at six hundred miles an hour, taking the Raytheon GPS back to China. Something massive would have to be done about that. Exactly what would take some thought.

  In the meantime, he watched her go at it, riffling through the rear storage compartments, intensity in every line of her compact body.

  Fucking Dickless Tracies.

  They were all the—

  Something in her body language shifted.

  He heard her call out to the other cops.

  She turned and came striding back to the rear window of the cruiser, full of grim purpose, and she slammed something up against the glass, grinning down at him like a shark. In her hand was a fat stack of mint hundred-dollar bills. He could see the First Third Bank logo on the wrapper.

  The other cops were all gathering around and talking real fast and getting on their radios and only then did Byron Deitz begin to suspect how totally and completely fucked he really was.

  Bock’s Sunday Was Memorable

  Bock parked his truck in the tiny little space Mrs. Kinnear had assigned to him, got out, and his mind elsewhere, slammed the door loud enough to wake up Mrs. Kinnear’s shi-tzu. Bock could hear his frenzied barking through the thin wooden boards of the house, and then the harsh croaking squawk of Mrs. Kinnear’s voice, trying to shut the little ratso up. Good luck with that, Bock thought, climbing the stairs to his flat over the garage, turning over the events of the last two days, thinking about how much he could wangle out of Andy Chu for his services.

  Dearie me, he thought, a guy can get a lot of living done in thirty-six hours, wondering idly, as he turned his key, if he had any Stellas left in the cooler. He opened the door, stepped inside—home again home again hippity-hop—and felt something cold and steely pressed up against the back of his head. A young woman was sitting on the black leather couch, drinking one of his Stellas and smiling at him, not a nice smile at all. A deep growling voice very close to his ear, heavy with the scent of cigarettes, said:

  “Tony Bock, meet Twyla Littlebasket.”

  Twyla lifted the Stella, gave him a tight smile. A strong hand on his shoulder turned him around and he was looking at the Clint Eastwood cop he had seen on his television yesterday afternoon, the silver-haired sniper from the hostage-takin
g incident at Saint Innocent. Bock’s legs became unreliable and he started to go down, but Coker had him in an iron grip. He perp-walked him over to the couch, shoved him down beside Twyla, and sat down in Bock’s matching black leather chair, a large blue-steel revolver in his right hand.

  He made a ceremony of lighting up a cigarette, exhaled with quiet satisfaction, blowing the smoke in Bock’s direction. Bock swallowed, tried to say something, choked on it, his lips working but nothing coming out other than a few strangled chirps, as if he had swallowed a budgie.

  Coker raised a hand, palm out, smiled.

  “Kindly shut the fuck up, son. You know why we’re here. We all know why we’re here. Twyla, anything you want to say before we begin?”

  “Jesus,” said Bock, in a squeak, feeling his bones go soft and his cheeks sag. His head felt like a helium balloon and the room turned to white light. He sagged to the right, flopped over onto the arm of the couch, his lids fluttering. Bock had left the building. Twyla watched him for a moment, reached out and pressed a finger into the side of his neck, took it back and wiped it off on her jeans. She looked over at Coker.

  “Fainted.”

  Coker twirled the heavy revolver, grinned through the smoke at Twyla.

  “Tough guy.”

  “Are you going to kill him?”

  Coker twirled the gun again.

  He liked doing that.

  “I don’t know. Do you want me to kill him?”

  Twyla considered the flabby pile of guts in front of her. After a while, she shook her head.

  “No. He’s just too … pathetic.”

  “What do you want to do with him? You want to geld him, gonna be messy. We’ll have to find tin shears, a drop cloth, maybe some duct tape.”

  Coker was only half kidding.

  She thought about it.

  “We could bring him to court?”

  “Court? Which court?”

  “Your court. Coker’s Court of No Appeal.”

  “Why? What use is he? Donny Falcone’s a rich dentist. This guy’s just a skanky little pervert.”

  Twyla looked at Bock’s fish-belly skin and his pouchy face, listened to his labored breathing, and then she took in his room packed with computers, his communications gear, his wide-screen monitors, his ham radio, his CB set, his printers and scanners and all the piled-up storage disks.