Stuff to Die For

by Don Bruns

  There’s safety in numbers. However, no one followed me, and with the moon behind the clouds and the dim light as my only guide, I felt very much alone. If the guy in the warehouse was Vic, I wanted to know. I can’t explain what drove me to make that walk. It wasn’t a macho thing. It was a chance to make up for something that had haunted me for eleven years. And at the very least there was a father who thought his son might be dead. I was possibly in a position to prove that theory wrong.

  The walk took forever. Finally, I stood between the buildings, staring at the door from which James had seen someone walk between the two structures. I turned the knob, knowing full well that it was a futile gesture. It most certainly was locked. Instead, the door handle rotated a half turn and the door opened on well-oiled hinges. So much for futile gestures.

  It was time to put up or shut up. I eased it open and stuck my head around the door jamb, peering inside. The bright interior lights had been switched off and just a dim glow from some mounted wall fixtures covered the room. Thank God no one was in sight. Wooden crates lined the far wall and another forklift was parked in the center of the cavernous space. The floor was smooth gray cement, and I could make out a small glass-windowed office to my right at the far end. What the hell was I doing?

  Here I was, playing the Lone Ranger and boldly taking on my mission with no support from the troops. I couldn’t just abandon the task and admit failure. I should have. But I didn’t. I pushed farther and walked in, casting furtive glances in all directions. Everyone seemed to have vanished. To my immediate right stood five metal cylinders about four feet around and five feet tall. They looked like they contained some sort of gas, with escape valves and a faucet handle to turn them on or shut them off.

  The room echoed with silence, and I stood still for a good minute, afraid that any motion would immediately alert the Cubans to my presence. Assuring myself that blue jeans and a black T-shirt would help me blend into the surroundings, I stepped behind the first cylinder, staying close to the wall and keeping track of how close I was to the door. For the first time, I glanced toward the ceiling, noticing a balcony that hung out over the back of the room. The protrusion extended maybe four feet into space and was surrounded by a railing. There was no one on the upper level, thank God.

  It was eerily quiet, and when I heard the first voice it startled me. I jerked like I’d been shocked with electricity. To make matters worse, I didn’t understand a word. Whoever was speaking was speaking in Spanish, and having taken two years of German in high school, I didn’t have a clue what was being said.

  Obviously they weren’t speaking to me. I couldn’t see anyone, but the voice was to my right. A second speaker answered and a conversation ensued. Instinctively I flattened myself against the wall.

  I looked up again as someone turned on a bank of fluores-cent lights, and at the far end of the balcony two men appeared, one smoking a cigar. They leaned against the railing and the older of the two was flicking ashes to the cement floor below. If they had looked toward the door, they would have seen me in an instant. A third man walked out of the office at the end of the room and motioned up to the two men. They disappeared and a moment later came walking out of the office. I assumed there were stairs in the back that I couldn’t see.

  Silently I cursed James, the truck, and whatever had gotten us into this confusing mess. The three conversationalists were lost in their dialogue and I was the last person who wanted to disturb them. They started walking toward my end of the building and I felt my heart jump. Crouching, I made every attempt to become one with the metal cylinder.

  They stopped at the first set of wooden crates, almost directly across from me, and I recognized our Cuban friend as he pointed to the closest box. The man with the cigar picked up a crow bar from the floor and pried the top from the crate, puffing on his stogie the entire time. He tossed the lid onto the floor and reached inside. I realized I was holding my breath.

  He pulled out a long metal object, partially hidden by their three bodies. I had a good idea of what it was before he turned and held it to the light, admiring its sleek lines and form. I knew nothing about firearms, but this appeared to be some sort of a high-tech rifle, not the kind you’d go hunting with in the woods. I let out my breath. Boxes and boxes of rifles. Enough for a small army.

  They turned to the boxes, their backs to me.

  It was time to get the hell out of Dodge. Practically dragging my feet, I measured my distance to the door. I slid silently, afraid that actual footsteps would resonate throughout the hollow building. I could sense rather than see the door, and I was sure that with two more steps I would be within reaching distance. It was at that moment my phone blared “Born in the USA” at full volume.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  I GRABBED FOR IT, yanking it out of my pocket as I reached the door. I was tempted to throw it on the ground and run, but I took one extra second just to see who the hell was calling me at the most critical time in my life. I couldn’t explain then, and I can’t explain now, why I would have checked the caller’s number, but I did. And as I twisted the door handle, pulled it open, and ran, I could hear the angry shouts from inside. I fully expected to be tackled from behind or have someone firing bullets at my back, but what surprised me more than anything was the gunshot from in front of me. One shot, a cracking sound like someone with a whip, then two more shots and I hit the pavement, just as the floodlight went dark.

  Glass shattered and rained down around me onto the parking lot surface, and looking ahead I could see headlights flashing a rapid off and on pattern. I stumbled to my feet and ran again, my legs pumping like pistons, my chest heaving, gasping for air. How far was the damned Jeep. The passenger door was wide open and I leaped in as Angel tromped on the gas. We shot out of the parking lot and hit the road doing at least forty.

  “I put a little extra in the engine.” Angel smiled in the dim light.

  My breathing was ragged and I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. Feeling like I might throw up, I leaned out the window, looking behind us. There was no sign of anyone following.

  I gulped humid night air into my oxygen-starved chest and said nothing.

  “Great shooting, Angel.” James reached out and patted the driver on the shoulder. “Hey, amigo, Angel shot out the floodlight. Trying to give you a little cover while you made your escape.”

  I wanted to thank him, but all I could do was inhale.

  “So what the hell did you see? And who saw you?”

  I waved James off. If I talked in the next minute I knew I’d go into a coughing fit.

  We were all quiet for that minute; the only sound was me trying to suck up all the air in the car. God, I was out of shape. This was the wake-up call. It was time to exercise, eat right, and lay off the beer.

  Angel hit the main road back to the highway and I stared straight ahead as he blew through the first stop sign, and the second, and then a red light that I didn’t remember from before. I glanced at the sideview mirror about eighty times and never saw the first sign of another vehicle. We finally got to the entrance ramp to I-95 and I could breathe a little slower. Maybe I’d just cut back a little on the beer and just exercise occasionally. No reason to make a radical change.

  “Guns.”

  “What?” James didn’t understand.

  “That’s what was in the boxes. Guns. Rifles. Sleek-looking rifles. If I knew anything about rifles, I’d say they looked like they were automatic with long clips. But I don’t have a clue. All I know is, there are boxes and boxes of the black things and they had one out when I ran. I don’t know why they didn’t shoot me.” “They weren’t loaded.” Angel, with the complete package, probably knew a whole lot more than I ever will about guns. “Some of those boxes probably contained ammunition.”

  “I’m telling you, Angel, they could start their own army with all those weapons.”

  James leaned forward. “They probably have.”

  I glanced over at the speedometer and sa
w Angel was doing about eighty miles an hour. Given the hour, he probably figured the cops had better places to be.

  “Okay, pardner, what happened while you were in there?”

  I took a deep breath, feeling weak and somewhat disoriented. “How long was I in there?”

  “Five minutes. Damn, it seemed like an hour, but Angel timed you.”

  I told them about the cylinders, the boxes of guns, the balcony, and the three men.

  “So it was the second Cuban?” Angel asked.

  “No doubt. But I didn’t recognize the other two men and I didn’t see Vic. Maybe we were wrong.”

  “Maybe.” James was cautious. “If it was Vic, my guess is they took him away in the Lexus.”

  “Well, I didn’t see him. The three guys opened one of the crates and pulled out this black rifle and my phone went off.”

  “What?”

  “My phone. I swear it’s going on vibrate tonight and I will never program another song for a ringtone. Bruce Springsteen almost cost me my life.”

  “It went off while you were in there?”

  “Are you listening? It went off. Loud.”

  “And what did they do?”

  I shook my head. “Jesus, James. I didn’t stick around to find out. You saw the result. I think I ran the hundred in ten flat.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I looked. Habit. Look down and see who’s calling. All the time I’m thinking, ‘This is going to slow me down. They’re going to catch me because I’m checking the number on my cell phone.’”

  “Em. Had to be.”

  I thought of her for a moment. I was convinced that the kid almost lost a father tonight, and the thought made me sad. I at least wanted to meet the baby when he came into the world. All the work his father had done so far was pure pleasure and I needed some of the angst, pain, and agony to make it a real experience. I should probably quit putting myself in such dangerous situations.

  “No. It wasn’t Em. It was Rick Fuentes.”

  “Fuentes almost got you killed?”

  “Caller ID said Rick Fuentes.” I pulled the phone from my pocket, punched in my code and listened.

  “You have one unheard message. First message.”

  “Eugene Moore? This is Rick Fuentes. I hadn’t heard anything, and I’m hoping you took the mail to the designated spot. Once again, I’m sorry you are involved and it will be much better for everyone concerned if you now just walk away.”

  “Fuentes wants to know if we dropped off the mail, and he wants us to wash our hands of the entire affair. What else is new?”

  James piped up from the backseat. “I think that suits me just fine. We can bill him for the overtime and finish with this whole mess.”

  I looked back over my shoulder. “You got us into this, James. And now we stumble on Vic or someone who looks like him. I want to know if he’s still alive. And, we’ve just staked out the headquarters of this organization and we—I was found out. That doesn’t let us just ‘finish with this whole mess.’”

  Angel kept both hands clamped to the wheel. “You’re right. You are now a prime target, and you have to finish what you set out to do.”

  “Christ, I’ve lost sight of what we set out to do.”

  “Find your school friend. You were hired to find out where he is. This Vic.”

  Headlights filled the side mirror as a lone vehicle rapidly approached. Angel hit the gas, approaching a hundred miles per hour and the vehicle kept coming, gaining by the second.

  I watched our speedometer hit one hundred and five. What was it Angel said? “I put a little extra in the engine.” One ten and climbing.

  The car behind us spurted around Angel’s Jeep like we were standing still and continued down the highway, it’s taillights winking in the dark black night.

  I caught my breath for the third or fourth time that night. If someone didn’t shoot me, beat me to death, or kill me in some other way, I knew I’d die from a heart attack or nervous exhaustion.

  “I think tonight you should stay with me.” Angel was calm and straightforward. “They don’t know where I live.”

  “Neither do we.” James put his hands on the back of my seat. “Friend, I thank you, but I think we’ve gotten you in enough trouble. Besides, I’ve got a job. And I assume that Skip needs to get to work tomorrow too. I don’t think we’re going to hear from these people again.”

  “Where do you live?” I was intrigued.

  “If you’re not going to visit tonight, you have no need for that information.” Angel kept his eyes on the road and his foot on the gas. I couldn’t wait to get home and hit the pillow.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  “YOU HAVE AN INCOMING MESSAGE. You have an incoming message. You have an incoming message.”

  I blindly reached for the phone, interested more in shutting off the obnoxious alarm-clock voice than in hearing from a caller at the ungodly hour of five in the morning. The phone read “unknown caller.”

  “It’s five o’clock in the morning. This had better be good.”

  “Skip Moore?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Skip, this is Jackie Fuentes.”

  The lady who started this whole mess. Well, actually Em started it by suggesting we help clean out Jackie’s house. No, James started it because he bought the cursed truck, but Jackie was high on my list of people to blame.

  I didn’t say anything. It was her call.

  “Skip?”

  “Mrs. Fuentes, I’m very tired. I had a rough night last night—” I wanted to say something about the mail and looking for her kidnapped stepson but I didn’t.

  “I know.”

  “You what?”

  “We need to talk. You, Emily, and your friend.”

  “James?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, Mrs. Fuentes, if you want any of that stuff back, we don’t have it.”

  “When can we talk? This morning?”

  Apparently people with money have no concept of working for a living.

  “I’ve got to be at work in three hours, Mrs. Fuentes. That leaves another two hours of sleep, if I can get back to sleep, and one hour to get ready.”

  “Skip, this is very important.”

  Now she was pissing me off. “So is my income.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “What time do you get off work?”

  “I’ll be home by six.”

  “And James?”

  “Usually works from ten to seven.”

  “Can you please meet me at my house tonight? Around eight?”

  I looked at my watch. Fifteen hours. I had trouble figuring out the next three hours.

  “Sure.”

  “I’ll have Emily here and we can discuss this situation. Thank you.”

  I lay on the bed, my hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling. There was no way in hell I was going back to sleep. And if I couldn’t sleep, the son of a bitch that got me into this mess shouldn’t be blissfully sleeping. I got up and walked into his room.

  “James.”

  He rolled over and looked at me through squinting eyes.

  “One of your girlfriends just called.”

  “Called you?”

  “Yeah. Apparently you’re unlisted.”

  “Who?”

  “Some girl named Jackie Fuentes.”

  His eyes widened, and he sat up. “What the hell did she want?”

  “To apologize for not going to dinner with a stud like you. She wants to make up for it by seeing you tonight at eight.”

  He got this shit-eating smile on his face. “No kidding?”

  “Well, she would like Emily and me to be there too. It seems there’s some sort of a situation she’d like to discuss.”

  His face fell. “Wouldn’t you like to go back to that first day, Skip? And just turn down the Fuentes job?”

  “Come on, James. Think Penske, U-Haul, Ryder.”

  “Fuck you.” He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. />
  I walked out into the tiny kitchen and thought about coffee. Instead, I pulled out a beer. Budweiser, breakfast of champions. I could feel tightness in my thighs and calves and remembered running for my life last night. I also remembered swearing off beer.

  I sat on the back porch, sipping my beer, and watching the first pink fingers of color stretch over the sky. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.

  The old man behind us stepped out the back door, looked at me suspiciously, and nodded. He picked up the blanket on the empty playpen and replaced it with a new one, then walked back inside.

  I took a long swallow and leaned back, watching the sky turn colors. I closed my eyes and opened them forty-five minutes later.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  I MADE A SALE. Not only did they sign on the bottom line, but the young couple put down two hundred bucks. I was surprised anyone in Carol City had two hundred dollars in cash. And this was cash.

  I called the order in and Sammy actually put the phone down on his desk and applauded so I could hear him. I was embarrassed for him.

  “Skipper,” he was bubbling over, “I knew you could do it. See? And these aren’t the only people out there. You watch. Your sales are going to start soaring.”

  I made two more calls and decided to blow off the rest of the afternoon. I’d tried Em’s number but got her voicemail three times. Then she called me.

  “Skip, you called.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Sick. I’m seeing a doctor tomorrow.”

  “Good.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Jackie called this morning.”

  “Yeah. Does she always get up at five in the morning?”

  “She sounded frantic. I have the impression someone called her and she was shook up.”

  “Em, are you going to her place tonight?”