One Good Turn (A James Bishop short story)

by Jason Dean

  Amanda fell to the ground again. Quickly, she rolled onto her back and saw a human shape above her. She could smell the sickly sweet scent of marijuana. Without thinking, she flipped the top off the lipstick, jammed the end hard against the man’s hand and pressed the second button down.

  There was a sharp z-z-z-t sound and a brief sliver of light. The mugger cried out and fell onto his back. He’d be out for a minute, at least. But she also knew that if he was up here already, the others would be close by.

  Amanda got to her feet again. It was now or never. She pressed the keychain alarm and threw it far into the shrubbery to her left. As its shrill, piercing sound echoed through the park, she began running in the same direction as before.

  She’d covered twenty yards when another shape thumped into her, knocking her off balance. In an instant, an arm snaked around her neck and dragged her upright.

  She smelled hot pizza breath on her cheek and felt a hardness at her back. Which told her these weren’t just muggers.

  Closing her eyes, Amanda Philmore focused all her thoughts on her children sleeping less than a mile away. As her attacker plucked the stun gun from her grip, she wondered if she’d ever get the chance to see them again.

  TWO

  Approximately three hundred and fifty miles away, in western Pennsylvania, James Bishop was standing in an old warehouse that had long ago fallen into disrepair. Whole sections of the walls were missing, as well as parts of the roof. The only illumination came from the dipped headlights of an SUV parked at the open entrance a hundred yards away.

  There were three other men in the vicinity. Two wore dark off-the-rack suits similar to Bishop’s. The first was Seth Willard, a frail-looking blond man with a wispy beard. The second was Hector Doubleday, a stocky Latino with short spiky hair and a three-day growth of stubble He was standing behind the rusted husk of a sedan that had been left there to rot years before.

  The third man was called Darryl Foland. He had longish brown hair and wore a dirty black leather jacket and faded green combats. He was kneeling in front of Bishop with his arms wrapped around his head, scared out of his mind. As well he should be.

  ‘Okay, you, on your feet,’ Bishop said, motioning with the Micro-Uzi in his hand. The faint smell of gunsmoke still hung in the air.

  Foland pulled his arms away and stood up shakily, his eyes watching the gun. Bishop noticed there was a damp patch in his pants that hadn’t been there before. Good.

  ‘This is a one-time only deal,’ Bishop said, ‘so listen very carefully. Forget Ellen Meredith exists. Forget that bank exists. You are never to come within a thousand miles of here, understand? Because if anything happens to disrupt her day-to-day life and affect the long-term case we’re building against that bank, we will track you down and deal with you. That’s a guarantee. Also, if she ever comes to us with the slightest suspicion you’ve shown a renewed interest in her, same thing applies.’

  Foland swallowed and said, ‘Swear to God, you’ll never see me in this part of the—’

  ‘Shut up,’ Bishop said. ‘I’m not finished. I need you to understand that we won’t be coming to kill you. That if anything happens to that woman, anything at all, even if it looks like an accident, we’ll find you and plant enough shit on you to put you away for a lifetime.’

  Willard was nodding his head. ‘And as treasury agents we got access to evidence rooms all over the country, so we can get hold of the sickest paedo shit imaginable, believe me. And you know what they do to kiddie-fiddlers in the pen.’

  ‘You’ll be singing soprano the rest of your life,’ Doubleday said. ‘If you’re lucky.’

  Foland’s Adam’s apple moved up and down like a golf ball as he swallowed again. ‘I hear you. Loud and clear. I’m gone, I swear.’

  ‘Then get lost.’ Bishop waved the Uzi. ‘Before I come to my senses.’

  Foland looked at each of them in turn, clearly not quite believing it. Then he turned and simply ran full pelt for the open entrance. They all watched him go. Once he was finally out of sight, Bishop turned to Willard and said, ‘Paedo shit? Was that in the script?’

  Willard grinned. ‘The idea just came to me. Worked, didn’t it?’

  Bishop smiled. It had worked, all right. A few minutes earlier, Bishop had been about to ‘shoot’ Foland in the head when Willard had gripped his wrist and jerked the barrel away. Bishop’s finger had contracted on the trigger and Doubleday had immediately dived out of the way as the sound of a dozen rounds suddenly ricocheting off the vehicle carcass echoed throughout the warehouse. It had all looked and sounded perfect, just as Bishop had hoped.

  Handing the prop Uzi back to Doubleday, Bishop said, ‘Real nice work. Those squibs on the car looked so good you almost had me believing it. Great sound effects, too.’

  ‘That’s why the studios pay me the big bucks,’ Doubleday said as he ejected the magazine and inspected the remaining blanks. ‘So we can wrap this up now?’

  ‘Yeah, we’re done.’

  Which meant they could all go back to their normal lives until the next job, which would be mainly down to Bishop. And he might not even use the same people. That was what he liked about contracting for Equal Aid. The almost complete freedom with which he was allowed to pick and choose. But then, he’d insisted on that right from the start, or forget it.

  He liked his clients too, which made a change from his old career. But that wasn’t too surprising. After all, Equal Aid was a non-profit organization for domestic abuse victims. Most could escape their predicaments with financial aid alone. But some needed more than just a cash injection, and that’s where Bishop came in.

  Ellen Meredith, for example, had managed to put a long history of drug abuse and petty thefts behind her to start a new life for herself in Pennsylvania. She’d even gotten herself a job in a bank. But her old boyfriend, Foland, had recently been released from prison and tracked her down, threatening to open up her past if she didn’t siphon off some cash for him. Knowing he wouldn’t ever stop pushing and that he would only get more demanding and more violent, Ellen had approached Equal Aid and asked for help.

  Enter Bishop, who decided to pose as a maverick treasury agent ‘investigating’ Ellen’s bank for drug money laundering, with Ellen as his inside source. The rest was just a matter of details, preparation, and personnel. Doubleday was a movie special effects whizz Bishop had used before. Willard was a newbie Giordano recommended. The three of them rehearsed everything over and over until they had it all down. Then earlier tonight they’d raided Foland’s apartment, knocked him out and brought him here.

  Bishop was pleased with his two choices. They’d acted their parts well. To be honest, if it had been up to Bishop he would have used a real gun to threaten Foland with, and real bullets. After eight years in the Marine Corps and another six in the close protection business, he was used to being around live ammunition, but he was aware most people weren’t. But Doubleday had definitely come up trumps this time. Bishop’s instincts told him Foland wouldn’t be back after tonight’s performance. And his instincts were rarely wrong.

  Rubbing his hands together to counter the chill, Bishop walked over to the SUV and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He unmuted it and was greeted with a message telling him he had voice-mail. He dialled the number and punched in his personal code.

  The phone message started. ‘Bishop, this is Gerry,’ the familiar voice said. There was a pause. ‘I thought I should . . . Look, we’re at the hospital. It’s about Amy . . .’

  As he listened to the rest of the message, Bishop’s heartbeat quickened. He was staring at the car, but didn’t see it. All he saw was his sister’s face. Amy. The only direct family he had left since the deaths of their parents over twenty-five years before. The main constant in his life. If he was honest, the only one.

  As soon as the short message ended, Bishop, still staring straight ahead, pressed the off button and carefully placed the cell back in his pocket. In the space of a minute, everything in
his life had been reduced down to one simple objective.

  He had to get back to New York immediately.