THE THOUSAND DOLLAR CONTRACT: Colt Ryder Is Back In His Most Explosive Adventure Yet!

by J. T. Brannan

  His friends moved in to help, but as Kane leapt to his feet next to me, I froze them all with a stare that dared them to make a move. ‘Don’t even fucking think about it,’ I whispered to them and – as they looked from me to the fallen body of their friend, to the huge dog that stood next to me, teeth bared, then back to me – they realized that discretion was the better part of valor and backed off, clearing a path for me and Sophie to walk through.

  She kissed me on the cheek as we passed them, and I smiled as we left Ron in the dirt, surrounded by his terrified buddies.

  It was true what they said, I thought with satisfaction as Kane trotted along next to us.

  To the victor, go the spoils.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  I threw the ball, a nice baseball pitch right across the huge grass expanse of Medal of Honor Park in South Boston, and watched as Kane sprinted after it, catching it in his huge jaws on the third bounce.

  Dogs probably weren’t allowed off the leash here, but what the hell – I actually had a Medal of Honor, so if I couldn’t have a bit of leeway here, then where could I?

  The park housed the first ever Vietnam War memorial built in the United States; it beat the one in DC by a year, and still has an annual rededication ceremony in the fall.

  There were other people in the park, but not many; the air was cool and damp, and it was threatening to rain. Those that were there gave me and Kane a wide berth, which was hardly unusual; we tended to have that effect on people.

  I’d paid my respects at the memorial, which I do whenever I come across one; whether they’re for World War II, Vietnam, Korea, Afghanistan or Iraq doesn’t matter, I pay tribute to my fallen brothers at them all.

  Sophie lived just a few blocks west, a small studio apartment on East 3rd Street where I’d spent the past couple of days. Turned out she’d only been on a few dates with Ron, and had already started to realize what a prick he was; the contest at the range had only confirmed it, and she’d been more than happy to move on to pastures new. He’d tried calling her a few times, but she’d ignored the calls and eventually they’d stopped.

  I liked South Boston, felt at home here; it wasn’t a million miles away in attitude and atmosphere from the neighborhood I’d grown up in, over in Denver. I was born in Wyoming – where I’d had the vast plains as my playground in my youngest days – but was forced to move to Denver when I was six, after both my parents were killed in a car accident. It had been different from what I’d been used to, but I’d grown to like it over the years. There was gang violence, a lot of pressure to get involved, but my grandparents – who’d taken me in – kept me on the straight and narrow, and I’d managed to keep my nose clean. But despite the trouble, there was a strong sense of community there that I liked, and I could feel that here too, with the area’s Irish immigrant roots. I’d heard that – despite high-value redevelopment along the waterfront – there were still plenty of gang problems here too. But so far I hadn’t seen any, and everyone seemed friendly enough.

  Kane had brought me the ball back, and I threw it for him again, just as a light drizzle began to fall. I didn’t mind; it would only make the park quieter.

  I tracked left as Kane followed the ball, heading for a bench which was nestled under a couple of big trees, their branches providing some shelter from the rain. I sat down, taking note of the paper which had been left there. It was the Boston Globe, and as Kane ran around the park wagging his tail, I turned to the classifieds. I’d been in Boston for a couple of days and hadn’t seen any signs for me, but I hadn’t checked the papers yet.

  Maybe there would be something for me there?

  It wasn’t that I needed the money – I already had more than I’d ever need, mostly ‘confiscated’ from the criminals that I often came across in my work. No, it was the thrill I needed, the desire to have a job, a mission. Without that, I had nothing.

  First page, there was nothing for me.

  Second page, there was something.

  It was so small that I almost missed it, but it was there.

  Help required, TDM, cash paid.

  No name, but a contact telephone number, probably a throwaway pre-paid cellular.

  The rain was starting to come down in earnest now, and I was getting soaked even under the cover of the trees, newspaper turning to pulp in my hands.

  I looked up, and saw Kane sitting in front of me, waiting expectantly, even as if he knew.

  I smiled and nodded, ruffling him under the chin.

  ‘Yeah, buddy,’ I said. ‘We’ve got another one.’

  Four hours later, I was sat in a small café at the bottom of M Street, a few blocks south of the park. A realtor would probably have claimed a sea view, but it wasn’t true; the water was close, but could only be seen if you left the café and walked on down the street a little further.

  I’d gone back to Sophie’s apartment and told her I might be busy for a while, and she’d let me leave my stuff there; no real hardship for her, as my ‘stuff’ consisted merely of a hundred-liter military backpack. I didn’t own anything else.

  I’d also used a local payphone to call the number in the advert, been told to meet at the café. I asked some details, then used my time to check them out, calling some old friends in the military to verify the identity of the caller.

  The guy’s name was Gerry Cahoon, fifty-eight years old, joint owner with his wife Mary of the Thistle Café on M Street. No criminal record of any note, just a single speeding offense a few years back and a handful of parking fines.

  I’d scoped out the café for a while, and finally decided that it looked genuine enough; sometimes I got messages from whackos, or people looking for revenge for things that might have happened on previous jobs, and I had to be careful.

  I’d been in the café for a while now – with Kane standing guard on the sidewalk outside – but still hadn’t been approached by anyone. There was a young man behind the counter and a girl – perhaps younger yet – taking orders. Two of the owners’ kids? My contact mentioned that the Cahoons had five children – they were a good Irish Catholic family, it seemed – but he didn’t provide ages or locations.

  I finished up my third coffee and asked the girl for the bill. A minute later she returned with it and I let it lie on the table as I took another look around the café. It was about half full, just a dozen people; mostly what looked like locals, perhaps a couple of tourists thrown in, no doubt lured to South Boston after seeing it in Hollywood movies. They could go home and tell their friends that they’d seen the ‘real’ Boston, where the ‘real’ people lived and ‘real’ life happened. And maybe they’d be right.

  I finally turned over the bill to take a look.

  To my surprise, there were no figures, just words –

  Go toward the restroom, then out the rear door. I’ll be waiting – G.

  Without a word, I rose from my chair, left a twenty-dollar bill on the table and followed the instructions I’d been given.

  The door for the corridor that led to the restroom was just to the right of the counter, and the young man ignored me as I passed him. A moment later I was in the hall, passing the restroom and heading for the other door, at the end of the corridor. Presumably it led outside, though there were no windows to confirm it.

  I paused, listening for signs of what I might find beyond – it was still a possibility that I was being led into a trap. I pulled the collapsible metal baton from the cargo pocket of my pants, sliding it out of sight up my right sleeve; and then I withdrew the Spyderco folding knife from another pocket, hiding it in the palm of my left hand.

  It wasn’t like the arsenal I’d carried in the Rangers, but it would do; if anyone was out there that was unfriendly, they’d have a crushed skull or a slit throat within a quarter second of me seeing them.

  Unless they were stood a significant distance away and had a gun, in which case I might be fucked.

  Still, who wants to live forever?

 
I pushed open the door and crept through into the bright daylight beyond, muscles relaxed yet ready to burst into action at the first opportunity.

  In the end, there was no need.

  I was in a courtyard garden, small yet neat, an iron table painted a dull green in the middle, four chairs around it. A man, in his late fifties, was sat in one of them.

  He raised a cup of coffee to me and smiled. ‘Hi,’ he said, standing to greet me. ‘I’m Gerry.’ He put the cup down and extended a hand across the table. I approached him, slipping the baton back into my pocket as I did so in order to accept the handshake.

  I kept hold of the knife in the other though – the man might still have a weapon of his own, and only be wanting to shake hands so that he could pull me onto a blade concealed in the other. If it was good enough for me, it was good enough for somebody else.

  But in the end he just shook it and invited me to sit.

  I did as he asked, looking around the courtyard as I did so, checking out entrances and exits, vantage points and ambush sites.

  There was one other door – a fire exit from another building, it looked like – on the other side of the courtyard, and one blacked-out window to the right.

  There were clear windows further up, on the second and third floors, which could have had shooters behind them, but my overall assessment was that Gerry was a straight guy. My danger antenna wasn’t completely quiet, but it was subdued enough to do business.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Gerry said in a broad, Boston-Irish accent. ‘My wife and I live above the café, this is our little garden.’ He pronounced it gahden. ‘It was the most private place I could think of to meet you. Although I wasn’t sure you’d ever come, if you’d ever see the advert. What were the chances, eh?’ He chuckled. ‘Hell, I didn’t even know if you really existed at all.’

  I shrugged. ‘Well, I’m here,’ I said. I sat, accepted the coffee which he poured for me. ‘How can I help?’

  Gerry sighed, spread his hands across the iron table. ‘Where do I start?’ he asked. ‘Well, I guess the beginning is as good a place as any, right?’

  I just drank my coffee and let him tell his story, the Spyderco still in my left hand, resting under the table. He seemed alright, but chances were something I didn’t like taking.

  ‘My family have lived here for generations – not just Boston, not just South Boston, but this neighborhood, right here. The Cahoons, it’s in our blood this place, you know?’

  I just drank my coffee and waited for him to cut to the chase.

  ‘So you’re wondering what the problem is, right?’ he offered finally, and I shrugged in reply. It was always better to let people tell their stories in their own time. ‘Well, I’ll tell you what the problem is,’ he continued. ‘It’s the fact we’re being chased out of here, that’s what.’

  I nodded my head; I’d heard the Irish mob was a problem here, they were probably busting his balls for protection payments. But such gang influence was a danger that went with the territory for any small business in a big city; some were just worse than others.

  He shook his head sadly. ‘It’s the Russians,’ he said, his tone vehement, and for a moment I thought he was going to spit on his own floor. ‘The fucking Russians.’ With that, he looked around furtively, as if the walls had ears.

  ‘Not the Irish mob?’ I asked in surprise.

  Gerry shook his head vigorously. ‘If only it were,’ he said. ‘No, the Boston boys I could live with. But they’ve long gone from here, along with the Italians. Oh sure, there are still the odd bad boys, hoodlums, you know the type, a few youngsters running in gangs, but nothing like it used to be. FBI and State have seen to that – not to mention that damned ‘gentrification’ that’s supposed to make everything better but just leaches a community of what makes it special. And nature hates a vacuum, doesn’t it? So who’s been willing to step in and take over?’ This time he did spit, right onto the courtyard floor. ‘The damned fucking Russians.’

  ‘So what do they want?’

  Gerry laughed. ‘What don’t they want?’ he asked. ‘Money, money and more fucking money, okay? You’ve seen the place, right? The café? You’ve just been in there. How much do you think we make?’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘We make next to nothing – after wages, utilities, taxes, you name it, we make shit. And the Russians? They ask for more every month. You know how much they want now?’

  I shrugged again.

  ‘A grand a week. A grand a fucking week! That’s nearly more than we take in, never mind profit! And you know what they tell me when I can’t pay?’ He pointed a finger, put on a mock-Russian accent. ‘You are American capitalist. Work harder. Make more money. Live American dream. Well, fuck them!’

  I nodded my head, beginning to get a handle on the problem. ‘How much do you owe them?’

  Gerry breathed out slowly, fully. ‘A hundred and fifty-eight big ones,’ he said finally. ‘And guess what? I don’t have that kind of money. All I got is this place.’

  ‘How much is it worth?’ I asked, knowing it had to be a lot more than a hundred and fifty-eight grand.

  ‘That’s not the point,’ he said. ‘Because I ain’t moving. Didn’t you hear me earlier? This place is in my blood.’

  ‘Sounds like it might be your blood in this place, soon enough,’ I told him, and he nodded sadly in response. ‘They’ve made threats?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, they’ve made threats. Beaten me up a few times, my boy too.’ He gestured back through the door, and I realized I’d been right about the kid behind the counter. ‘But what am I gonna do? Hell, even if I wanted to sell the place, who’d buy it with those fucking Russkies hanging around here?’

  ‘You could tell them you want to sell the place to settle the debt, maybe they’d back off for a while, let the sale go through? You could pay them off, move somewhere else, live off the profits for a while.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me earlier? I said I ain’t moving. My parents would turn in their grave, my grandparents would come back to haunt the shit out of me.’

  ‘Have the Russians made an offer?’ I asked him.

  ‘You’re quick,’ Gerry said, nodding his head. ‘Yeah, they made me an offer. Sign the place over to them and they’ll forget about what I owe them.’

  It was a classic ploy for the mob, Russian or otherwise. Raise the protection payments to an unrealistic level – or come up with some other way for the owner to rack up debts – then offer to buy the debtor’s property in order to write off what was owed. Not only did they get real estate at knock-down prices – signed over quite legally – but the money wasn’t even theirs to begin with.

  The only question was, why was the Russian mafia wanting to buy the Thistle Café? I assumed it might be something to do with its location, a good central base for dealing out of, use the café as cover.

  ‘You been to the police?’ I asked, but Gerry only laughed.

  ‘Yeah, the police, right,’ he said scornfully, then shook his head. ‘Poor bastard from L Street tried that, ran a grocery store that was being taxed out of business by the bastards. Police didn’t do shit about it, and some kids found the body strung up between the streetlights a day later, his own severed dick in his mouth. These Russians, they don’t fuck around.’

  ‘They own the grocery now?’ I asked.

  ‘Yeah, they took it over.’

  ‘Has that been happening a lot?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Businesses, homes, anything else, have the Russians been trying to buy up the properties around here?’

  Gerry nodded. ‘Yeah, I guess you could see it that way,’ he said.

  I wondered why that might be.

  ‘So,’ I said after a moment’s reflection. ‘What do you want from me?’

  Gerry let out a long breath, took a sip of his cold coffee. ‘They’ve upped the threats,’ he said. ‘I’m not bothered about me, but now they’re talking about my daughter.’ Again, he gestured
through to the café. ‘My daughter.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  Gerry swallowed, as if he didn’t want to say the words. ‘That they’ll take her,’ he said eventually, ‘let their boys take turns raping her, then put her to work in one of their whorehouses.’

  There were tears in his eyes now and my guts churned; I could only imagine how he felt.

  ‘But you don’t want to sell,’ I said. ‘Despite everything.’

  He wiped his eyes and shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he said. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Then why don’t you send her away?’

  He smiled then, through the tears. ‘She won’t go,’ he said. ‘Just like her old man, I guess. Stubborn.’

  Or stupid. Sometimes the two were indistinguishable.

  ‘You’re after protection then?’ I asked. ‘For the girl?’

  Gerry nodded. ‘Yeah. For the girl, for me, my wife, my son, for the building.’

  ‘You have any other kids?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Yeah, three others but they moved out years ago. Two in New York, one all the way over in San Francisco.’

  ‘They safe there?’ I asked, knowing the Russians had connections all over America.

  ‘As safe as they can be,’ Gerry said uneasily.

  ‘And how long do you need this protection for?’ I asked. ‘It’s a thousand dollars a job, but I don’t do long-term contracts.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gerry said, and I could sense his confusion. ‘I guess . . . I don’t know. I guess I just want you to make them go away. To give me back my life.’ He looked down at the table, at his coffee cup, swirled the small remaining amount of liquid around and around. ‘I read things about you, heard things about you, and I guess I thought, you know, maybe you’d know what to do. I didn’t know what else to do. Where else to go. I need help, and nobody can help me.’ He looked up across the table, into my eyes. ‘Can you?’