by Tom Secret
“Oh, no way!” His smile broadened making the scabs in his cheek sting as he picked up the case.
“You need to get bleach on those bloodied paving slabs; wash them down and salt them to destroy the DNA and do the pavement outside.”
“I’m on it. Take this.” He handed Marcus the briefcase. “Do me a favor, and check on Lola, please? She was pretty shaken up.”
* * * *
Five minutes later, Brad found Marcus standing in front of the kitchen table, with the briefcase lying open in the middle. In his hand, Marcus was leafing through papers in a file folder.
Lola, slumped on the chair to Marcus’s right, was studying something in her lap, obscured by the edge of the table.
“What have you got there, Babe?”
Lola looked up, her face pale. She held up the black-handled kitchen knife.
“Why are you holding a knife?”
“It was in the case.”
“But… that’s one of ours. You were just sharpening them a few days ago.” Brad glanced at his father, who was shaking his head.
“You have the same one. So do I, and so do a good few million other people, but that one was in the briefcase.”
Brad searched their faces. “I don’t understand. What the heck were they doing, coming to our house with a big-ass carving knife?”
“I think we’re missing something,” Marcus said.
Lola looked up. “Sure, like a gun. I told you this was personal, Brad.”
“Can we not do this now, darling?”
“What would have happened if I’d been on my own, Brad? What would have happened to the children?”
“Look, they came to collect on a tax demand. I’m sure we’re reading too much into the knife. Anyway, I don’t think they’ll be coming back in a hurry.”
“But what if they do? You didn’t think the builder would make good on his threats, either.”
“One of them bloodied the path with his head, Lola, so no doubt he’s in the hospital as we speak, I’m expecting to hear police sirens any minute,” Marcus said. “In fact, I think you and the kids should come stay at my house for a few days.”
Brad looked back at the knife. “You need to go tonight.”
Lola glared at him. “I don’t need to go, anywhere. What I need, is a gun.” She slammed the knife on the table and stormed upstairs.
Brad could feel Marcus studying him.
“I know you don’t like guns, Son, but she has a point.”
Brad raised his eyebrows. “Did Mom have a point when she used one of yours to blow her brains out?” The anguished look on his father’s face made him wish he could take the words back.
“There’s an awful lot you don’t know, so let’s leave it like that.” Marcus looked down and continued leafing through the file “They have your whole life in here.”
Brad knew from past failed attempts it was no use pushing the subject of his mother’s death, but at least guns were off the table. “So they were IRS?”
“It doesn’t say that.”
“Then who? If they’re con artists, we have nothing worth taking, and why would anyone have the slightest interest in…” he took a sheet from the stack, “… our loyalty points at the cash-and-carry, for crying out loud?”
“What about your old investors? That Michaels swore he’d get revenge.”
“And took it! They put us on the street, and we lost Daisy because of it, remember? Why are you shaking your head?”
“Because Lola is right, somebody out there wants to hurt you; are you sure you didn’t recognize either of those two?”
Brad closed his eyes to recall their faces. “No, I’ve never seen them before.”
“Who else might want to pull a stunt like this?”
Brad picked up the file and turned the pages. “No idea, but it was Henryk that kicked the ladder out from under me.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ll wait. I’m good at waiting.”
Marcus looked out at the garden. “That’s what worries me.”
Brad got to the end of the papers, closed the file and tossed it back on the table. “This isn’t a hairy-ass builder or a disgruntled investor dad. It’s in a different league altogether.”
“Money and contacts are all you need to create a file like this, Son. Those investors had both, so if it wasn’t them, how do you explain today?”
“I can’t. But I’m sure this has nothing to do with them.”
“So are you going to call the police?”
“And tell them what? That two whack jobs claiming to be IRS tried to shake me down?”
“There will be prints on the case and files.”
“I’m not calling the cops,” Brad said, rubbing his chest. “There hasn’t been a crime, except maybe my assault on them. Say, couldn’t you call one of your old special-ops buddies? If they can get a print, we might find out who we’re up against.”
Marcus’s clicked his platinum watch strap open, closed, open and closed, as he considered the question. “I could ask Stan Witner. He might give us a name, and we can get the rest off the Net. Tell me more about that IRS woman, will you?”
Brad slapped his forehead. “Oh, shit!”
“What is it?”
“The bank—I booked an appointment to ask for an extension on our loans.” He reached out and turned Marcus’s hand so he could see the watch face. “Shit! I’ve got less than an hour.”
“Shouldn’t you reschedule?”
“They’re about to foreclose, Dad! If I don’t go, they’ll yank the property! It’s probably too late already, but I have to try. Will you stay with Lola?”
“How long will you be?”
“Long as it takes, why?”
“I have to be somewhere.”
“Can’t you cancel?”
Marcus looked away. “I would, but… I’ll only need forty-five minutes, maybe an hour.”
“Well, get Lola to pack, so she leaves when you do, okay? I don’t want her here alone. I’ve got to run.”
28. TO WAR OR NOT TO WAR
Monday, 2:27 p.m.
Donatello looked over from his bar stool as a familiar set of red and yellow motorcycle leathers appeared on the street outside the door of Ronnie’s bar. He waved for Lance to enter.
“Hey, Big D! Love the new office.” Lance grinned as he approached the bar, with his nose red and eyes bloodshot.
“How on earth do you ride that thing in this weather? You must be freezing.”
“No sense, no feeling.” Lance plonked his helmet on the bar. “Could I get a café latte, please, Ronnie?”
“Did you tell Colby you were meeting me?” Donatello said.
“Do I look bat-shit crazy?”
“Just checking. What’s the latest?”
“For starters, Colby wants you dead and buried, and Carlson’s been brownnosing all morning.”
“Tell me something new.”
“No, seriously! He’s pushing for dismissal. Been going around saying you’ve been a liability ever since Jonah died, that the death of your wife and now your mother has clouded your judgment. Compromised cases, blah, blah.” Lance took the cup as Ronnie slid it toward him. “Thanks a million.”
“Ha! ‘Compromised cases’—what a riot. I’m already suspended. Isn’t that enough?”
Lance shook his head. “He wants the full Monty. Adios, Diablo. He was in there yelling at the inspector when I left.”
“What did Wilkes have to say?”
“Dunno, Colby was the one everybody heard.” Lance took another sip. “Why does he always bring up your old partner? He’s got nothing to do with this, has he?”
“Colby can’t let sleeping dogs lie.”
“Yeah, okay, but why? Ever ask yourself?”
“Who knows, Lance. Skeletons, maybe. Just let it go.”
“Come on, Big D, he’s had daggers out for you as long as I’ve been there. If he wants a war, you got to give him one.”
Donatello s
hook his head but kept quiet. This was not a bag of worms he wanted exhumed, but he could feel Lance’s eyes on him as he gulped his cold coffee and grimaced. He looked up and noticed Ronnie watching them intently.
Lance leaned in and whispered, “The douche has it coming, Big D.”
Donatello put his cup on its saucer and pushed it to Ronnie’s side of the bar. “Lance, I don’t give a damn about Colby. I just want him to leave me alone so I can do my job.”
“He’s never going to let you do that, though, ’specially now. Carlson’s been eyeing your desk for years, so even if, by some miracle, you get through this, it’s only a matter of time before he comes at you again.”
Donatello eyed Lance warily. “You wouldn’t have an angle on this, would you?”
“How’s that?”
“Well, let’s see. For starters, I know you’ve been seeing Colby’s wife.”
“No way! Not me!”
“Lance?”
The leather-clad shoulders sagged. “Aw, man! How’d you find out? I’ve been so careful!”
“So you are still tapping her, then?”
Lance tried to suppress a smile, but the sparkle in his eyes gave it away. “She’s so sweet, I dunno what she ever saw in that dildo. He’s, like, twenty years older than her! Could be her grandfather. It’s disgusting!”
“Okay, Lance, settle down. Your secret’s safe with me. Now, show me what you got on Stark and Cilcifus.”
“First, tell me what you’re gonna do about Colby.”
“This isn’t a trade, Lance. But if Colby wants a war, then I’ll make sure you doinking his wife is the least of his worries.”
29. BLOODY ANTWAN
Monday, 4:53 p.m.
“Boss, how much longer are we going to sit here freezing our butts off? I need to get to a hospital!”
“Until we’re certain they haven’t called the cops.” Randall glanced at the dashboard clock. “It’s almost five. Why has Fairweather gone and left that old faggot there?”
“Protection, maybe?”
“No, he won’t be expecting us back today.”
“But my briefcase. Won’t he think we’ll come for it?”
Randall shook his head. “Fairweather wouldn’t have left if he thought we’d be back, but that doesn’t make you any less of an idiot for leaving it.”
“You dropped it, remember?”
“That’s the concussion talking. I handed it to you right before Fairweather assaulted us. Have you got another knife, at least?”
Antwan scowled, “In the trunk.”
“Good. If the old geezer hasn’t left in five minutes, we’ll carve our way in.”
“We should be packing guns, not stupid kitchen knives.”
“Really, Antwan?”
“If we had guns, we wouldn’t have got our asses served to us. We’d have done the deed, grabbed the kids, and been home in time for dinner. What we’re doing is stupid. Taking a knife to a gunfight is stupid, and turning into a freaking Popsicle waiting for the wife and kids to be alone after what happened earlier, is beyond stupid.”
“Antwan, that is the most popular kitchen knife in the country. Half the households have an identical one. It’s silent, and there’s no ballistics. The only thing it leaves is a dead maggot and a million suspects. And if we’re stopped…”
“I know, it’s just for cooking! Tell it to my cracked skull.” Antwan touched his blood-caked hair and winced.
“You’ve never been hunting, have you, Antwan?”
“Depends. Do taxpayers count?”
Randall smiled faintly. “Patience is key.”
“I’ve been bleeding waiting all afternoon, thanks to your hunt and your stupid auction—which you’ve spent all our money on, thank you very much! I’m dizzy, I’m going to puke, and I need to get to the hospital now!”
Randall studied Antwan. The caked clumps of hair were standing proud above his temple. The dark streak of congealed blood trailed down from the scalp and along the edge of his cheek before diverting around his protruding upper lip and down his chin, and it gave off a metallic odor. Antwan may look like frozen shit, but Randall was giddy with excitement. He loved the hunt, the smell of another’s blood. And most of all, he loved the kill. “Mention my auction again, Antwan, and you’ll need a hearse, not a hospital. Now, it’s five past five. At six o’clock, we need to hand over the little brats, which gives us ten minutes to get inside, ten minutes to grab and bag, twenty minutes to get to the warehouse, and fifteen minutes to play—”
“Look, the old one’s leaving!”
Randall followed Antwan’s gaze. “I told you, it’s all in the waiting.”
Antwan’s jaw hung open. “What kind of idiot would leave the wife and kids alone after today?”
“The kind that’s about to get what’s coming to them. Grab my bag from the trunk and bring the knife. We’re going in through the back.”
They slipped from the car into the darkened street and skulked along the opposite side of the road, dipping their heads as they passed each streetlamp. The lights were on throughout the Fairweather house, but the curtains were open so they could see the head of the boy upstairs. He was talking to someone out of sight, then the mother appeared, pointing and issuing instructions.
First Randall then Antwan, hopped over the back fence as the mother appeared in a different room and pulled a large red suitcase down from the top of a closet. Keeping low, they darted across the lawn to the back door.
Antwan unzipped a leather wallet and withdrew two small picks, inserted them into the lock, and began twisting and turning. He swiped at his face with his sleeve. “I can’t see a thing with this shit in my eyes.”
“You don’t need your eyes to pick a lock, so hurry up.”
“What if someone sees us? I’m covered in blood, and we stick out like lepers on a nudist beach.”
“Antwan.”
“What?”
“It’s eight past five, and as good as dark. If we miss the buyers because of your whining, you’ll have blood in more places than your eyes.”
Antwan stopped working the lock and looked up. “Why do you hate kids so much, boss?”
“Not now, Antwan.”
“We’ve done God knows how many shipments, and you’ve never told me why you do it. Everyone thinks it’s ’cause you have father issues.”
“And what do you tell them?”
“That you’re an evil, twisted son of a bitch who loves the money and believes he’s a karmic instrument put on earth to destroy people’s lives.”
Randall smiled. “Good. Now, stop picking at me and pick the damn lock.”
“I’m trying, but my fingers are freezing, and I can’t get it to hook.”
“Antwan, who’s ‘everyone’?”
“Oh, just the other guys. Snyderman, Walton, Michaels—everybody.”
“I knew Snyderman had been chitchatting, the lying toad!”
“Not to anyone outside the group though, just sometimes when we’re waiting for a shipment or the buyers, you come up in conversation, that’s all. So why do you hate them, boss, you were a kid once?”
Randall stood in the semidarkness, watching Antwan’s hands work the lock. Antwan had moved past the question and prattled on, but his voice grew distant as Randall’s thoughts went back in time.
It was the day after his sixth birthday, and he was standing at the window of his brother Daniel’s bedroom. It was sunny and warm outside, and he wanted to go riding on his birthday present, a shiny electric-blue bike, but his mom was making him babysit his brother. She was outside hanging clothes on the line, her red dress and flowery apron ruffling in the breeze as she pinned the socks.
Father was in his dirty gray overalls, lying on his mechanic’s dolly beside his old Buick and talking to Mother. He loved that car more than anything and far more than he loved Randall, but at least they still called him by his name back then, before everything changed.
Smeared with oil, Father was holding
up a stupid piece of engine junk for Mother to see. It was such a perfect day, and all Randall wanted was to go riding, but he was stuck with stupid Daniel. He looked down at his little brother, sucking away on his pacifier, while the mobile of Disney characters rotated above his crib. Donald, Daisy, Micky, and Goofy all took their turn. Daniel hiccupped, dropping the pacifier from his mouth. He hiccupped again, and again; then, with his little face scrunched up, and eyes tight shut, he started to bawl. Daniel’s tiny arms and legs kicked the air, as his face turned red, and the toothless, spittle-flecked mouth started to wail. So much noise from such a small thing, and mother would blame Randall for sure. Look after Daniel, she’d said. But now he was howling, screaming, hiccupping, and shitting, all at once, and if Randall didn’t shut him up, Father would come upstairs, and Randall would get the strap. He had to keep Daniel quiet so he could go on his bike. But how to shut a screaming baby up? It wasn’t his fault. Who leaves a six-year-old to look after a baby, anyway? How could he know what the pillow would do? All he wanted was to play on his bike, but when he took the pillow from Daniel’s face, he knew there’d be no more bike and no more Randall. From then on, Mother called him the “bogeyman” for stealing her precious baby.
“Boss! Boss! Where d’you go?”
Randall shook the memory away, but the wretchedness remained, gnawing at his insides. He checked his watch. “It’s five thirteen. If you’re not inside within sixty seconds, we’re breaking the glass.”
“Sorry, but this lock must be pre-war. It’s impossible to get… the… tumbler… to move. Damn! I almost had it.”
“Break the glass!”
“She’ll hear us, boss.”
“Then give me the pick and get out of the way.”
The latch clicked. “Ha! We’re in!”
30. IS DADDY COMING?
Monday, 5:10 p.m.
“Mommy,” Lilly said, “why do we have to leave our house?”
Lola turned from the open suitcase on the bed to see her on the landing, blond curls falling on her favorite pink sweater, right thumb stuck in her mouth, and Mopsey, the stuffed rabbit, dangling from her left hand. “We’re going on an adventure to stay with your grandpa for a little while, sweetie.”