Flood Abatement

by James Norton

  “I’m Polish.”

  “I don’t care.”

  The door to the room exploded off its hinges.

  “Federal agents!” came the high pitched cry from the biggest Samoan Bernie ever knocked unconscious, all be it with the assistance of a fifteen foot fall onto rocks in the Menomonee River bed. A crowd of agents poured into the room.

  Bernie put his head in his hands and said, “Shit. Just shit.” There went his law license.

  Without warning Rhonda reached in her purse, pulled out a pistol and pointed it at Nick. “You double crossing little turd!” She fired a round in his direction which hit the wall just above his head. Nick sat on the floor as the color in his face slipped to gray while the pistol fell from his hand.

  Bernie turned toward Rhonda. Another shot was fired and a bright red flower bloomed on her chest. He opened his mouth to call her name, but nothing came out. She looked at him, eyes wide with disbelief, and collapsed. The big southeast islander pounced on Bernie, knocking him cold. He came around just in time to see the ambulance team wheel Rhonda out.

  The feds processed the group upstairs for three hours before they took the elevator down to the lobby. Bernie asked everyone he saw where Rhonda was, but they all ignored him. The lobby of the hotel was ablaze with television lights from every news crew in the city of Chicago. They screamed a dozen indiscernible questions. Someone threw a towel over Bernie’s head and lead him away.

  Chapter 93

  Sometimes being short could be a disadvantage for Nick Smith, but at this moment he was thrilled to be the size he was. The plan to steal the coin at the auction had gone completely out the window when the feds busted in. That bitch tried to kill him. Rhonda was dead now. He heard the shot and saw the blood as she fell. Two more shots sounded on the other side of the bathroom door. He’d have to think about how to get his film back, but not right now. Time to ditch Halieto and execute a variation on his escape arrangement.

  The muscle Lucerio had provided him consisted of two housemaids at the hotel. Initially, Nick was unimpressed, but that changed when he slipped into the bathroom adjoining the auction room. Per the plan he pulled the panel from under the sink and crawled into the utility access way between two suites. It was a space where a thin man of normal height could move and work on the plumbing with difficulty. The area between the walls gave Nick plenty of space to maneuver.

  The shouting and screaming from the other room were muted in his hideaway. He took a moment to catch his breath and adjust to his surroundings. Immediately, a light shown above him and a woman called, “Mistar Neek.” in a husky whisper. He looked up and saw one of Lucerio’s maids.

  “Climb up the pipes,” she said. “Hurry!”

  He did as he was told. On the floor above, she led him out of the crawl space to another bathroom.

  He stood. “What now?”

  She pointed to a maid’s cart in the adjoining bedroom. “In there. We’ll take you down to the loading dock.”

  He fit comfortably in with the toilet paper and the little bottles of shampoo. It was a five minute ride to the dock in the bowels of O’Hare Airport. Nick stood and thanked his helpers.

  “Cross the road to the other dock. That is the main terminal. Take the stairs to the left and go up to gate B9.”

  Nick nodded and thanked them again. He followed instructions until he reached the arrivals level, one floor down from the gates. From that point, he ran through the tunnels to the parking garage next to the hotel. His car was on the green level, whichever floor that might be, he didn’t know or care.

  At the top of the stairwell he looked over the ledge onto the road between the hotel and the central terminal at O’Hare. Cops were all over the place. A blue uniformed man and woman muscled a gurney into the back of a fire department ambulance. The body on the cart was covered in a sheet, but Nick caught a glimpse of red. It didn’t look positive for the schmuck in the ambulance. Maybe Rhonda? Can’t do anything about that. Time to go.

  Out among the cars he tried to calm himself while he trotted up and down the aisles looking for the rented Matador. Where the hell did he leave it! There it was, four rows to his left. The car jerked abruptly backward, and then lurched forward with squealing tires. Smith could see Leon at the wheel, with Stan in the passenger seat. As they turned out of the row onto the aisle that lead to the exit ramp the rear window exploded. The car shot forward with rear tires smoking.

  While the screeching echoed in the parking ramp, Nick looked back the way the car had fled. Mendez stood in the aisle with a pistol pointed at the fleeing vehicle. Little puffs of smoke rose from the silencer on the barrel of the revolver.

  As much as he disliked Leon and Stan, Smith did not consider Mendez’s attempt to murder them a good omen for himself. He hid behind a blue Volvo station wagon to reconsider his options. A cold wind whipped through the damp parking structure.

  Nick retraced his steps to the arrival terminal. There wasn’t any problem mixing in with the people picking up their baggage at the carousels. In two minutes he was in a cab headed away from the airport and total disaster. The traffic jammed to a halt.

  Nick leaned forward and talked through the sliding door of the plexiglass partition that separated the back seat of the cab from the front. “What’s the problem?”

  “Sumin’s blockin’ da road up ahead,” the ebony man at the wheel said.

  Nick looked out the rear window at the cop cars a block and a half behind them. “I thought all the trouble was back there.”

  “Trouble all over today, man.”

  “Can we get around?”

  Other cabs pulled up tightly next to theirs. “No, we stuck. Just relax. We go when we go.”

  Nick leaned back in the seat as he rubbed his right hand through his hair. Four cabs in front and to the left a woman was climbing between the cars. He stuck his head though the door in the plexiglass to get a clearer look. “No.”

  He fell onto the backseat then tried to open the cab door only to find that the vehicle beside them had his door pinned.

  “Hey, jerk-off what ya bangin’ up my cab for?” the hack driver next to him yelled.

  Nick rolled the window down and pulled himself half way out to get a better look. The woman just made it beyond the last car in the jam. “Son-of-a-bitch.” He took a deep breath to yell her name, but stopped. This was information he could use. Better she doesn’t know that he knows her secret. Rhonda dashed into the shadows of the parking lot.

  Chapter 94

  The lights went out for Bernie when he reached the hotel lobby. It was as if someone flipped a switch. He coughed awake in the ambulance to the smell of ammonia as they drove along the John F. Kennedy Freeway, but was out again in a flash. Later, he did a repeat performance seated in a chair in a mint green room with fogged, chicken-wire glass windows. He thought that the air tasted like three day old smoke.

  “How ya doin’ sport?’ someone asked from behind him.

  Bernie twisted right to see who it was, but was restrained by a handcuff that secured his left wrist to the arm of the institutional wood chair. He twisted the other way and saw a fat man in a rumpled brown suit leaning in a corner of the room. A sharp pain jabbed him in the right side and took his breath away. Bernie returned to his forward facing position and panted. “Ah, shit.”

  “Rudy can be a load,” the man said.

  Bernie reviewed the last few things he remembered until he reached the point where Rudolph pounced on him. “Oh yeah.” He clutched his ribs as the pain attacked again. Rhonda and the red stain on her chest came to mind. “Where’s Rhonda?”

  The man walked up to Bernie’s side. “What were you doin’ at the hotel?”

  Bernie remained doubled over and thought. “I’m a coin collector. Someone said there was an auction. I came.”

  The man smacked the back of his head with a hand. “You weren’t trying to sell stolen Government property or anything like that?”

  “No. Where’s Rhonda?”
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  “Don’t bullshit me. Rudy recognized you from before. You were in on the whole deal.”

  “Last time I saw that guy, he attacked me. We did not have much of a conversation. If you got a problem with me then book me. If not, let me go.”

  The guy hit him again.

  Bernie smiled at brown suit. “You got nothin’.”

  The guy hit him once more and walked out.

  “Where’s Rhonda?” Bernie strained forward then slumped back in the chair and closed his eyes against the single florescent fixture hanging from the ceiling. Where was Rhonda? How was she? He replayed the scene in his mind, the shots, the red stain, the look on her face. His head throbbed. Shit, she was dead. “Fuck.” He brought his free hand to his face and rubbed his eyes with the fingers. Something hurt deep inside and it wasn’t his ribs. The feeling started in his gut. It wasn’t pain. He gulped for air. His fingers felt hot and wet. “Ah!” He pounded the arm of the chair. Was she dead? No, couldn’t be, no. Get a grip. She was gone and he couldn’t do anything about that. Who was he sorry for, Rhonda or himself? Either way his emotions were wasted. Need to control yourself. This is a tight spot.

  Chapter 95

  Just before dawn, an unmarked cop car dropped Henry and Bernie off at a George Webb’s all night diner on the south side of Milwaukee. Bernie had asked a hundred questions for the first ten minutes of the ride from Chicago. All were variations on, “Where is Rhonda?” The two stiffs in the front seat of the squad car never responded. He never asked the question that burned in his mind, “Why did she do it?”

  As he and Henry sat in the diner eating their eggs, someone dropped a copy of the Chicago Sun Times by the cash register. The headline read, “Two Million Dollar Coin Recovered.”

  Henry looked over from his coffee. “Nuts.”

  “Exactly.”

  Chapter 96

  Bernie had to know more about Rhonda, because right now he didn’t know much. No one explained anything to him during his entire time in custody. No “You’re under arrest,” or “You’re free to go,” or “We’re charging you … “ Zip. Just a couple of “Sit here,” and one “Get out of the car,” at Webb’s.

  Henry shared a cab with him to his house on the east side. On the porch Bernie asked, “Did you see her?”

  “Who?”

  “Rhonda. Did you see her after the cops broke in?”

  “When the shooting started I kept my head down.”

  Bernie’s hand shook as he unlocked the front door and they went in.

  “You got anything to eat?” Henry asked.

  “Sure.” Bernie pointed toward the kitchen then followed Henry. “Did you see her after that?”

  Henry opened and closed two cabinet doors. “You got any cereal?”

  Bernie went into the pantry and returned with a box of frosted something or others. “Did you?” His shoulders ached.

  Henry took the box and opened the refrigerator door. “Did I what?”

  “Did you see Rhonda after the shooting stopped?”

  With a half-gallon carton of milk in hand, Henry stood straight and bit his lower lip. “No. Where are your bowls?”

  Bernie pointed at a cabinet. “You didn’t see them wheel her out on the stretcher?”

  “Spoons?”

  Bernie opened a drawer and gave him one. “Did you?”

  “I’m thinking.” He took a seat and prepared a bowl of cereal.

  “Henry.”

  “Hey, all that shooting really freaked me out.” He spooned food into his mouth.

  “Obviously, it didn’t depress your appetite.”

  “Everything was moving fast. Let me sort it out.” He ate some more.

  Bernie took some orange juice from the refrigerator, then sat across from Henry.

  “I saw them wheel out the stretcher. There was blood on the sheet.”

  “And …”

  “That was her, huh?”

  “Yes. Was she moving?”

  Henry took another spoonful of cereal. “No.”

  Bernie slumped in his chair. Fatigue was oozing into his muscles.

  “No, I didn’t see her.”

  Bernie sat up. “What do you mean?”

  The spoon clicked on the table. “I saw the stretcher, but I didn’t see Rhonda.”

  Bernie’s head pounded. This was not helpful. His body felt like lead as he stood.

  Henry took his bowl to the sink. “Go to bed.”

  “I am.”

  “Okay if I sack out on your couch?”

  Chapter 97

  Henry awoke to someone leaning on the doorbell. They stopped, then began pounding on the door. As he raised himself from the couch he thought that he must have fallen asleep again in front of the tube. He started out watching Merv Griffin. At the moment, the noon news was on. Henry pulled his wrinkled suit coat tight around his pear-shaped body. “Hold on, hold on, I’m coming.”

  He stumbled out of the living room to the front door where the caller resumed punching the doorbell. A kid dressed in a bad suit coat stood on the front porch looking through one of the thin windows that went around the door. Henry adjusted his glasses to get a better view. Christ, it was Knickerbocker Smith! His eyes were bloodshot and bugged out. He needed a shave and Henry didn’t care for the crazed look on his face.

  Shoulders twitching, Nick abruptly leaned close to the door and spoke “I have a document for a Mr. Bernard Keagan.”

  “What the hell are you talking about Smith?”

  “He needs to sign for it.”

  “Go sober up and come back tomorrow.”

  Nick pounded on the door. “Come on, this has to be taken care of today. Maybe you can sign for it.” He danced from one foot to the other.

  Henry backed away from the door.

  Waving one arm, Nick yelled, “Open the door, you faggot.” He drew a revolver out of his belt and pumped three shots into the lock. Splinters of wood and glass flew into the foyer and the door swung open.

  Henry dove under the desk in the living room.

  Nick stepped into the foyer and stopped to look around. He walked into the living room on the left and stood in front of the desk. “Stand up, asshole,” he said in a high-pitched voice. Henry crawled out. Nick put the gun under Henry’s chin.

  “Where is she, dip shit?”

  “Wh.. Wh.. Who?”

  “Lapinski, numb nuts. Who else?”

  “What? You were there. She’s dead. Look, I just woke up.”

  Nick put his gun arm down to his side. He punched Henry in the jaw as hard as he could with his right hand. The numismatist fell to the floor in a heap.

  Nick tramped upstairs screaming, “Rhonda! Rhonda! Where the hell are you?” He kicked in the first door he came to at the top of the landing and fired two shots. A closet. He kicked in the next one and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on a spent shell casing. “Fuck!” Nick reloaded and fired twice into the empty bedroom.

  He kicked at the next door, but it was locked. He fired two rounds into the offending mechanism. The door flew open on a dark room. Nick roared, “I know you’re in there, Rhonda. Keep your fuckin’ coin I want my movie.” The house was quiet. He stepped up to the enterance with his gun pointed forward. He took a step into the bedroom.

  The first shots woke Bernie. Now, he sweated in his blue and white striped boxers. He stood in the dark, against the wall with the baseball bat that he kept under the bed. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose. He pushed them back in place. When the door flew open, he raised the bat over his head. He saw the hand with the gun come through and swung down. Luckily, he hit the hand and the gun dropped to the floor. A shot went off.

  Nick screamed and pulled back onto the landing. He stood in the hall and held his damaged hand as he looked at it. Bernie took a step forward and lunged at him with the bat. Nick stepped aside. Bernie hit the wall and went down. Nick ran. Bernie caught him on the stairs. They rolled to the bottom where Bernie hit his head and lost his glasses along with
his grip on the little man.

  “Damn,” Nick moaned as he rolled over and got to his knees. He stumbled to his feet and staggered toward the door.

  Bernie sat up.

  Nick turned back toward his attacker. “You dumb bastard.” He limped to the front door. “She’s alive, asshole. She scammed us.”

  Bernie watched the little son-of-a-bitch and concluded the guy was on something pretty strong. Not thinking too well himself, he dashed barefoot through the broken glass and splinters to tackle the asshole just as he was about to step off the porch. A pretty good hit for a guy who hadn’t done anything like that since high school. He got the little bastard right in the middle of the back. He locked his arms around Nick as they flew off the front porch onto the concrete walk. Nick broke Bernie’s fall with his face. After a moment, Bernie rolled over and sat down on the walkway. He looked at his scraped knees and knuckles. That last move might not have been his finest, but good enough.

  Mrs. Mauer, Bernie’s neighbor, yelled at the cops as they rolled up in a cruiser. “They’re right there! Right there!” The two policemen approached with drawn pistols while Bernie pointed at the prone figure, breathlessly uttering, “Bad guy,” then raised his hand, “Good guy.” With blood running down his shins, he looked at one of the officers. “This guy is on something. I hit him with a baseball bat and he just kept goin’.” As one officer cuffed the intruder and the other helped Bernie to his feet. They moved to the house where he saw Henry’s crumpled body. “Somebody’s down here.”

  As one cop went inside a yellow AMC Javelin quietly rolled to a halt before the group on the sidewalk. A shot sounded and Bernie felt as if his right leg had caught fire. Nick jumped up and ran toward the car. Bernie tried to run after the little man, but the injured leg gave out and he went to his knees. “How do you know?”

  Two more shots sounded. Nick dropped on the lawn. A burning cigar butt flew out the passenger’s window as the car accelerated up the block and turned left on Brady Street.