Flood Abatement

by James Norton

  “Yes.”

  “I need it by Friday. You got a pencil?”

  “Yes.”

  Rhonda touched her tongue to the rim of the glass. “Send it to …”

  Chapter 103

  The wind cut between the houses on Cass Street and sliced at Bernie’s neck. He pulled the collar of his trench coat across his throat with his left hand while he steadied himself against the rear fender of Sam’s Cadillac. The air smelled clean as it burned in his nose. He shivered. Six weeks in the hot house climate of a hospital had reduced his tolerance for the late fall belligerence of Lake Michigan weather. He looked at the bright cold sky while a gust stabbed in his left ear.

  When four car doors slammed in rapid fire succession, he whipped his head around to take in the street before him. His mother, Judy, and Sam stood in the street on the other side of the car. Half a block south, up the car lined curb, two men crossed to his side. With the sun behind them, he could not clearly make them out, but they headed his way. Maybe cops.

  “Hang on. We’ll be right there,” Bernie’s mother said.

  Ignoring the wind, Bernie raised his left hand to shield his eyes. He stooped slightly on his good right leg and groped for his cane on the Caddy’s backseat. Hatless and dressed in well cut overcoats, the approaching strangers weren’t local cops.

  His mother walked up and reached past him into the car. “Here, let me get it for you.”

  Cane in hand, he straightened, put his weight on his good leg then relocated the two men on the sidewalk a house up from his. He squinted - Lucerio and Mendez. Where was a cop when you wanted one? His mother pulled his right arm and he stepped up on the curb. “I can make it.” The three of them were on the sidewalk when the Columbians reached them.

  “Hello, Bernie, glad to see you up and around.” Lucerio’s condensed breath raced out at a right angle to his mouth as he rubbed his reddened hands.

  “So nice of you to stop,” Bernie said.

  “We were driving by when we saw you and decided to say hello. Is this your mother?”

  Bernie looked to his right at the woman who held his arm. “I need to get inside and you need to get on with your business.” His mother gave his arm a sharp squeeze. He looked Lucerio directly in the eyes. “Goodbye.”

  The five stood there while the wind made the elms creak.

  “You know, I am sincerely glad to see you getting around,” Lucerio said as he turned.

  The trio climbed onto the porch then turned and watched the Columbian pair get into their car and drive away.

  “Now we can go in,” Bernie said as his mother and Sam hunched against the cold.

  “Who was that?” Sam asked.

  “Unwanted business acquaintances,” he replied while his mother opened the front door.

  Inside Bernie sat heavily on his couch and fell asleep in his topcoat. When he woke at dusk, there was a light on in the kitchen and someone was singing on either the radio or the television. The front rooms smelled of cherry wood shavings from where the carpenter had worked on the broken spindles in the upstairs railing. Bernie called, “Who’s there?”

  “Just me, Bernie,” his mother said. She appeared in the hallway from the kitchen. “How are you doing? Are you hungry?”

  “A little.”

  “I’ve got soup, a ham slice, some cold cuts. Whatever you like.”

  “Soup’s good. Say, have you seen Rhonda’s grandmother, Nana?”

  “No, it’s been months. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason in particular. Just haven’t seen her around.”

  The smell of the chicken soup was comforting. He ate it in the kitchen, then talked his mother into going home. The quiet felt unusual. During his weeks in the hospital, he’d hardly been alone. He sat and enjoyed the solitude until Rhonda jumped back into his thoughts. He could not think of her as dead. It had happened once in the hospital and the weight in his chest had him to gulping for air.

  The kitchen clock ticked up to eight-fifty when his leg started to ache and drove her from his consciousness. In a tactic to avoid taking his pain pills he got up and began a slow walk around the first floor of his house, putting on lights as he went. He felt the softness of the wood shavings as he passed the repaired stairs.

  Ten minutes later, sweating heavily, he downed two of his pain pills. “Shit,” he gasped. “So much for being the tough guy.” The faint bitter taste of the capsule remained on this tongue. He took another drink of water to wash it away.

  With the pain in his leg evaporating, he went back into the living room. The maple box that held Nana’s coins was tucked behind an end table. He slumped down on the couch and dragged the empty souvenir up next to him. “I didn’t expect to see you.” He open the lid and looked down on the green felt where the collection had been packed - fifty-six slots.

  Bernie closed the lid and turned the box to open the slide where Rhonda found the ’33 Double Eagle. The box looked like a Chinese puzzle. He remembered that she snapped the compartment closed immediately after removing the envelope and told him she knew how to open it again.

  How did she do it? Press on the right front corner; push down on the other side; press up on the bottom? After four tries he heard the mechanism click and he pushed the left rear panel open.

  He tilted the chamber toward the lamp to get a good look inside. The hiding place held a small wooden tray. He slid it out as a reaction from his pain pills caused his vision to blur.

  The tray was hollowed out. He ran his fingers over the smooth surface - one, two. And, again - one indentation and a second. The drugs slowed his mind.

  He counted out loud as he did it again. “One. Two. … Two? Two.” Bernie stood abruptly without his cane. “Two, there were two!” He touched the tray again and concentrated his focus. There were two hollow spots for two coins. “Damn.” What had Rhonda done? “What was she thinking?” Crap, that was just like her, half the truth. “Ha.” A tight smile crossed his face as his mind raced around the painkiller to recover some of his receding confidence. He was sore, but not surprised.

  As the drugs rolled his inner ear he lost his balance and sat down abruptly. It was that type of change of subject that got him thinking about sleep. Bernie lay on the couch and smiled. “What the hell is she up to?”

  The morning brought a blizzard. While he made coffee, he realized that the feds would have wanted the one coin Rhonda tried to auction. They would lay claim to it from the get go. Word would get out and they would want her. He took a cup and stood in the old bay window of his house. The dusty dry smell of air heated in the furnace drifted up from the grate in the floor.

  The Samoan, Rudolph, he was in on the auction. She must have cut a deal. The wind blew the snow hard and rattled the antique glass in his windows. Who better to set a price than the government. Hell, it was a headline in the newspaper. If the feds knew about the other coin they would want it also. They didn’t. Nobody did. Just Rhonda.

  The question was still, who would buy the second coin? Rhonda didn’t want it. She wanted the money it would bring.

  Were all the buyers under arrest? He drank some coffee. Think, think. All except one, the old lady from Omaha. Maybe, she did have a jones for illicit treasure. Maybe there was another buyer, or not. Given his condition, what could he do about it?

  The next two weeks were dominated with rehab and boredom. Daytime TV got old after the second day. Surprise, surprise, the state didn’t lift his law license. They actually reinstated it, with a warning. He called Sam to start sending work to him. At Thanksgiving Bernie put his cane in the closet, and then Lucerio stopped by.

  Chapter 104

  The lean Columbian walked into the living room and cleared a seat for himself in an easy chair by tossing the day’s newspaper on the floor. “Bernie, may I call you Bernie?”

  Mendez stepped into the entrance of the living room.

  Bernie looked up at Mendez, the muscle. “Sure, why not.”

  “How’s your thinking going?�
�� He took a cigar case out of his suit coat, and looked around the room. “Do you have an ashtray?”

  “No.”

  Lucerio nodded to Mendez who went into the kitchen. “So where would your friend, Rhonda, hide my movie?”

  “Why would I give a shit?”

  “Let me think.” Lucerio sat down in a tan corduroy chair across from Bernie. “Curiosity, intimidation, financial reward.”

  “So, there is something in this for me?”

  He pointed his cigar at Bernie. “It is possible that we could work something out.”

  “To get my eager involvement that something should be substantial.”

  “Right now there is a minus six-hundred thousand dollars in the pot. How much of that do you want?”

  Bernie was silent.

  “Mr. Mendez can provide intimidation.”

  Bernie smiled. “I can barely get around today. Hurting me won’t get me moving any faster.”

  “There is always your mother.”

  “Leave her out of this.”

  “It’s up to you.”

  Bernie wanted to tell the Columbian to fuck himself, but thought better of it. That reaction would lead to more threats and shouting with some “My mobsters are tougher than your drug lords,” which wouldn’t mean anything. Why show that card to this ass-wipe? No, take another tack. “Why would she take it in the first place?”

  “Fair question. Rhonda was the star of the movie.” Mendez returned with a saucer. Lucerio removed one of the three cigars in the holder.

  “Really?” Bernie’s leg twitched. He shifted his weight in the chair. “She didn’t like Nick. By the way, how’s he doing?”

  “He’s still in a coma.” Lucerio nodded his approval and began the ritual of lighting his cigar. “She did not like him. I was unaware of that. It makes no difference.”

  “How big is this film? I mean, a couple of rolls of 8mm?”

  “That is good. It is a 35 mm movie with a running time just over two hours.” Lucerio laughed as he removed the cigar’s end with a cutter. “She took the unfinished print and all the cuttings, six reels. Fifty, sixty pounds.” He dropped the cigar tip in the saucer.

  “Just out of curiosity, what kind of movie is it?”

  He struck a wooden match. “Art House.”

  “Porn.”

  He twirled the cigar in the end of the flame as he lightly drew on it. “Some might say so.”

  “Really, and Rhonda’s the star?”

  Lucerio took a deep drag on his cigar and let the smoke roll out over his lips. “Yes.”

  “Hmm, does she have a costar in this film, anyone else I might recognize?”

  “I don’t know your tastes.” With the cigar lit he blew out the match and placed it in the saucer on the end table. “Does this information help?”

  “Maybe?”

  They sat in silence while his Columbian guest smoked his cigar. Neither said a word. At first, Bernie thought it was some kind of contest about who could keep quiet longer, but Lucerio appeared to be relishing his stogie. He blew out a cloud of sweet smoke. “You know that Rhonda better be dead. If I find her I will give her to Mendez.” He looked at his gunman. “Would you like that?”

  The corners of the thug’s mouth twitched upward.

  Bernie’s heart jumped in his chest as he fought to maintain his breathing. This sort of bullshit had to stop. Still no point in tipping his hand.

  Lucerio took another puff. “He will kill her grandmother.” He stood. “One more thing, Nick put together a list of clients who might buy our film. We want you to find that, too.”

  Breathe slowly. “Well sure, why the hell not.”

  Lucerio took a La Gloria Cubana from his pocket case and placed it on the table. “That is what I like to hear, a positive attitude.” Lucerio made a pistol with his fingers, pointed it at Bernie and fired. “Keep thinking.”

  Bernie sat in the aroma of the fine cigar as his heart hammered in his chest. He did not expect his own reaction. Sweat trickled down his back while he gulped air like a marathoner. The son-of-a-bitch had threatened him and his mother with no reaction, but a hint that Lucerio knew that Rhonda was alive and would harm her threw him over the edge. “Crap.” Breath, think, plan.

  Chapter 105

  The Columbian wanted his own anxiety and curiosity to wear him down. Bernie knew there wasn’t much he could do to resist. For the immediate future he still had the daily routine of physical therapy, sitting in a chair, visits to the doctor, taking pain killers, and sleeping on the couch. In between he would make plans.

  Bernie tossed a Playboy down on the coffee table. In two days, even reading the articles became uninteresting. He could make the time, but didn’t have the physical capability to follow up on all the questions about Rhonda, the coins and the movie. Someone was going to have to start the work for him. He fished the phone out from under the pile of newspapers and old pizza boxes, then dialed Sam.

  “Sure, I know some people,” Sam said. “How much you willing to spend?”

  “You know my situation.”

  “Free. Well, that narrows it down. You know what you get for free?”

  “Not much, but then again I’m not picky.”

  “Well, you might actually like this guy.”

  “Tell me about him.” Bernie stretched to pick up a half empty bottle of root beer and sipped the lukewarm liquid.

  “He’s a writer. Does freelance work for anybody who pays. Has worked for everybody who pays. Pushes himself off as a big-time reporter. Decent guy when he’s sober. If you give him a hot lead, he’ll do the digging for free and sell you out the first chance he gets.”

  “Sounds swell, what’s the catch?”

  “He’s yellow through and through. At the first sign of trouble, he’s gone like a fart in the wind.”

  “Has this gem got a name?”

  “Camden Jones.”

  Chapter 106

  The next morning Bernie made the painful trip from the kitchen to answer the front door. When his visitor gave up ringing the bell and began pounding he shouted. “I’m coming! I’m coming! Hold your water!”

  The glass rattled in the door as he pulled it open. A man in a stained gray overcoat and crumpled fedora danced in the cold before him. Slightly out of breath, Bernie asked, “Can I help you?”

  The man stopped dancing. “You Keagan?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Camden Jones of the Chicago Sun Times. Sam said you have an angle on the shootout at the O’Hareport Hotel two months back.”

  Jones resumed his jig. “Can we talk inside? I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

  Bernie stepped to one side and waved Jones in. He left a trail of stale cigarette smoke and cheap booze as he burst into the house and planted himself on the couch among the half empty pizza boxes and last nights cartons of Chinese. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked as he drew a pack of Luckys from this suit coat pocket. He didn’t wait for Bernie’s nod as he struck a flame on an antique Zippo. While he lit the cigarette the reporter tried to ask his question, but fell into a fit of coughing.

  Sam warned him, but still. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Yeah.” Jones coughed. “Bourbon, if you got it.”

  In the kitchen Bernie looked at his liquor supply and considered his visitor. The guy was a piece of work, but he was interested in the story. As a reporter he could lay his hands on resources that were unavailable to Bernie. Best, he was mobile while Bernie was not. With two tall glasses in hand and a half-filled bottle of Jim Beam stuffed under his arm, Bernie hobbled back into the living room. Jones continued to cough fitfully while flicking cigarette ashes into an old pizza box.

  Bernie poured two fingers of Beam and handed Jones the glass. He downed it by the time Bernie poured some for himself.

  The reporter touched the bottle with the rim of the glass. “You mind?”

  “No, help yourself.”

  Jones did. “God damn cold out there. Tha
nks.”

  At the rate the guy was going, Bernie wondered how long Jones would be able to work at all.

  Jones took a notebook out of his overcoat pocket and leafed through its pages. He pointed at a stack of old newspapers with Rhonda’s picture on the top issue. “So you know Rhonda Lapinski?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “Yeah, about as well as anyone.”

  “Do you know how she got involved with that stolen coin …” The reporter flipped through his notebook. “A 1933 Double Eagle?” He drained the glass again.

  How much to tell this guy? Certainly not a hint about Rhonda still being alive. If Jones kept to the booze like this, how much would he remember? “I believe she found it in the wreckage of her grandmother’s house. The Federal government tore down a bunch of them in a flood abatement project.”

  “Why do you think she held the auction of the coin?”

  “For the money the sale would bring.”

  “Why do you think she called all those television news crews to the hotel on the day of the auction, the day she was killed?”

  “Did she?” What the hell was this? Just for that piece of info the lush was aces in Bernie’s book.

  Jones flipped through his notes again. “Yeah, she did. Gave her name to each station.” He took another slug on the booze. “Anyway the story’s gone cold or someone put a lid on it. But, Sam said you had something.”

  “There was another person at the auction that has never showed up in any of the reports.”

  “Yeah.”

  “An older woman, sixties, from Omaha. She made a strong bid to buy the coin about mid-way through then left. Rhonda brought her in.”

  “You got a name?”

  “No.”

  “A name would help, but what else can you tell me about her?”

  “Knickerbocker Smith, you know him?”

  Jones nodded. “You and he took a bullet at the same time, right?”