Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1)

by Tony Wiley

  “Mr. Harris,” the driver said, “I’ve intercepted one of the Navigators from Mike’s compound.”

  On the other end, Harris spoke loud enough for Morrison to hear his voice through the mobile phone’s speaker.

  “What?” Harris said, “You were just supposed to tail it, not make contact!”

  “I know,” the driver said. “But I was following him on the road and he stopped with a flat tire. He was waving for help when I drove up to him so I had to stop too. By talking with him, I saw that he knew you.”

  Morrison saw the lie as an honorable attempt to save face. He said nothing about it. Be gracious to those you’ve defeated. Another thing he’d understood a long time ago. Besides, that was pretty well thought out for a spontaneous nugget of bullshit. That driver had some street smart in him.

  With Harris now on the line, Morrison initiated a three-way conversation. He spoke in a voice loud enough for Harris to hear him through the driver’s microphone, and not too much so Harris wouldn’t place him straight away. First he said, “Tell Harris I’d like to see him.”

  “Who’s that guy?” Harris said. “Who’s talking?”

  “I don’t know,” the driver said. “Don’t know his name.”

  “Describe him,” Harris said.

  The driver looked up to Morrison, who nodded his approval. Go ahead, buddy. The driver scanned him from the waist up.

  “He’s short,” he said. “Big Rolex on his wrist, medium build, kind of wiry. Ordinary clothes.” Then he got to his face. “Bit of a prick face, brown hair, rather short. Likes himself a little too much.” Then he interrupted himself and squinted like he had trouble believing what he saw. “And he’s got eyes of different colors,” he said. “One green. One brown.”

  “Not a bad description,” Morrison said. “Save the face thing, of course.”

  “Frank Morrison!?” Harris said louder than previously. “What are you doing there?”

  At first, don’t speak to him directly. Establish your ascendency. Let him know that you can use his guy against him too. That you’re driving the show. Morrison looked at the driver and said, “Tell Harris that it would be a really great idea for him to be available. In about fifteen minutes. At his office. And also tell him that your services will no longer be required for the day. As a matter of fact, you can get out of your car right now and go have a cinnamon bun at Elena’s. I assure you, they’re delicious.”

  Chapter 19

  Morrison got back to his Navigator and left downtown going straight up north. He was all alone. No nanny to trail him anymore. The driver of the gray Impala actually took his advice. He stayed behind and walked into Elena’s.

  It took Morrison ten minutes to get to Harris’s place on Chambers Road, at the northern edge of town. As far as he could see, nothing had changed there in the last three years. The same standalone building occupied the front portion of a large rectangular lot. A simple structure, maybe one hundred feet by one hundred fifty. One story only but with a high roof and a large garage door on the side. Covered with fabricated steel panels, light gray and blue faded to a dull hue by years of exposure to the harsh elements. Strictly utilitarian. Nothing flashy. Harris had been in business there for a long time. And what a great cover it was.

  Harris Corporation amounted to a diversified trucking and contracting operation. It owned half a dozen eighteen-wheelers complete with trailers, four or five dump trucks and a variety of tractors and diggers. A perfectly legitimate business but a cyclical one. In its good years, it provided real solid income of its own. But in the bad ones, it could also turn up big fat ugly losses. Like when the fuel prices went up real fast. That never allowed Harris—or anybody else in the trucking business for that matter—to increase his prices fast enough to absorb the hike. Besides, it was those wild fluctuations that had made Harris explore shadier territory. Early on in the life of his company, it had been a matter of survival. Either he got creative and managed to find large influxes of cash to weather the storm, or he would just lose it all to the bank. In a typically Darwinian response to a challenging set of circumstances, he had started walking off the beaten path. Then, like everyone else Morrison knew in the business, he had caught on to it. Developed a healthy appreciation for easy money. Bought a Ferrari. A bit flashy, but totally plausible given his cover. Then a winter home in the Bermudas. Then another one in the Sonoran Desert near Tucson. Then a Cessna with floats for his fishing expeditions up north in Canada. Compared with Morrison, Harris was an old-timer. And contrary to him, he had always lived in Acton. Knew all the local big dogs. Played golf with them. Ate rubber chicken with them at the Chamber of Commerce events. If any of his friends learned what he did on the side, they would probably choke and swear that’s nothing like Roger at all. Morrison was pretty sure even Harris’s wife didn’t know a thing about his extracurricular activities.

  Yep, that’s a hell of a good cover, Morrison thought before leaving the big Navigator in the front parking lot and walking up to the reception.

  He had never been into that building. Under normal circumstances, Harris wouldn’t meet with him there. Not that he was paranoid. But he just wanted to keep a reasonable degree of separation between his legit business and his other dealings. Quite understandable. But on this occasion, Morrison thought it was better to force his hand and have the meeting there. A good way to gain some clout over him.

  After Morrison presented himself, the receptionist pointed a crooked thumb at a door behind her. “You can go ahead, Mr. Harris is waiting for you,” she said.

  Morrison went ahead and pushed through a dark gray metallic door into a nondescript office. Clearly, this was a place to work and nothing else. Harris sat behind a large glass table. He seemed genuinely pleased to see him. And if he wasn’t, at least he played the part very well. He rose from his chair to greet him. “Morrison,” he said. “It’s so great to see you.”

  They shook hands. Harris offered him a drink.

  “Want a scotch? Bourbon?” Harris said.

  “No thanks,” Morrison said. “Never during the day.”

  Harris smiled. “That’s right, I’d forgotten.”

  “But please, go ahead. Help yourself.”

  Harris aimed for the bar in the corner of the room. Morrison watched him pour two generous fingers of bourbon in a whisky glass. Harris hadn’t changed much. The only difference was the gray streaks now more pervasive in his black hair and old-fashioned mustache. Even if it was still only spring, he had the weathered tan of the snowbird who spends the bulk of his winters under clement skies. It was true that with houses in the Bermudas and Arizona, he had the choice. Otherwise, he still looked like some solid rancher in his early fifties, ready and able to kick the living shit out of anyone who’d dare stand in his way.

  Harris brought back his glass along with some water for Morrison. They clicked them and sat down in deep leather seats.

  “When did you get out?” Harris asked.

  “Yesterday,” Morrison said.

  Harris took a sip of bourbon. “By the way, thanks a lot for your discretion,” he said. “That was just too bad you got busted. Believe me, we’re all very grateful that you kept your mouth shut.”

  Morrison bowed his head slightly like it was only natural. “You don’t rat on your friends,” he said. “Ever.” He took a sip of water. Then added, “But can you spy on them?”

  A wide smile came across Harris’s face. “Straight to the point,” he said. “You haven’t changed one bit, Morrison.”

  “Time is of the essence. I know that more than ever now.”

  “So you want to know why I had a car checking on Junior’s property.”

  “Mike. He wants us to call him Mike now, not Junior.”

  Harris scoffed. “Well, he shouldn’t hold his breath. He’s still Junior to me.”

  Morrison shared a complicit smile and said, “I see where you come from. But why do you send some poor jerk out there to trail him and his crew?”

&nb
sp; Harris arched back in his seat and said, “There have been rumors recently that Junior was getting pretty busy. Started to hire some hands here and there, you know. Probably working on some new deal or other. At first, I didn’t think too much about it. He can bloody hell do what he wants, don’t make a difference to me. But then I heard about Sheriff Sanford busting all these ATMs last night, and you know what? It sounded just too much like our deal that went bad three years ago and landed you in the can. I wondered if Junior had anything to do with it, so I decided to put some tails on him and his guys, you know, just to dig a little bit. No harm done.”

  That’s good, Morrison thought, that’s a good spin. You wily old son of a bitch. But there are still weak points in it.

  Morrison looked Harris in the eye. Wanted to make sure he’d catch his reaction to what he was about to say.

  “Sorry, but from what I heard about that bust,” Morrison said, “it had nothing to do with our setup. You’re talking crude ATM skimming here, actually stealing people’s codes one by one to empty their accounts. That’s junior stuff. Our deal, three years ago, that was a major-leagues operation.”

  Harris’s face remained pretty contained, but a flash of anger burned through his eyes. Too much of a personal reaction not to have a personal involvement in this, Morrison thought.

  He kept prodding. “With the number of skimmers there was and the payoff you can expect, you’re talking about a deal that can get you back what, a hundred K, maybe two? That’s good money but nowhere near what we were going to make three years ago.”

  He paused for a beat, then added, “Personally, I would never embarrass myself with such a slimy deal.”

  Another flash passed through Harris’s eyes. But once again he managed to keep a tight lid on his facial expression.

  You’re the one behind this, Morrison thought. What you wonder about Junior is if he’s the one who tipped off Sheriff Sanford, not if he put that setup in place, because you know you did.

  Morrison remained silent, forcing Harris to utter the next words. The businessman was behind that deal, but he couldn’t admit it to him, could he? That would be way too embarrassing, admitting responsibility for a ramshackle operation, and a failure on top of that. Morrison knew Harris would have to chip in and denigrate the deal. And of course denigrate himself in the process just to save face.

  Harris waved his hand and said, “Yeah, of course, that’s a rotten deal. That’s why I thought Junior might have something to do with it, you know.”

  Then he took another sip of bourbon.

  Morrison flashed an inner smile. “I can tell you for sure he’s got nothing to do with it,” he said. Then he decided to rib him some more. In a lighthearted way, he added, “Hell, you wouldn’t have anything to do with it, would you?”

  Harris made a face. “Are you crazy? I’m retired from that life.”

  Morrison let out a short burst of laughter. “You’re gonna have to explain this one to me. You, retired? That’s why you send some poor jerk to trail Mike’s crew?”

  Harris cracked a wide smile and chuckled. “OK, maybe that wasn’t my best one,” he said. “I’m not retired yet. But I’m winding down, that’s for damn sure. Seeing you do all that time got me thinking, you know.”

  They paused for a beat. Then Harris said, “And you? You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, right?”

  “You overestimate me,” Morrison said. “I just got out yesterday.”

  “I’m not talking about setting this deal up. I know you wouldn’t have anyway. But blowing the whistle on it. You seemed pretty hyped up about it.”

  “Again,” Morrison said, “you overestimate me. I just got out yesterday.”

  Harris waved his hand. “I know, I know,” he said. ”Just asking.”

  Morrison took another sip of water and looked at his old partner. He believed him when he said he was winding down. Only somebody looking for easy money and not willing to put on too much effort would be setting up such a basic ATM-skimming operation. It wouldn’t come from a sharp professional at the top of his game, looking to maximize his profit. But for a man of Harris’s means, the crumbling of such a small deal shouldn’t bother him that much. His livelihood didn’t depend on it. If he had decided to put a tail on Mike’s crew, there must have been another reason. Morrison looked at the wily old bastard again. He was enjoying his glass of bourbon, an air of quiet contentment oozing from his relaxed, friendly mustachioed face. Morrison thought he knew why. “It’s not last night’s ATM skimming thing that got under your skin, right? It’s the collapse of our big deal three years ago that you’re still not over with. That’s what’s rattling your cage.”

  Harris shrugged.

  “We were supposed to make a killing with it. Aren’t you pissed that it all went sour?”

  “I am,” Morrison said. “But it’s you that’s got some tails on Mike’s compound.”

  Harris drained the remainder of his bourbon and got up to go fix himself another one. From the other end of the room, he said, “Junior bought a freaking big property, didn’t he? You don’t buy that with peanuts. In the back of my mind, I’ve always wondered if something fishy didn’t go down at the time of your arrest. Not from you, of course, you took a pretty serious blow yourself. But I’ve always thought there was something we didn’t know about all that went down. We should’ve made ten million dollars. Split in five, that’s two million each. Something worth scheming for, no?”

  Harris came back with his glass. Three generous fingers deep this time. Morrison interpreted it as a message that Harris had all the time in the world and some willingness to talk. Whether this was conscious or not, Morrison didn’t know. With Harris, both were possible.

  “We only had time to extract two million dollars before I was arrested,” Morrison said. “And all that money was seized by Sheriff Sanford. There was nothing left. Besides, Mike bought the property with Tommy’s money. He’s kind of minding the store while Tommy’s doing his time.”

  Harris squinted.

  “Hum,” he said. “You sure? I didn’t know that. Junior and Tommy?”

  “Positive. Mike never had that kind of money himself.”

  Harris had a pensive look. “You don’t need to convince me of that,” he said. “But even for Tommy, that could be a stretch. Unless he was able to hit the jackpot in some other way, of course.”

  “And you think that might have something to do with our deal three years ago.”

  “I’ve always thought there was something funny about it. I haven’t changed my mind yet.”

  “And what about Cowgirl? That deal was me, you, Tommy, Mike and Cowgirl. What do you make of her?”

  Harris gestured with a dismissive wave of the hand. “No, she’s clean. You know her. If she had put her hand on a big stash, she would’ve flashed it big time some way or other.”

  Morrison smiled. Couldn’t agree more with the assertion. As succinct and accurate a description of Cowgirl as anybody could come up with. Morrison’s pause enabled Harris to come back at him with a question of his own.

  “Why do you stay at Junior’s place?” he said. “I didn’t think you two were particularly close.”

  It was Morrison’s turn to start skating. He didn’t want to let on that his presence there had been forced upon him. He said, “I needed a place to find my feet. I won’t stay there very long anyway.”

  “Maybe you know what Junior is up to these days?”

  Morrison shook his head. “Not really. He seems to be pretty busy, but I just mind my own business.”

  “He didn’t offer you to partner with him in any way?”

  “Listen, Harris, a little over twenty-four hours ago, I was still in prison. All I want right now is to enjoy my freedom.”

  Harris took another sip of bourbon, then he asked, “Aren’t you interested in looking into our failed operation? Don’t you think something fishy could’ve happened?”

  That’s exactly what Morrison had started to do, but he
didn’t want to admit that to Harris. On the other hand, he couldn’t tell him what he had really intended to do upon his release either—leave the state and go where that key hidden in his shoe would open the door to a fresh new world for him. So he kept on skating.

  “I want to look ahead. I’m ready for a new start.” Damn right I am, he thought.

  “You lost three years and all your money over that deal,” Harris said. “And still, you don’t want to look into it?”

  “I prefer to forget about what I’ve lost and focus instead on what I’ll gain.”

  Harris shook his head. “You’re too smart to leave all those rocks unturned, Morrison, you’re too smart.”

  “And you’re too damn nosy with your questions, Harris. I’m hungry, now. Why don’t we go have something to eat?”

  Harris didn’t want to go to one of his regular hangouts in Acton with him. Morrison understood that perfectly. It was only common sense. He had a public persona to protect. So the two men agreed to drive up in their respective cars to a small diner they knew in a nearby village.

  There, they enjoyed a pleasant lunch. Relaxed and casual. Just like the simple fare filling their plates. They got to reminiscing about the good old times, as you did in these occasions. They had worked on a number of deals together and had always gotten along pretty well. But that was already some time ago. Given their present circumstances, the relaxed attitude remained on the surface. Underneath lay a deep bedrock of suspicion. Clearly, Morrison didn’t fully trust Harris. And he sensed that Harris felt the same about him. This also extended to the other partners in their deal gone bad. Mike aka Junior and Tommy were wary of him. Harris was wary of Junior. Morrison was wary of everybody. A thick, dark cloud still hovered over that rotten failed operation. The only missing input being Cowgirl’s. Morrison hadn’t seen her yet, but he bet she had reservations of her own too.

  At the end of their meal, Harris drained the bottom of his beer mug and asked him, “What are you going to tell Junior when you go back to his place?”