by Glenn Trust
“Humph.” Seeing no sign of disagreement in Guzman, Budroe turned back to look out the front window, closing the subject with his final words. “I don’t lose.”
54. They Were His
“You boys enjoy your stay in Pickham County?”
“We did, George. Thanks. Nice and quiet change of pace.” Agent Bill Twilley looked into the rearview mirror and smiled. “Of course the fact that everyone around avoided us like we had horns growing out of the tops of our heads probably contributed to our seclusion.”
“Yeah, I imagine so. Sorry about that.”
“To be expected I guess, George. Agent Simpson and I are the bad guys, here to bring in the local hero. We get it. Not our choice though.”
Twilley’s young partner, John Simpson, stared out the window wondering how he had the ultimate bad luck to be selected as the one to arrest George Mackey. Arresting the hero of the OSI would probably follow him for the rest of his career with the GBI, if he had any career left.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, I’d have followed orders and done the same thing in your place.” He looked at Simpson. “You did the right thing. Doesn’t matter what anyone else says, or thinks. Bringing me in is not a stain on your service record.” He chuckled. “Hell, there’s some who'd make you the goddamned governor for it.”
Simpson looked over his shoulder at George. “Still, doesn’t seem right. Doesn’t feel right. Yeah, I’m worried some about how this will follow me around…” He paused, thinking. “Mostly though it’s that I signed up to go after the bad guys. You know, serve and protect and all that shit. You don’t seem to be one of the bad guys.”
“Hmm. Well, you might be surprised, John.” His voice took on a serious tone. “I’m not a saint.” He looked at the mirror into Twilley’s eyes. “And I’m no hero. I’m a just deputy and there’s some that think I did some pretty bad things…they might be right.”
They drove on in silence. Still under orders from Attorney General Swain to ensure that Mackey appeared, regardless of his bail status, they were to get him to Atlanta, check him into the hotel that had been arranged for him and make sure he got to all court appearances.
Trenton Peele had been prepared to go to Judge Downes and file a motion to have the attorney general cease and desist from harassing his client. George told him not to. Twilley and Simpson had been sucked into an affair they both would have gladly avoided. Much as they did not want the job, they had it. George figured he would make it as easy for them as he could. There was no reason to drag anyone else under the mud.
He stretched out across the back seat of the big Ford. “Never been chauffeured around so much before. Makes me feel kinda special.”
The agents grinned, glad to have something to smile about. George closed his eyes and left them alone in the car. He went to Sharon in his mind, remembering every moment they had shared, the sound of her voice, every smile, every touch, every laugh, every tear. They were his, those memories, the moments. No one could take them away.
55. The Next Move
Wearing the same oil stained jeans and tee shirt, Marco Santoro stepped out of the shabby room at the StarLite Motel, stretched, and scratched in the morning air. Leaning back to work the kinks out of his back, he eyed the lot and noticed that Gary Poncinelli’s old dented pickup was gone. His eyes roamed across the two lane road to Pete’s Place and saw it parked at the end of the building beside a couple of other worn out pickups. A long line of motorcycles took up most of the rest of the parking.
Ponce’s pickup had been confiscated from a small time drug runner by the Narcotics Task Force and had seen service in a number of undercover operations. Santoro had arranged for it to be lent to the OSI and Poncinelli.
He straddled the Harley outside his room, gunned the engine to life and roared across the road to Pete’s, parking at the end of the line of bikes.
Inside, he noted that Poncinelli was seated at a table bonding with a couple of other roughly dressed men in jeans and work boots. They looked like local farm boys. One of them said something and Ponce threw his head back laughing, letting his eye make contact with Santoro for an imperceptible second. Then he started telling his own joke as the two farmers leaned close so as not to miss the punch line.
Santoro stepped to the bar, finding a place to himself at the far corner. He preferred a seat where he could see into the bar's back mirror, but the tall biker and the man who had questioned him upon his arrival the day before had those spots taken, along with a group of bikers who were listening intently to what they had to say.
“What can I get you?” Lonna MacIntyre, performed her customary lean against the bar, allowing her ample breasts to be viewed, almost to the nipples which were barely concealed by the tank top. Santoro noted that at least it was a different top than the one she had worn the previous day.
“Bloody Mary.” He opened and closed his mouth running his tongue over his teeth as if trying to remove the hair of the dog. “Anything to eat around here.”
Lonna motioned to a case with an infrared warming light at the end of the bar. “Ham and egg biscuits for breakfast, hotdogs for anything else. We got some packs of nachos and cheese in plastic I can nuke in the microwave.”
He nodded. “Ham and egg biscuits. Two.”
“Right.” She moved away and started the fixings for the Bloody Mary. Lonna was a heavy pourer. He watched with appreciation as she added three long shots of vodka to a relatively small amount of tomato juice. Couple dashes of salt, pepper, some tobasco, a quick stir and she set it in front of him while she went to get the biscuits. It wasn’t fancy, but Santoro took a sip and thought that Lonna might have just served up the best damned Bloody Mary he had ever had. The quantity of vodka probably had something to do with that perception, but he figured they poured heavy to keep customers there buying the other items they provided, not on the menu.
Lonna dropped two foil wrapped biscuits on the counter and moved away towards the group of bikers at the center of the bar. Santoro munched a stale biscuit and watched them. He had to find a way to get into that group. If there were anything to be learned about Budroe’s plans, it would be from them.
Entry into their club would not be simple. The big biker and the man who had questioned him, who seemed to be the boss of things, would be the key. He had no idea how he was going to get into the group, but he had always been a good improviser. It was what made him excel at undercover work.
It would probably happen quickly, at the spur of the moment, the right moment. There wouldn’t be time to plan things with Poncinelli. He had to trust that Ponce would have his back when the time came. Having given the possibility of needing backup all the concern Marco Santoro felt was necessary, he sipped Lonna’s unexpectedly good Bloody Mary and considered his next move.
56. No Other Choice
The drive was more of a trail, canopied by live oaks and pines forming a long, winding green tunnel. Lonna sat in the passenger seat of Henry Schull’s super duty pickup. Henry drove in silence. They had been summoned.
After several miles of snaking, bumping turns, they pulled into a clearing. At the far side sat a doublewide trailer. It looked new. A small building that Lonna recognized as a pump house for the well sat to one side and nearby a diesel generator to supply electricity.
Schulls stopped the pickup in front of the doublewide and they climbed out into the clearing and the heat of the day.
“Jesus…fucking hotter’n hell.” Schulls put an arm to his forehead and wiped away the sweat that had formed immediately upon leaving the air-conditioned truck cab.
Lonna said nothing, staring instead at the large deck recently constructed from pressure treated wood that sat outside the front door. An awning, extending the length of the double wide, provided shade for the deck.
“Welcome to my abode. Come on up in the shade.”
“Your what?” Schulls stared up at the speaker, puzzled by a word that was not exactly in common usage in the circles he ran.
“Abode. House. Home. Place where I’ll be keeping my ass out of sight until we get matters settled back in Pickham County.” Roy Budroe sat in a large chaise lounge, flanked by Ramón Guzman and Marques Peña. “Come on outta the sun and get off your feet.”
Schulls and Lonna climbed the steps to the deck and took chairs across from Budroe. Henry scanned the clearing as he sat down. There were men scattered around the tree line, watching them, the doublewide, the woods and the trail they had just traveled. He expected that there were others, unseen along the trail who had marked their progress and reported back to Budroe.
When they were seated, Budroe began with introductions. “Figured it was time for a face to face meeting. “This is Senor Peña. He handles certain…affairs…for me. You will both be talking to him when needed. When you do, do what he says.”
Lonna and Henry looked at each other nodding. It didn’t take much in the way of deduction to know that the strangers who had come to Roydon were Peña’s men. Do what they say. That had been their instructions from Budroe. He was making it official now with Peña.
“This other slick looking fella is Ramón Guzman. Lonna, you will be working with him in making arrangements for the inventory that will be coming in.”
Guzman exchanged a nod with Lonna and turned his head to listen to Budroe.
Introductions completed, Budroe leaned back, cigar in his teeth, hands clasped over his belly. “Report.”
It was not a question. Schulls began by bringing his boss up to date on the expanded drug operations. Budroe listened, asking only an occasional question. Schulls was thorough and most questions were unnecessary. After thirty minutes of reviewing territory expansion, personnel added and eliminated, profit and loss he concluded. “All in all, I think we are making good progress.” As soon as he said it, he wished he hadn’t.
“That a fact? You think we’re making good progress.”
Having stepped in it, Schulls was smart enough to leave his foot there and make no effort to extricate himself. He remained silent.
“Just so you know, Henry, I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to do. Just keep doing and things will be fine.” Budroe stared at him waiting, almost hoping, for some response. There was none.
Schulls was familiar with Budroe’s tendency for scathing sarcasm to any editorializing. He had been away from the boss for so long that it had momentarily slipped his mind and his tongue. The only thing to do now was to sit there stoically and take whatever abuse Budroe was dishing out. To Schulls’ relief Budroe let it drop and turned his attention to Lonna.
“And you. Progress.”
She reported on her efforts at finding a suitable warehousing area for the girls that would be arriving soon. She had located a couple of possible sites. She was ready to take Guzman to them to make the final choice. When her report was completed, she just stopped talking. There was no editorial comment.
“Good.” Budroe nodded, chewing the end of the ubiquitous cigar, thinking. “I have something else for you to do.”
Lonna nodded. Waiting for instructions.
“Bring Vernon to me.”
She paled, barely able to answer. “Wh-who.?”
Budroe laughed. “You sound like a fucking owl.” Just as suddenly the mirth was gone from his face and his voice. “Vernon, you know, the doper you been fucking since the eighties…used to run the StarLite for me...got tangled up with Mackey in that serial killer bullshit…Vernon…Vernon Taft. Bring him to me.”
“But I don’t…I mean I got no idea where…”
“Cut the bullshit, Lonna. You think I don’t know you see each other? If I wanted him dead, he would be…you to for that matter for fucking him. He stays with his sister in Valdosta, in case you need a little reminding.”
“But…Roy, he won’t…”
“He will, for you. You tell him all is forgiven. Hell, I know he didn’t tell Mackey anything. That pissant wouldn’t have the balls to turn on me. He ran for his life when there wasn’t any need to. Now he better come back if he wants to stay alive.” Budroe’s eyes bored into hers. “You can even tell him your life might depend on it if you think that will get him here.” He smiled. “But that’s just talk…you know, to convince him to come.”
Lonna knew that nothing with Budroe was just talk. “But if you know where he is, why don’t you just pick him up?”
“Because right now I’m keeping a low profile for myself. I’m still outta the country as far as the law is concerned. I want to keep it that way.”
“He won’t come. There’s nothing I could say to make him.”
“How about this…all is forgiven. I know he must want his life back, to be able to see you when he wants…come and go as he pleases out of Roydon. He can have all that. I just need him to do one thing…to make up for the past.”
“One thing? What’s that…he’ll want to know.”
“I’ll tell him when I see him. I’ll tell you too.” Budroe leaned forward, his voice softer, understanding. “Lonna, I know he’s afraid. He doesn’t need to be. Hell, I miss the squirrelly little fucker. I have this one thing for him to do. It isn’t dangerous. He just needs to say what I tell him to say to someone…deliver a sort of message. When he does that, it’s over. He can come, or go…you can both go if that’s what you want.” Budroe leaned back. “Do it Lonna.”
Lonna MacIntyre nodded, already planning how she would make the pitch to Vernon, the things she would do for him to get him there. Looking into Budroe’s eyes one thing was clear. There was no other choice.
57. Six
The throaty rumble of the motorcycle rose in volume, then faded, and then increased again as it wound its way along the dirt road, a strange acoustic effect of the surrounding vegetation. Finally, it rounded a last bend and the rumble became a roar for a few seconds and then ceased suddenly as Marco Santoro cut the throttle and slid to a stop in the gravel.
He walked up to the small gathering and grinned. “I’m Marco.”
“We figured.” Sandy Davies returned the smile. He inclined his head towards the man beside him. “This is Mike Darlington, chief deputy here in Pickham County. You already know Gary Poncinelli.”
Leaned against the old undercover pickup, Poncinelli lifted a hand.
Santoro nodded. “We’ve met.” He raised in a hand in return. “Things are getting interesting at Pete’s.”
“Yeah. I’ve been watching, wondering when you would make some move to get in with the crowd at the bar.”
“Looking for the right moment. Now that we’ve seen the lay of the land, thought we should talk before I start something.”
“Good idea.” Ponce nodded. “One thing, we can’t both always be there at the same time. That’ll look suspicious.”
“True.”
“Whatever you do, you need to time it when I’m hanging out there with some of the locals…so I can watch your back” Ponce smiled. “I’ve been bonding with a couple of redneck farm types.”
“I noticed. You seem to fit in pretty good.” Marco turned to Davies and Darlington. “Anything you can tell us…something to get closer to the players there, where we can pick some idea of what’s going on?”
“Got a description of anyone there. That might help,” Darlington said.
“Big tall, biker type seems to be one of the leaders. Another one, shorter middle-aged, thinning brown hair, he does a lot of the talking. The others listen to him a lot.
“Tall biker dude is Luke McCrory. I’ve had some run-ins with him. One not too long ago.” Darlington thought for a minute. “The other guy, not sure of his name.” He looked at Santoro. “But I’d love to know it. He seems to run things, gives a lot of orders. Saw him on the square in Everett bossing Big Luke around.”
“Yeah, well he’s still giving orders. Bikers gather around him like chicks around a mother hen. He says something and they scurry off and don’t come back for a while. When they do, they go right to him and this McCrory fella.”
Darlington
nodded. “That’d be him, the head rooster, whatever his name is.” His brow lifted, regarding Santoro with interest. “Wouldn’t think a New York boy like yourself would know much about the habits of chickens.”
“Upstate New York. Out in the country outside Buffalo. They got chickens there too, and rednecks. They just talk a lot different.”
“Buffalo. Man it’s cold there, isn’t it?”
“Why you think I’m down here in the Peach State? Back to business, any ideas on how we get close to this McCrory and the head guy?”
“Drugs.” Sandy Davies nodded, thinking. “Drugs would be the simplest. That’s what McCrory is into. Prostitution or the sex slave thing might be an angle, but drugs are simpler. You can buy and fake using…kind of hard to fake sex with a prostitute...if it comes to that.”
“Drugs, huh. I can do that. Do a buy, maybe hear something in the process, maybe tell them I want to distribute.”
“We need a signal.” Darlington spoke up not feeling comfortable with the risk the two undercover investigators were taking. “You know, in case you need backup. In case things go to hell.”
Poncinelli nodded. “Right. You got a cell phone? Both of you?”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“Good give us the numbers. We put them in setup ready to text. The signal is the numeral 6.”
“Six?” Darlington looked at him puzzled.
“The number 6. Just that. Six, like in, I’ve got your six. You get the number 6 on your phone, come running and bring the cavalry. It’ll mean things have gone to hell.”
When they exchanged numbers, Sandy spoke, his voice somber. “Be careful. These boys don’t play. I know this isn’t the big city and they look like a bunch of rednecks, but they are serious.” The sheriff thought about the string of bodies in Georgia and Florida that had led to the undercover op. “If they work for Budroe, they are stone cold killers.”