by Nick James
“Where are we going?” he asked some minutes later.
That got a scowl in reply.
“Can you give me some idea what this is all about?”
“Hey,” the muscular guy wedged against the door behind him said. “Maybe just shut the fuck up. We wanted to do something to you we would have let Hippo just sit on you back in that parking lot. Don’t mean we still can’t change our mind.”
Bobby glanced at him, noticed the three teardrops tattooed down his left cheek and didn’t need any more encouragement. They drove on for another fifteen minutes and Bobby felt the sweat beginning to run down his back. No one in the vehicle said anything. He studied the tattoos on the muscular man’s arms from out of the corner of his eye.
He had a rough idea of where they were. Actually, it wasn’t too far from where Prez and he had nailed Dubuque and Mobile, the East Side. They turned onto Payne Ave., drove past the Music Café, the old Hamm’s brewery, up and over the bridge, then after a few blocks turned down a side street and around the corner into an alley. They pulled in the rear of some non-descript brick building that looked like it was probably a hundred years old.
Hippo opened the door and pried himself out of the vehicle. The car rocked from side to side as he exited and suddenly Bobby felt like he was able to breathe again.
“What the hell are you waiting for, get your ass out there and give me some room,” the voice behind him growled.
“In here,” Hippo grunted as Bobby climbed out of the SUV. He opened a screen door ,then oozed over to one side.
Bobby stepped in and walked down a half dozen steps into a dark hallway. The brown tile on the floor looked like circa 1950. A narrow beige painted hallway lay straight ahead with plumbing pipes running along the length of the ceiling, and a light flickering out of a doorway at the far end. The muscular guy with the teardrops followed down the steps behind him.
“Come on, get your ass in gear,” he said and shoved Bobby forward.
Chapter Forty-Nine
They passed three doors that were all closed and secured with chrome combination locks, black dials with white numbers were on the front. There was a musty smell that grew in intensity as they walked further along the hallway. The last door at the far end of the hall was open and yellow fluorescent light flickered on and off out into the hall.
“In there,” the voice behind Bobby said as he roughly pushed him through the doorway. Bobby stumbled into the room and turned to look at him. He gave a nod indicating a direction. “Just keep moving, dipshit.”
Bobby was suddenly aware of wooden racks, lots of racks, holding lots of bottles, wine bottles. It looked like row after row of racks. A noise drifted toward them from the far end of the dim room and a voice growled, “Up here.”
They continued in the direction of the voice as the room grew darker. A faint light shone down past the length of wine racks. Bobby’s first thought was they were in the lower level of a restaurant, probably a pricy restaurant given all the wine bottles. He walked toward the light and emerged in the corner of a compact room. Its walls were large limestone blocks, the air felt damp and the musty smell seemed stronger. A bare light bulb hung above a small table where an older man was seated.
It took a moment before he recognized him. He’d seen him just last night for the first time, online. He was overweight and bald with a fringe of white hair running in disarray around his head. He had a ruddy complexion, to the point where his cheeks and chin looked to be chapped or maybe wind-burned. His nose was bulbous, like a new potato, and out of proportion to the rest of his face with a decidedly veiny, purple cast. Morris Montcreff.
The little man standing next to him blinked a number of times, nervously licked his lips and shifted his weight from side to side. He held a wine bottle and poured no more than an inch into a glass the moment the flushed head nodded.
Montcreff raised the glass up toward the light bulb and viewed the color while he swirled the contents.
“Did you know, Bobby, that a true connoisseur can tell you not only where the wine is from, the country, province and vineyard, but he can tell you the year as well,” he said. Then he took a loud sip, moved his mouth from side to side before he spit the wine into an ice bucket next to him.
“What a bunch of bullshit. Who the hell cares? Bastards will drink what’s served. I can’t tell. Hell, my old man was a World War II vet, came home after fighting in Europe and he hated De Gaulle so damn much he wouldn’t let French wine in the house. I just use this to keep up appearances you might say.” He indicated the racks and bottles all around him with a slight wave of his arm.
“Now, your appearances, let’s talk about that.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Don’t play stupid with me, son. You know who I am?”
“No sir.”
Bobby didn’t catch the sign he gave, but the sharp blow to his kidney from behind was expertly placed and he fell to the concrete floor. The pain shot up his back and he gasped for breath.
“By way of introduction, I’m Morris Montcreff. You on the other hand are a piece of shit. Pick him up,” he ordered the man with the teardrop tattoo. He grabbed Bobby by the belt and collar and effortlessly hoisted him back onto his feet.
“Somehow, you seem to fit into a situation I’m interested in. I’m not sure how or why you fit, exactly. But, I can assure you of one thing, I’ll know by the time we’re finished. It’s up to you what direction the conversation will take. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes sir. Only I think there might be some mistake. I’ve been out of town for some time, up in Northern Minnesota, actually.”
“Spare me, Duluth, cooling your heels in the Federal Prison Camp, a goddamned vacation. Right? You drew seven years for being stupid, ended up doing four years, one month and some days. I know all about that so don’t waste my time. My question is really pretty basic. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m not sure I…” was all he got out before a blow to the back of his neck sent stars flashing and he was suddenly down on the concrete floor, again.
“For someone supposedly trained in the finer points of communication you don’t seem to listen all that well. I’m going to ask you nicely one more time. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
He spoke that last part slowly and very deliberately, then pushed Bobby’s head to the side with the toe of his shoe. A pair of hands grabbed his belt and collar again and hoisted him back up on his feet. This time he came up so quickly he nearly vomited and his eyes must have been swirling around in circles.
“Take a deep breath before you answer, Bobby.”
He coughed and gasped a couple of times in an attempt to get his bearings.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Montcreff, honest. Please, you don’t have to hit me again, but I don’t know what you’re referring to. I’ve only been out of the halfway house a little more than a month. I’m just trying to get back on my feet. I’ve lost everything as a result of my conviction. My wife divorced me and took my house and everything else that wasn’t nailed down. I’m disbarred, can’t practice law. I’m driving around town running errands for a law firm.”
“Errands?” he sounded intrigued.
“Yes sir. I drive people to and from depositions, the courthouse, get signatures, run original documents back and forth, that’s all I do.”
“It must pay rather well, I hear you’re driving a pretty nice car.”
“It’s really not mine. I borrowed it, well I mean it was a gift, sort of.”
“From?”
“I didn’t really know him. I had driven his mother to a deposition, actually she never got there. She was too intoxicated so I brought her home. She was killed a little later and I went to the funeral with some flowers. He, her son, thought it was a nice thing to do, I guess and he gave me that vehicle to drive. There’s contact information in the glove compartment, you can check.”
“So one good deed begets another, that it
? You bring flowers to his mother’s funeral, he gives you a Mercedes. I should have seen that right from the start. What the hell is wrong with me?”
Montcreff sounded for a moment like he actually believed what Bobby had said and Bobby thought thank God. Then Montcreff smiled faintly at the thug behind Bobby and said, “Okay, you can get it.”
The little man holding the wine bottle next to Montcreff looked frightened and seemed to half-whisper something.
Montcreff glanced over at him. “Yeah, get the hell out of here,” he said.
He set the bottle down on the table and quickly left. Bobby could hear his footsteps picking up the pace the moment he was out of sight.
Chapter Fifty
Before he knew what was happening the thug with the teardrop tattoo was back and holding a drill. Bobby had worked in the shop for a time up in Duluth and had learned a little about tools. It was a battery-powered affair with what looked like a quarter-inch bit gleaming out the front end. The thug pulled the trigger a couple of times and the drill gave a high pitched response. “Rrrr-rrrr, rrrr-rrrr.”
Bobby didn’t think he was about to do carpentry work. “Now wait a minute, that won’t be necessary, hold on. I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Just ask me, honest. Don’t do this, please.”
He began to back away and the muscular thug followed. The tattoos on his arms seemed to come alive as he flexed his biceps and moved the drill from side to side. He looked to be enjoying Bobby’s fear and the pleading desperation in his voice. His eyes grew suddenly brighter and he smiled in anticipation as Bobby backed up toward the wine racks.
“Come on, we can talk this over, can’t we?” He glanced from Montcreff to the drill.
“Rrrr-rrrr, rrrr-rrrr.”
Bobby backed up a step or two more, then suddenly found himself up against one of the wine racks unable to get any further away.
“No please, this is crazy, don’t do this, don’t, don’t,” Bobby pleaded and attempted to push the tattooed thug away. He grabbed Bobby’s left wrist, turned and yanked Bobby’s hand out in front of him.
“Rrrr-rrrr, rrrr-rrrr.” The thug seemed focused and in an almost orgasmic state, moaning slightly. He wore a wide grin and revved the drill as he wedged Bobby’s arm between his bulging bicep and his ribs and hung on with a steel grip.
Bobby heard the drill rev again. “Rrrr-rrrr, rrrr-rrrr,” a half-second later the bit began to tear into the back of his hand with an excruciatingly sharp pain. He screamed, reached over, grabbed a wine bottle by the neck and brought it crashing down on the thug’s head. The bottle made a dull thunk and didn’t break, but the drill stopped and fell to the floor. Bobby swung full force a second time and caught him on the side of the head against his temple just as he went down. He knelt twitching on the concrete floor with a dazed look on his face when Bobby hit him a third time as hard as he could just above his left eye. This time he felt some give, the skull seemed to make a sort of crunching sound like an eggshell cracking and the thug fell forward and lay very still.
Montcreff half jumped back in his chair and stared wide-eyed, riveted.
Blood dripped down Bobby’s hand and onto the floor. He held the bottle by the neck and turned on Montcreff. “What in the hell is wrong with you? I told you I would tell you anything you wanted to know. I don’t know what you want. I don’t know what I was supposed to do that warrants this sort of action. Jesus!” Bobby screamed, then shook his left hand as the moment passed and the pain began to register. Drops of blood splattered across Montcreff’s face and down his shirt as Bobby shook his hand back and forth.
Montcreff remained wide-eyed staring at Bobby.
The body on the floor had stopped twitching and remained still. The left eye was half closed and stared out blankly, looking glassy above the three blue teardrops. The room suddenly filled with an odor that suggested the thug had voided himself.
Montcreff picked up his wine glass, took a small sip and regained any composure he may have lost. He seemed oblivious to what had just occurred. Oblivious to the body with the partially crushed skull lying at his feet and now stinking up the room. Oblivious to Bobby waving a wine bottle around by the neck in an agitated state bordering on insanity. He acted like he had presented some reasoned business proposal which had been rejected and now it was time for plan B, whatever that was.
“So what do you intend to do now?” Montcreff asked.
“Do, do you think he’s dead?” Bobby asked, unable to take his eyes off the thug’s body.
“Oh yes, very.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt him, it’s just that.…”
“But now what? You’re an ex-con. You’ve just murdered someone,” he nodded at the body on the floor. “If my friends out there don’t carve you up into little pieces the authorities will surely lock you up for life and this time you won’t end up in a federal resort for lawyers and accountants. Not really the best of options.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Bobby clutched the piece of paper with Montcreff’s phone number written on it like it was a ticket to freedom, which he guessed in a strange way, it was. He was too frightened to speak until ten minutes after they dropped him back at his car and drove off. From that point on he was just nervous as hell. He drove the four blocks home and spent more time looking in the rear view mirror than watching the road in front of him. If anyone was following he couldn’t spot them.
He parked on the street and pulled the grocery bag out of the back seat. The bag ripped and the contents spilled onto the street, a bottle of olive oil broke when it hit the pavement. Apparently the ice cream container had been placed on its side and when the ice cream melted it soaked through the bag. He gathered up what he could and hurried inside. Thankfully his apartment was empty. He’d forgotten to check the tape he had attached to the door before he left, not that it really mattered. He dumped the armload of groceries on the kitchen counter next to Kate Clarken’s urn.
He could grovel with the best of them and that body lying on the wine cellar floor had certainly served as an added incentive. He thought he had convinced Morris Montcreff that his employment by Noah Denton, his brief meeting with Kate Clarken, his relationship with her son, Prez and his arrival at the Zimmerman household to garner signatures had been nothing more than an unfortunate series of happenstances.
He mentioned to Montcreff that a casual review of the LLC document suggested in Bobby’s mind that he, Morris Montcreff faced a potential liability should things go wrong and Montcreff would be on the hook for a majority of the debt, meanwhile Zimmerman would get off more or less scot-free. Thank God Montcreff appeared to believe him.
He went on to discuss a number of additional items and once Montcreff was satisfied he sent Bobby on his way. “I believe you, Bobby. I think you’re too damned scared at this point to lie, which is a good thing. Very well, we’ll be talking. On your way, then,” he said sounding like they were just two old friends finishing a coffee.
“But, what about that?” Bobby had asked indicating the body on the floor.
“What about him?” Montcreff shrugged.
“You can’t just leave him here in your wine cellar. What if…”
“Your concern is touching, but not to worry,” Montcreff said groaning to his feet. “After all, it’s not my wine cellar.”
Bobby had picked the wine bottle up off the floor and wiped it down with the edge of the table cloth. As Montcreff watched, a smile came across his lips.
“You don’t seem to miss a trick, Bobby.”
“I don’t need any trouble and neither do you. Maybe hand me that glass and I’ll take it with.”
“Why not just wipe it down?”
“You were drinking out of it, DNA for starters.”
“I’ll take the glass. Where can I have the boys drop you?”
“My car, but I can grab a cab, really.”
“Not a problem,” Montcreff said, then gave Bobby a friendly pat on the shoulder and directed him t
oward the door.
Once he got home Bobby pushed a chair up against the apartment door and then phoned Prez.
“Yeah.”
“Prez, it’s Bobby.”
“I don’t have Arundel’s computer yet, if that’s why you’re calling. Things have gotten a little more complicated so you’ll just have to be patient.”
“I’m not really worried about the computer. I’ve had a couple of complications of my own. We should meet.”
“What for?”
“To talk.”
“About?”
“The name Morris Montcreff mean anything to you?” There was a palpable silence on the other end of the phone. “Prez?”
“Who told you about him?”
“A little more hands-on than that. I met the man.”
“You met him?” Prez half screamed on the other end.
“And some of his associates.”
“You okay?”
“Can we meet?”
“I’ll be right over.”
“No, not here and not Arundel’s, someplace safe. The Courthouse.”
“What?”
“You heard me, the Courthouse. Forty-five minutes, on the fifth floor in the hallway outside the courtrooms. Just remember you’ll have to clear security and metal detectors to get in there.”
“You got Montcreff after you?”
“I didn’t say he was after me. I said I met him. I’ll fill you in when you get down there.” Bobby said and hung up.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Bobby’s wine cellar experience with Morris Montcreff apparently got Prez’s attention. Not only was he there, he arrived a good five minutes early. One of the courtrooms had let out just as Bobby saw him coming around the corner, walking upstream against the flow of people making their way toward the bank of elevators. Prez stopped about twenty feet from Bobby and tried to look like a casual tourist when a pair of police officers walked out of the courtroom and stopped in the hall to chat about a softball game.