Just as she reached her Mazda and was fumbling in her purse for the car keys, a hand grabbed her throat from behind. She tried to scream but no sound came out. She swung her elbows at whoever stood behind her, but the very strong man pushed her to the concrete floor beside the car and pinned her arms to the pavement with his knees. Then everything faded to black.
Perhaps fifteen minutes later, Carmen revived suddenly, terrifyingly, as the memory of her abduction came back. Her throat ached and seemed swollen inside as she gasped desperately for air. She tried to put her hands to her face, but they were tied behind her back. The seatbelt was across her body and locked in place, so she couldn’t move.
“Feeling better?” a voice beside her asked.
“You!” she said, seeing Ace behind the wheel of her car. They were driving on the street, although she didn’t recognize the area.
“How’d you like the play?” he asked. “I couldn’t make it, but you can fill me in.”
“What do you want, Ace? Stop the car!”
“You’re not in any position to make demands, Carmen. I suggest you listen, okay?”
“What do you want?” she asked again, this time in an imploring voice. She looked out the window, deciding that they were headed south on the Parkway, which eventually came within about two miles of her apartment complex.
“Richey and I are going to do some business tomorrow, but he might be reluctant. You’re going to change his mind.” Richey was buffer number one. Carmen was lever number one.
“It was you on the phone!”
He grinned and chuckled. “I do a good fire chief imitation.”
“I won’t do anything for you!” she said bravely, her voice cracking.
“Oh, yes, you will. You’ll do exactly as I say, in fact.”
Ace dialed a number on her cell phone and put it to her mouth and ear.
When Richey answered, Carmen shouted, “Richey, Ace has kidnapped me! Help me, Richey! Help me!”
Ace took back the phone and spoke into the receiver, “That’s right, Richey. I’ll get back to you later, and let you know what I want you to do tomorrow. Call the cops and I’ll drop Carmen in a lake after I give her the fuck of a lifetime. This time, they won’t find the body.”
He clicked off the phone and put it in his shirt pocket.
“Let me at least call my mother and daughter. If I don’t show up later to pick up my daughter, my mother will call the police.”
“Let her. They’ll just think you and Richey are shacked up in a hotel, fucking. In fact, you may get some dick before the night is over, Carmen.”
Carmen started to scream, thinking she could attract the attention of other motorists, but Ace reached over, grabbed her throat and squeezed until she felt faint again.
“Shut the fuck up! You say another word before we get where we’re going, Carmen, and I’ll choke you unconscious.”
Carmen looked down at the door armrest. She could see that the door was locked. There was no way she could flick the lock lever and open the door with her hands tied behind her, and her seatbelt snapped in place. Carmen thought about anything sharp that she might reach, and that brought to mind a pair of scissors in her purse, which lay on the floorboard. Suddenly, she remembered her new gun inside the soft case under the passenger’s seat! She had put it there because it wouldn’t fit under the driver’s side seat, because of the power seat mechanism. She and Richey had planned to go back to the shooting range next Wednesday. Tears rolled down her cheek. There was no way she could get to the gun, either. She was helpless and Ace would do with her as he wanted. He was a killer, a thief, and a rapist!
∞ ∞ ∞
When Carmen screamed into the phone that Ace had kidnapped her, Richey experienced chest pains. They continued as he raced through the Westin hotel lobby and then out front, where he gave a valet the ticket for his car parked underground. He had arrived several hours ahead of Carmen, who drove her car after dropping off Marisa.
As he drove south, Richey’s mind filled with unwanted thoughts and images of Carmen being raped, tortured, and killed; her body weighted down and dumped ignominiously in a lake. Then, he breathed deeply and tried to clear his head.
A jumble of thoughts filled Richey’s mind, especially regarding Ace’s motives and plans. Was it simply a rape fantasy? Had Ace become obsessed with Carmen? Or, did Ace fear that Richey would cooperate with the police in their investigation of the murders of Hank and Melvin? That didn’t make sense, because Ace surely had talked to Kandie by now, and knew that Richey had covered for Ace, in a way. Richey didn’t tell the detectives that Kandie had told him about the fight in her apartment Tuesday night. At the time, he thought he was indirectly protecting Marshon.
Richey also considered that maybe it had something to do with the killings at The Wheel. But, what? Richey was only one among hundreds of witnesses who saw Ace kill the two robbers. Shutting Richey up wouldn’t accomplish anything, unless Ace wanted to send a message to others who might testify against him. Using Richey as the go-between, Marshon had given Ace a total of ten thousand dollars to finance his relocation. Maybe Ace just wanted more money, and Carmen was the leverage. But, Ace had to know about Marshon’s current predicament. Richey had no idea how to even contact Marshon.
Suddenly, Richey recalled that Ace wanted him to do something tomorrow. Richey searched his memory regarding the bar conversations he'd had with Ace. Ace liked movies in which the heroes were those who robbed the rich. Suddenly, Richey remembered the newspaper clipping about Cathy Kennedy and her husband. Richey couldn’t recall his name. Had Ace said at the time, “She’s the one”; or, had Richey just imagined that? What had Ace meant? Later, Ace said the Kennedys were just examples of economic inequality.
Once again, Richey was at a loss for an explanation, which caused him to come back to his worse, first fear: Ace simply wanted to rape Carmen. He’d become sexually fixated with her, his latest rape victim. But, then, why had Ace promised to get back to him later? To brag? Torture him! Let him listen on the phone. Did Ace hate him that much, for some unfathomable reason?
Richey thought about going to the nearest police station to report Carmen’s abduction, but he feared the consequences. He had no proof. Ace had used Carmen’s phone to call him. The police wouldn’t and couldn’t do anything, at least not right away. They had to wait a day or two. Someone might recognize Richey as a rover at The Wheel. The cops would be much more interested in the five homicides that seemed to connect Richey, Marshon, Ace, Carmen and Kandie. If Richey walked into a police station, he’d be there for hours — precious hours during which they would interrogate him and do nothing to find Carmen.
Richey thought about the 9-mm Sig Sauer in the glove box. Perhaps he had purchased the gun because of an unconscious premonition. He needed to be a man and do whatever was necessary to save Carmen, even if that included killing Ace.
His first thought was that Ace might be at Kandie’s apartment, although that seemed unlikely. According to Kandie, she hadn’t seen Ace since Tuesday night when he’d killed Hank and Melvin. The police might even have Kandie’s apartment under surveillance. A horrible alternative caused Richey to turn down a side street. He stopped the car and looked through his cell phone contact list. He called Carmen’s mother.
She answered and confirmed that Marisa was there. Richey tried to concoct a nonthreatening story, and said Carmen had gone to the apartment to investigate a gas leak. Her mother should call him if Carmen showed up at her place in the company of a tall man with a ponytail. Don’t let Marisa leave under any circumstances! When Carmen’s mother predictably sounded alarmed and began to ask questions, Richey abruptly ended the call.
He drove as quickly as he could, although mindful not to exceed the speed limit drastically so that the cops stopped him. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived at Carmen’s apartment complex, but parked one building away. There was no evidence of a fire, nor any sign of firefighters and their vehicles. Richey took the Sig Sauer out
of the glove box and checked to make sure the clip was filled with bullets. He injected a bullet into the chamber. It was beginning to rain, as predicted. Later, the rain was supposed to turn to sleet. One forecast even called for the first snow of the season.
Holding the gun at the ready, he let himself into Carmen’s apartment with a key and snapped on the lights, which gave him a view of the kitchen, living and dining rooms. He cautiously made his way to the hallway leading to the bedrooms, reminding himself as he flipped on the hall light to be certain before he fired the gun. He didn’t want to kill Carmen accidentally.
He walked over to Kandie’s building and around to the sliding doors that opened onto a small patio. The drapes were open, but the apartment was dark. He tried the sliding door, which wasn’t locked. He stepped inside and stood silently for a minute until his eyes adjusted to the extreme darkness. Then, he slipped on a light switch and moved about the apartment, but no one was home there, either. Where in the hell were Kandie and her kids late on a Friday night? He knew she had an aunt and uncle who lived nearby, but he didn’t know where, and he couldn’t remember their last name.
Back at his car, Richey called the number of his old office phone at Biederman’s. He heaved a sigh of relief when Calvin Raines, his replacement as warehouse manager, answered the phone.
“Calvin, it’s Richey.”
“How’re things going, Richey?”
“So, so. Listen, Calvin, I need a favor. Does Robert Long still work there? They call him Country”
“Yeah, the idiot. No, he apparently quit, or at least he quit coming to work, which is no big loss, since I spent half his shift explaining what he should do.”
“Could you check the employment roster on the computer and give me his address and phone number, as well as the license plate number for his truck.”
“What’s going on, Richey?”
“His dad died and they called me. I don’t know why, but I guess Country gave my phone number to his folks. I’ll try and find Country, unless you or someone there wants to do it?” In actuality, Richey remembered Kandie saying that Ace had been staying with Country,
Within minutes, Calvin gave him the information, and Richey sped north about thirty blocks to 76th Street and Country’s address. It turned out to be the only dilapidated house in a residential area of old but generally well-maintained ranch houses. Cars filled the driveway and lined the street in front of the house. From two blocks away, he could hear the loud music.
Shortly after midnight, Richey knocked on the door with one hand while keeping the other on the butt of the Sig Sauer stuck behind his waistband and covered by Willy Loman’s suit coat. Richey was still sweating and didn’t need an overcoat.
A longhaired guy wearing granny glasses and a gray jogging suit answered the door. Tattoos covered one side of his neck and face. He held a beer bottle and swayed from side to side, either from too much booze or in beat to the obnoxious heavy metal sound. “What the fuck do you want?” he demanded. “I already heard from the other neighbors that the music is too loud. Tough shit!”
“I’m looking for Country Long,” Richey shouted.
“He ain’t here no more.”
“Did he move?”
“A month ago,” the man with the tattoos said, starting to turn away.
Richey grabbed his arm. “Sorry, but this is important.” Richey took out his billfold, cursing himself for not having stopped at an ATM. He had about $70 and held out the money. “Do you know where Country is right now?”
The tattooed guy shoved Richey down the steps into the yard, yelling, “Don’t be grabbin’ me, motherfucker!”
Enraged that this bastard was wasting his and Carmen’s precious time, Richey dropped the money, pulled out the gun and pointed it at the man's chest.
“You got ten seconds to tell me where Country is or I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you!” Richey choked back the vomit rising in his throat, doubting he could carry through on the threat.
The roommate nonchalantly took a swig of beer and didn’t seem to be affected by the threat of imminent death. “He moved out. I think he moved in with his girlfriend, the retard who works at McDonald’s.”
“What’s her name? Where’s she live?”
The guy squatted and picked up the cash. “Her name’s Rhonda. She lives in the sticks southwest of town.”
“Where? What’s her last name?”
He stood, cash in one hand, the beer bottle in the other. “Don’t know her last name, man. All I know is she lives in a trailer.”
Richey stopped at a QuikTrip on 75th street and took $300 out of an ATM. He also got the yellow pages from the clerk and looked for mobile home parks anywhere in the southwestern part of the city. The only listing was for Green Acres on Wilson Road.
Racing southwest on the interstate, it took Richey a half-hour to get there. He began to negotiate a labyrinth of streets within the mobile home park. Calvin had given him a complete description of Country’s pickup, including the year, make, model, color, and license tag number. He flew over the speed bumps and saw dozens of red pickups but none with the right tag number. In frustration, he stopped in front of a trailer with a sign that read: Manager. It was raining harder, now. Richey pulled an umbrella from the pocket on the back of the driver’s seat.
He knocked on the door for several minutes before an old man answered, still buttoning his shirt.
“Sorry to bother you at this hour,” Richey apologized, “but it’s an emergency. I’m looking for Robert Long, who’s called Country. His father has died and his friends say he might be staying here with a girlfriend named Rhonda. Can you help me?”
The old man had his false teeth out and gummed his reply, “Don’t recall the name, mister, but we got three hundred and fifty-three sites here. What’s she look like?”
“I don’t know, but Country is big. ’Bout six-eight, two sixty. Long, curly brown hair. Drives a pickup.”
“Nearly everybody who lives here drives a pickup.”
“It’s a red, 2008 Ford Ranger. I know the tag number. You got records you can look through, right?” Richey held out a hundred dollars. “I’ll pay you for your time.”
The old man looked at the money, arched his bushy eyebrows, and invited Richey inside. From the back of the trailer, a woman’s voice called out fearfully, “Who is it, Walter?”
The old man went to the rear of the trailer and talked quietly to his wife. He returned with a ledger, sat at the kitchen table and opened the book.
“This list of residents is alphabetical by last name,” Walter said, his thick index finger traveling down the lines on each page. Richey noticed he’d put in his teeth.
“Makes it harder to find first names. We got a Rachel here. Ronnie, but that’s a man. Let’s see. Don’t see a Rhonda. But, then, the rental could be in somebody else’s name. Parents, husband. Boyfriend, like you said. We take down tag numbers for their vehicles. You can check ʼem out, if you want.” He slid the ledger in front of Richey, who carefully checked all first names and vehicle tag numbers to no avail.
“Are there other trailer courts nearby?” Richey asked, laying another twenty on the table as an incentive.
“There’s one down the interstate about twenty miles in Culver City. Of course, there’re many mobile homes out in rural areas. Ones that were there before the zoning laws changed. They got grandfathered in.”
Richey’s heart sank. He left and drove around aimlessly, searching fruitlessly for a mobile home with Country’s pickup sitting out front. Finally, he looked at the car’s digital clock — nearly 3 a.m. Heartsick, Richey decided to go home. He had a feeling Ace would soon be in contact.
∞ ∞ ∞
Richey buzzed open the garage door to his house and drove inside. He entered through the laundry room and took the stairs up to the kitchen. A nightlight illuminated a bottle of Smirnoff sitting on the counter top. He filled a glass with about four inches of the clear liquid and added two ice cubes from the refrigera
tor door dispenser. His hands shook as he drained the glass, which he promptly refilled.
When he walked into the living room to sit down and think, he saw a man sitting in a chair in the dark. Richey dropped the glass and reached for his gun.
“It’s me, Richey!” Marshon switched on a lamp and Richey lowered his gun.
“I used a credit card on your door lock,” Marshon explained. “You really need a deadbolt, man.”
“What’re you doin’ here, Marshon?”
“Hiding out. Didn’t mean to scare you. I fell asleep in the chair and woke up when I heard the ice machine. Christ, I didn’t know you packed heat?”
“You dyed your hair and beard.”
“You, too.”
Richey picked up the glass, which had hit the carpet and didn’t break. “I was Willy Loman tonight.”
“Oh, yeah, Death of a Salesman. Honestly, I forgot. How’d that go?”
“Not bad. You want a drink, Marshon?”
“Got any scotch, or brandy?”
“I think I got some brandy.”
“That’ll do the trick.”
Richey brought back the drinks and sat down. “I saw your picture on TV and heard the news about Williams.”
Marshon shrugged. “A business deal gone bad. He shot me and I killed him in self-defense with a letter opener.”
“Jesus!” Richey said. “They didn’t mention that on the news.” After firing guns on the shooting range, Richey winced at the thought of being shot.
“Look, you want a justification for my actions, I gotta canned speech I’ve been giving everyone lately,” Marshon said. “Gail’s heard several versions of it.”
“Save it,” Richey said. “I’m the guy who agreed to be your partner in an illegal gambling operation, remember?” Richey didn’t tell Marshon he’d decided instead to accept Carmen’s Offer — or, at least, that’s what he had told her in the bar and the theater receiving line, in what seemed a lifetime ago.
The Money Game Page 39