by Glenn Trust
Klineman’s eyes bored into Budroe’s. There was no backing down now, no turning back. He was committed; his fate to be determined by what happened in the next few minutes. Whatever else he was, Richard Klineman was an opportunist and a man who craved the power and respect he had wielded as the sheriff of Pickham County. It may not have been much, but it was his. Devastated by its loss, he would do whatever was required to regain his former status and repay those who had taken it away.
In desperate need of respect from someone, anyone, everyone, Klineman saw George Mackey and Sandy Davies as responsible for the loss of his office. It was them, not the voters of Pickham County, and not his own self-serving incompetence that had cost him his job. His cravings for position and power gave him the courage he did not naturally possess. And that had brought him to this moment, sitting on the porch of an old shack in the middle of nowhere with a very dangerous man, and the dangerous man’s dangerous assistant.
Klineman had the uneasy feeling that the assistant was waiting for Budroe to give him a signal. The signal would determine Klineman’s fate. The deal would be struck between them…or something unpleasant would happen to Klineman. He didn't want to think about that.
His eyes moved briefly to the big man who was watching with curious interest, munching a flyspecked powdered donut. He was there for a purpose. He was a problem solver, a remover of troubling issues…or people.
His eyes shifted back to Budroe who had noted the fleeting look of what…fear, resignation. Determination maybe. Like a man ready to lay his cards on the table and go all in. Budroe waited, allowing Klineman’s little self-inflicted drama to play out before him.
“No, not eliminated in the way you’re thinking.” Klineman took a deep breath and continued. “But eliminated just as effectively. Taken out so that they can never cause you a problem again.”
Budroe shrugged. “Someone would take their place.”
“Maybe that someone would be a friend. Someone who would not be interested in your…business activities.”
“Cut the shit, Dick.” Budroe smiled at Klineman’s stiffening reaction to the use of his familiar name. “You tell me how you propose to take Mackey and Davies out. Make them go away as a problem. If I buy it, you will have more money than you could ever need to run for sheriff again…and win. Once you’re in as sheriff again, there will be some other arrangements. I’ll make sure you’re compensated but…” He leaned forward, close to Klineman. “Nothing is free, Dick. You understand. There is a price for everything, and I always make sure I’m paid my price.”
Klineman swallowed and nodded. “I understand.”
“Spit it out then. If I like it, we have a deal.” Budroe smiled. “If I don’t…well, you won’t like what happens next.” His eyes moved to the man at the side watching the exchange…waiting.
Swallowing down the anxiety, forcing it into his gut where it sat, a burning pit of acid, it took Klineman thirty minutes to explain his plan and answer Budroe’s questions. There weren’t many questions. Budroe was a quick study, and he had to admit that the plan was subtle and perfect. Davies, and most of all, Mackey would be history.
Klineman sat watching, waiting, eyeing the big man to the side nervously. Budroe considered his face, his eyes, drinking in the man’s thoughts, savoring his anticipation and fear. Finally, he spoke.
“I have to admit, Dick…do you mind if I call you Dick, since we are going to be knee deep in the shit together, I feel like I should call you, Dick.” A broad smile spread across his broad face.
Klineman nodded. “Dick is fine.” He hated the name.
“Well then, I have to admit, Dick, you have come up with one helluva plan. I like it.”
The big man to the side relaxed, smiled, reached for another flyspecked donut and sat back.
“Glad you like it,” Klineman managed. In truth, he was relieved to the point of passing out.
“I have to admit. You got balls.” Leaning forward, he slapped Klineman on the shoulder, almost knocking the semi-limp man off the barrel. “It took balls to come here.” He waved his hand around the clearing and surrounding woods. “It took balls to say what you did, not knowing what I was gonna say.” He stuck his beefy hand out waiting for Klineman to take it. “Shake. We’re partners now, Dick.”
Klineman wiped his sweaty palm on his pants before taking Budroe’s hand. The balls Budroe had complimented had shrunk to the size of peas. The handshake was brief, but he felt the power in Budroe’s grasp.
“Like Ben Franklin said, we hang together or we’ll hang separately, isn’t that right, Dick?”
Klineman smiled weakly and nodded. He was afraid to open his mouth for fear that his breakfast would end up on Budroe’s shoes.
31. Something Big
“Holy shit. What do you want?”
Vernon Taft’s face went pale. George had never seen the blood drain out of a man so quickly. Peeking around Mackey’s shoulder, Taft peered up and down the street outside and then stepped back into the small wood frame house.
“Goddamn. Get your ass in here, Mackey.”
Walking through the door nonchalantly, George smiled at the thin trembling man. “Morning Vernon. You look well.”
“Like hell.” He pushed the door firmly closed behind Mackey, turning the lock bolt. “You crazy? You trying to get my ass killed, or you just have a death wish for both of us? Jesus!”
“I have to say, you do seem a trifle nervy. What’s the matter, Vernon?”
“You know damn well.” Looking for all the world like he would pass out in the next minute, he slumped onto the threadbare sofa that sat against an empty wall,. “Roy Budroe finds out you came here, and I’ll be dead. Don’t play games with me. What the hell do you want?”
“I guess we best hurry up with our business. Then I can get out of your way.” He sat in a chair across from Taft. “Come to think of it, you’re right. Never know who might be watching.”
“What business you talkin’ about? We ain’t got no business.”
“Yeah, we do Vernon. And you know what it is.”
Leaning forward, agitated, Taft spit the words out. “Bullshit. If you’re talkin’ about that girl killed in that motel room in Roydon, that’s done. You caught the guy that killed her. You’re the one who got him, George. You know that business is done, so that means we don’t have any business.”
Taft had been a material witness in the case that gained statewide notoriety in the Georgia press as the ‘Predator Investigation’. Working as the night clerk at the StarLite Motel in Roydon, Vernon had checked the killer into the motel while his victim sat bound in his car. Vernon Taft had actually been the last person to see the girl alive, except for the killer. George had always found that disturbing. The last person to see the girl in the moments before she was tortured to death was Vernon. Somehow, it made her death alone in the motel room more terrible. From the dark of the motel office, he had watched her being taken from the killer’s car into the cheap, dingy room. The door closed, and she was gone, never seen alive again.
George sat gazing at Vernon thoughtfully, remembering the girl they had later found in the weeds on the side of a country road. Yeah, his business with Vernon wasn’t done yet.
The problem was that the StarLite was across the street from Pete’s Place, Roy Budroe’s headquarters for criminal activity. Talking to the law was an extremely unhealthy practice in Roydon, especially with Budroe watching from the gravel lot of Pete’s across the road. George had promised Vernon protective custody and a free ride to his sister’s place in Valdosta in exchange for his cooperation in identifying the killer. As it turned out, Vernon’s testimony was not needed. In his mind that meant there was no debt to pay. George had other ideas.
“Tell me something, Vernon.” George sat back in the chair and smiled.
“Huh?” Lifting his face from his hands, he looked truly puzzled. “What does that mean? Tell you something?”
“It means, tell me something.” George star
ed hard into Vernon’s eyes. “Tell me something about Budroe’s operations. What he’s got planned. Talk, Vernon.”
“How the fuck do I know?” he said, his voice somewhere between a whine and a whimper. “You know Budroe don’t talk to me. I don’t even see him. I stay away from him as much as I can. I like it that way.”
“I’ll bet you do, Vernon. Mr. Roy Budroe sees you around too much, and he might just wonder what else you might have been talking to the law about.” The smile was back on George’s face. “But you have a problem, Vernon my friend.”
“Problem?” Vernon asked, shaking his head as if to clear it. “I don’t have no problem, except you waltzing up here, sittin’ in my living room for all the world to see. That’s a big fucking problem, George!”
“Well, you do have one other problem, actually.” Vernon’s eyebrows rose quizzically, trying to understand George’s meaning. “Let me spell it out for you so we can cut through the bullshit and end this little visit.” Leaning forward, George rested his elbows on his knees. “I’m going to leave here with some real information, or…well, I’m going to have to come up with some creative information. And while I get creative, it is likely that Roy Budroe is going to find out that we talked and that you are staying here in Valdosta with your sister.”
“Y-you wouldn’t.” Vernon’s face was whiter than before.
“I would.” George nodded somberly. “I wouldn’t want to, Vernon, but make no mistake about it, you are going to talk to me and tell me about his operations…or I get creative.”
Face in his hands, trying to block out George and the words he spoke, Vernon shook his head. “I don’t know what to tell you George. Really, I don’t.” He looked up at George to emphasize his sincere inability to provide any information to the deputy. “I haven’t even seen Roy since that day. And I don’t want to.”
Nodding his understanding, George said, “You know, I believe you Vernon. I really do.” He sat back again in the chair and crossed his legs, settling in for the day or until Vernon gave him what he wanted. “Thing is, I know you talk to Lonna. You and Lonna had a thing going once, didn’t you.”
Taft’s mouth moved as if trying to speak. There were no sounds.
“Vernon,” George said, his voice serious and quiet, sounding like a minister speaking to one of his flock about his sins. “I know that you and Lonna were shacked up, lovers as they say. I reckon you still are.”
“That’s not true!”
“Sure it is. I’ve seen her leave Pickham County headed this way. Out of…let’s call it curiosity…I asked the police department here to send a unit by and see if a friend’s car was at this location. You know, just as a courtesy to a fellow officer. And guess what…” George raised his eyebrows in mock surprise. “They identified Lonna’s car, tag number and all, sitting in your sister’s driveway. Imagine that.”
“But that don’t mean shit. We’re…friends. I been knowin’ Lonna since…”
“You’ve known Lonna MacIntyre since you both ran drugs up and down I-95 back in the eighties. You were kids then, in love, probably. I’ve seen pictures of Lonna then, turning tricks helping you with the drug trade and all. She was a good looking woman.”
George let the surprise linger in the air and the shock settle on Vernon’s face before asking, “Tell me something, Vernon? Did you pimp her while you were together? What’s that like…pimping your girlfriend, your lover?”
“You shut up and get the fuck out of here!” Taft was on his feet, the pale complexion replaced by red-face anger.
“Relax, Vernon. I’m not passing judgment, just curious.” The look on George’s face became almost believably sympathetic. “Sit down, Vernon,” he said softly. “I apologize for offending you, but I need you to understand that we are going to talk. You are going to talk, or things are going to be very difficult, even dangerous for you…for Lonna too.” Watching while Vernon sank back onto the sofa, defeated, George gave him a minute to think things through, then said. “Tell me what you and Lonna talk about. What does she tell you, Vernon…about Budroe and his operations?”
A full two minutes ticked by. George said nothing, watching the wheels turn in Vernon’s brain and the fear play across his face, making sure that Vernon knew he was not leaving without what he wanted.
Vernon spoke. “There’s something big coming.”
“Tell me about it, Vernon,” George said softly, as a minister might, waiting for the confession of sins.
“I don’t know a lot.” Taft looked up at George. “Really, I don’t. But something big is coming.”
“What?”
“Budroe is expanding his operations. Going really big.”
“How big?”
“International. He’s got ties down on the islands, you know the Caribbean.”
“How much does Lonna know?”
“A lot. She’s gonna be running things in Roydon He trusts her.”
“I understand, and she trusts you, Vernon. So you tell me what she is doing for Budroe, about the new operations, and I will make sure that she only goes down for some local bullshit in Pickham County. You understand?
Vernon nodded.
“If you don’t tell me about it, I promise you that she will go down with Budroe and take the big fall.” He paused, waiting for Taft to look up at him and then spoke seriously. “Vernon, you know we will get to the bottom of this. It’s what we do. You work with us, and I will make sure that Budroe can’t hurt you or Lonna. It’s your only chance.”
Vernon wasn’t too sure about the rest of the Pickham County Sheriff’s Department, but he knew George Mackey, and he knew Mackey’s reputation. He would not stop until he had everyone involved, including Lonna.
Nodding, he said “Okay, I’ll tell you George, but you got to protect us…protect Lonna. You have to promise.
“I promise Vernon.” George’s voice was solemn. “Lonna will only take a hit for the local petty stuff in Pickham and I will make sure that Budroe cannot get to either of you when this is done.”
Nodding his agreement to the terms, Vernon started talking. When he was done, George went out through the back door and walked three blocks to the shopping center parking lot where he had left his personal pickup truck. George Mackey had to agree with Vernon Taft about one thing. Roy Budroe was, indeed, a dangerous man. It would not do for him to suspect that Chief Deputy George Mackey had met with one Vernon Taft, formerly of the StarLite Motel.
32. Ricky and the Brothers
“Talk to me.” Pushing the cell phone hard against his face, Rick Sanchez steered the Camaro around a corner, tires squealing on the asphalt. Unable to sleep, he cruised the streets of Atlanta through the night, not really expecting to find anything. Waiting and doing nothing was impossible while Bobby lay in the morgue, and his killers roamed free.
“They’re here.”
“Now?”
“Right now, Ricky. Waiting in my office for the cash. They’re in a hurry.”
“How many?”
“Two.” Tank Johnson paused. “They’re brothers. I know ‘em. Been doin’ business with the older one for a few years now. Not regular. He just comes in with something now and again when he needs cash.”
“You sure it’s the car?”
“It’s the car. Black Mustang, red stripes on the hood. I know Bobby’s car.”
“I’m ten minutes away. Keep them there.”
“I’ll keep ‘em here Ricky.” Tank paused again then said, “They’re brothers, Ricky.”
“So? They ain’t nothin’ to me. They killed my brother. They killed Ricky.”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, well I’m gonna find out.”
****
It only took Ricky Sanchez a little over eight minutes to wheel under the bay door at Tank Johnson’s Automotive Repair and after-hour chop shop. Stepping from the Camaro, he looked towards Tank’s ramshackle plywood office at the back end of the garage area. Through the large plexiglass window, he saw two young
men seated across from Tank’s desk. Tank was slowly counting out bills on the desktop. Unseen by the two brothers in Tank’s office, a large man with a heavy rubber mallet stood by the door making sure they did not leave before Ricky arrived.
Nodding at the man with the mallet, Ricky opened the office door. Tank looked up, nodded and put the bills back in a desk drawer.
The two men turned their heads. The younger of the two looked confused and slightly apprehensive at the intrusion. He turned to look at his older brother and his apprehensions changed to outright fear. Darren Tuxton understood the situation immediately, and his face showed it. He was scared shitless. Darren didn’t know Ricky, but he knew who Ricky Sanchez was.
“Well, look at this. Got us a little business transaction goin‘down, do we?” Reaching into the pocket of the short jacket he wore, Ricky pulled out a small pistol, a .32 caliber Walther PPK and pointed it at the two brothers. The PPK had earned Sanchez one of his many street names, 007, because the Walther PPK in .32 caliber was the weapon of choice for Ian Fleming’s James Bond character. Ricky didn’t know much about Ian Fleming, or James Bond for that matter, but the nickname, 007, was cool, and he liked the Walther because of its small size and ease of concealment.
“Not here, Ricky. Told you that,” Tank said and nodded at the big man with the mallet who had stepped into the room behind Ricky.
“Not here, Tank, I promised,” he said reaching into his other jacket pocket and retrieving two pair of shiny chrome handcuffs. The cuffs were of a make common to many police departments. Tossing the handcuffs at the two young men, he said to Darren, “Put a cuff on your right wrist and the other end on his left wrist.” He motioned at Dale.
When Darren had complied, Ricky told him to put the other cuffs on the opposite wrists so that the two brothers were cuffed together facing each other. Inspecting Darren’s handcuffing technique, he squeezed the ratchets tight on their wrists and nodded, satisfied. “Okay, let’s go.”
“Go? Where we goin’ like this?” Darren realized things were going to get very bad for him and his brother. He looked at Tank. “You gonna let him do this?”