“You’re lucky I came at all.” Michael was now almost certain these guys were not cops or FBI. “This had better be good.”
Glass Eye took a large bite out of his pepperoni pizza and pointed to the menu. “You eaten?”
“I’m not hungry. It’s not like we’re friends or anything. Just tell me what you want.”
“We’d have told you in Chicago if you’d stayed around long enough.”
“I haven’t been to that city in years.”
“Cut the bullshit. We know it was you.”
Michael glanced at his watch. “I’ll give you two minutes before I’m out of here.”
Bull Neck chortled and then finished his beer in one swallow.
Glass Eye put his pizza down. “We’re in the market for a good lawyer, and we hear you’re one of the best.”
Michael stopped himself from blurting out the first words that sprang to mind and inhaled a deep draw of air. It was clear these men were a couple of crooks. What was this charade about looking for a lawyer?
“I have a full client list.” He stood up. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Sit down,” Bull Neck said, grabbing Michael’s arm with his left hand.
A woman at the table of four opposite looked at them and frowned. Michael sat down. The last thing he wanted was to create a scene in a crowded restaurant in the town where he lived; someone in here might recognize him. He’d have to find another way to brush these guys off.
“You’re well-known to our employer,” said Glass Eye. “He needs you to do some work for him.”
“I know a lot of people, but I can’t work with all of them. There are plenty of other lawyers out there.”
Glass Eye grimaced. “He wants you.”
The woman opposite was still watching them and now looked as if she suspected something was going on. If he was going to avoid this situation turning nasty, Michael figured he’d need to humor the men, at least for a few moments. “Who is it you work for?”
“James Grannis.”
Michael thought about the name. “Doesn’t mean anything to me. As I told you earlier, I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”
“He runs Grannis Hedge Fund in New York City.”
Michael shook his head no. “Still doesn’t help. I don’t know him.”
“Well, he knows you, for sure. He says you and he go back a very long way.”
“I don’t know him. Okay?”
“He’s not a man to make mistakes.”
“Well, he’s wrong this time. I don’t know what else to say.”
Glass Eye leaned over the table as far as he could and lowered his voice. “He said he was real sorry to hear about your mother.”
A chill cut through Michael’s veins. What did this have to do with his mother? “Who are you people?”
“Look, Mr. Grannis wants a meeting to discuss some business. I’m sure he’ll clear up any confusion when you meet.”
Every instinct Michael had was telling him to get out of here and have nothing to do with these men, whoever they were. But if he walked out now, there was no doubt they would track him down again. After all, if they’d already followed him to Chicago, they weren’t going to give up that easily. And he couldn’t afford to have them turn up at his home and start mentioning Chicago and his mother to Caroline. Sooner or later, he’d have to deal with them and their boss, James Grannis.
“Okay.” Michael raised his right palm. “I’ll agree to a short meeting with him.”
“That’s the right answer.”
“It’s just a meeting. You can tell him I’m not looking for any new clients.”
“We hear you.”
“Where do I meet him?”
“We’ll let you know. We know where to find you.”
“Are we done?”
“For now.”
Michael stood up, half-smiled at the woman on the next table, and walked out.
When he arrived home late, Caroline’s face was a mixture of concern and irritation.
“Where did you get to?” she said.
“I’m sorry.” Michael dropped his briefcase in the hallway. “A couple of people wanted a quiet word after class.” That was accurate, but not the whole truth.
“You have to know where to draw the line with your students.”
“I know. Are the girls still awake?”
“They tried but fell asleep half an hour ago.” Caroline smiled. “You look tired.”
“It’s been a tough day,” he said, following her into the kitchen. The air was filled with the aroma of pasta sauce.
“I’ll get the penne on.”
“Actually, I’m not that hungry. Can we keep the sauce until tomorrow?”
Caroline hugged him. “Sure. Go and get changed and sit down for half an hour. You don’t look very well.”
Michael rubbed his eyes. “I’ll be okay.”
“You need some rest. Big day tomorrow, remember?”
“I guess I’ve been worried about that, too.”
“Worried?” Caroline cocked her head. “I know my man. He’s going to get it.”
“Yeah.” He kissed her. “But you’re biased.”
With the events of the past two hours, Michael had forgotten he had an important meeting with his senior partner tomorrow. His mind had been occupied by the two men he’d just met and working out what exactly they wanted from him.
Later, as he lay in bed struggling to sleep, he kept playing over what happened on the day of his mother’s funeral. How had those men known to look for him there? Had they actually followed him to Chicago? That wouldn’t have been easy. No one knew he was going to be there, not even Caroline. And how did this man, James Grannis, claim to know so much about him when they’d never even met? The name meant nothing.
Turning onto his side, sheer terror consumed him, and he stopped breathing.
It has to be him.
There was only one explanation: Grannis had to be Rondell. Who else would know to look for him in Chicago? Who else would mention his mother?
Christ!
Michael had not seen Rondell since they were children. That name had long been buried in his memory. What could he want after all this time? That animal had destroyed Michael’s life once. He would not let that happen again. Not now he’d built a new life—a good life free of the horrors of the past. Rondell belonged back there, and he had no right to come back.
Click here to learn more about Once a Killer by Martin Bodenham.
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Here is a preview of the crime novel A Taste of Shotgun by Chris Orlet, published by All Due Respect, an imprint of Down & Out Books…
One
I was late getting to the prison.
I stopped to piss at a Shell station outside Green Mount and my mind took to wandering and when I pulled back onto the highway I must have turned north instead of south. Fifteen minutes went by before I realized I was driving in the wrong direction. Oh well. Vince had waited four years for this day, another hour wouldn’t kill him.
Still, it was just like me to screw up his release day.
The Shawnee State Work Camp lay at the butt-end of the state, not far from where the Ohio and Mississippi rivers collide. Shawnee was a nothing town in one of the poorest counties in the state, maybe in the country. You want to see perfect, abject poverty in all its wondrous manifestations—economic, spiritual, intellectual—where the whites are just as poor as the blacks but the dumb fucks still think God blessed them with a superior skin tone, go to Shawnee. If you ask me, the only reason anyone stays here is because he’s too dumb to find the way out.
The work camp was a new facility, cost state taxpayers three hundred million, but you’d never know that from looking at it. It was shabby, like a massive shed or army barracks constructed of discounted sheet metal. Windowless with looming guard towers and razor wire fencing choked by wild oats and ragweed, like the
contractors tried to blend the building into its bleak surroundings.
The landscape was flatter than a bookkeeper’s ass and a feral February wind roared over the fields and snapped the ragged flags on the official flag pole.
Out front of the gate two dudes sat hunched on a bench smoking cigarettes. Each had a prison-issued backpack resting at his feet. I parked the van in the five-minute pick up area and kept the engine idling while a guard gave me the stink eye from his heated shack. I studied the two guys on the bench. The smaller, wiry guy was Vince Carroll. Other than the scraggly beard, he didn’t appear to have changed much in the eight months since I’d seen him last. He wore a black wool cap and a brown Carhartt jacket over a black hooded sweatshirt and a pair of ratty Levis. Same as always. I had no idea who the other guy was, but he looked like a larger version of Vince, tangled beard, wool cap, and some kind of heavy pea coat. I eased out of the van and strode over to the bench. Neither one made to get up.
“Hey little brother,” I said.
The big fella spat hard and said, “You’re late.”
I glanced at Vince.
“Probably got lost,” Vince said and flicked away his cigarette. “Ain’t that right, big brother?”
“Only twice.”
Vince grinned back at the big fella. “Never had a sense of direction worth a dick.”
Vince stood up and gave me a bear hug with enough pressure to crack a couple short ribs.
“Good to see you,” I said.
“Good to be seen.”
I stooped to pick up his backpack, but he got there first.
“How you been?”
I immediately regretted such a stupid question.
“Living the dream.” He swung the backpack over his shoulder.
The big fella said, “If you two are about done with your little gay reunion, I’m freezing my balls off here.”
I gave Vince a look, but he was already moving across the icy lot toward the van.
“Damn, I thought I’d feel different being outside them gates,” Vince said. He paused a moment and shrugged. “Nope. Feels the same. You feel any different, Pritch?”
“Feels a hell of a lot colder,” Pritch said and tossed away his butt.
I sidled up alongside Vince and jerked my head toward the big guy. “What’s his deal?”
“Oh,” he said, “I told Pritchard we’d give him a ride.”
My face fell. “Uh—”
Pritchard must’ve overheard us talking. He glared at me, daring me to contradict my brother. I leaned in toward Vince, voice lowered. “Where’re we taking him?”
Vince shrugged. “How would I know? I just met the ugly sonofabitch twenty minutes ago.” He turned to Pritchard. “Where to, Pritch?”
Pritchard seemed to think that over. “First strip club we come to.”
Vince ran his hand over his scraggly beard and laughed like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “Not a bad idea.” He blew into his hands and gave the van a once over. “Hey, cool ride. Nice and roomy. New?”
“A year old. It’s Reva’s.”
“Who’s Reva?” Pritchard said.
“Denis’ wife.”
“Who’s Denis?”
Vince halted and draped his arm around my shoulders. “This is Denis, dumb ass.” He rolled his eyes and sighed loudly. “You see what I’ve had to put up with? I ain’t talked to anyone with an IQ over eighty in four years.”
“Don’t expect too much out here, either,” I said.
Pritchard went around to the back of the van and tossed his backpack into the cargo area. He snorted loudly.
“What?” Vince said.
Pritchard nodded toward me. “His wife ate cocks twenty-four-seven.”
I turned to Vince, dumbstruck. Had he just insulted my wife? Vince went around to the back of the van. I thought he was going to knock Pritchard into next week, only he started chuckling. Christ. The last thing I needed was to get into a brawl in front of a state prison with some Neanderthal ex-con. I clenched my fists and took a step toward Pritchard. “What’d you say about my wife?”
Vince held up a hand and pointed toward the back bumper. “Your license plate, dumb ass.”
I studied the plate. 8KX 247.
It took a moment to register. “Oh for god’s sake!” I said. “I never even noticed that.”
“Somebody down at the DMV sure hates you,” Vince said. He laughed again and moved toward the driver’s side. “I’d find out who’s responsible for that if I was you.”
I stared at the license plate, surprised I’d never noticed it before; amazed that it took a caveman to point it out. I shook my head. No way could that have been an honest mistake.
“You coming?” Vince called.
“Uh huh.” I thought about calling Reva at work. Wouldn’t she be surprised? Driving around for a year with those plates. But I didn’t want to talk to her about it in front of Beavis and Butthead.
“How about giving me the keys?” Vince said. “I haven’t been behind a wheel since forever.”
“Do you even have a license?” I said.
“What do I need a license for? It’s not my van.”
I shook my head. “I’m driving.”
Pritchard climbed in the sliding door and Vince eased into the passenger seat and strapped on his belt without even being told. Then he glanced out the window. “Drive by the guard shack.”
“I’ve got a better idea,” I said. “Let’s not drive by the guard shack.”
As we rolled off the lot, Vince ran down the passenger side window and flipped off the guard with both middle fingers.
The guard didn’t react. Good for him.
We pulled onto the highway and pushed north into a light snowfall, the heater cranked as high as it would go, a long three-and-half-hour drive ahead of us. In the back seat Pritchard hacked up a mound of phlegm. “How do you roll down this window?” he said.
I pressed a button to unlock the back window.
“Never mind,” he said, swallowing.
I threw up a little in my mouth and washed the bile down with the last of the morning’s cold coffee. So it was going to be that kind of day.
Vince sat quietly beside me; he alternately took in the bleak landscape and stared hard at my profile. He said, “You look good. Family life agrees with you.”
“No complaints,” I said.
He nodded. “So. How’re my niece and nephew?”
“Good. Growing like weeds.”
Vince broke into a smile. “Got any pictures?”
I slipped my phone out of my back pocket. Steering with one hand, I pulled up some recent photos of the twins with the other and handed the phone to Vince.
He grinned. “Them are some good-looking kids,” he said. “Must take after their uncle.”
Pritchard leaned over the back seat. “Let me see.”
Vince ignored him. “Jesus. Look how much taller Mandy is than her brother. Last time I saw them they were like the same size.”
“That’ll happen,” I said.
“She playing YMCA ball?”
“They both are.”
Vince smiled. “Just like we did.”
“Well, like I did. You mostly rode the bench.”
“You’re nuts. I was a superstar,” Vince said. His eyes went distant. “I sure would like to catch a game.”
“There’s three left.”
“Yeah? I’m going to catch one of them.”
I believed he meant it. He went through every picture on the phone before handing it back.
The highway cut through long stretches of dead browns and rusted grays, past the occasional slanting barn and distant cow cluster, amid dull landscapes of forgotten things. You could taste the emptiness like the last sip of beer.
Vince took out a pack of Camel filters from his jacket and cracked the window.
“What’re you doing?” I said.
“What’s it looking like?”
“Dude, you can’t smoke in here.”
Vince stared at me and tried to gauge my earnestness. “Seriously? Bro, I did not put my life on the line in Iraq so I couldn’t smoke a fucking cigarette.”
I sighed. “I know. It sucks, but Reva will have a shit fit.” I tried not to sound like a whiny baby—with only moderate success. Vince fumed and tossed the pack of cigarettes and the chrome Zippo on the dashboard. Pritchard snorted from the back seat. I’d about had it with him. I was five seconds from stopping the van and dropping his dumb ass on the side of the highway.
“We’ll stop at the next rest area,” I said. My lame attempt at reconciliation.
“Forget it.”
Vince switched on the radio. Sammy Hagar. For a while he and Pritchard argued over the music selection. Pritchard was partial to classic rock: Seger, Van Halen, Lynyrd Skynyrd, old man crap, while Vince preferred old country. Same as me. Pritchard called it “twangy hillbilly shit” and the two almost came to blows. I reached over and fiddled with the dial till I came across a Christian radio station. We quieted down to listen. I turned up the volume, hoping for a few laughs. Predictably, the husband-wife team spent ninety percent of the time soliciting money from their poor, stupid, gullible Christian radio listeners who probably didn’t have a pot to pee in. Give us your cash or the commies and queers win. I didn’t see anything funny about that, so I snapped off the radio and we drove awhile in blissful silence. I’d glance in the rearview mirror every once in a while hoping Pritchard had fallen asleep. Nope. Wide awake, arms crossed over his chest, staring angrily out the window. God knows what he had to be angry about. He was a free man, after all, with a free ride.
Vince’s eyes drooped heavily. I thought he might’ve nodded off, but after a moment he turned to me and said, “Why didn’t you bring Reva?”
“What?”
“Why didn’t Reva come along?”
“She had to work.”
“Who’s Reva?” Pritchard said.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.
“She the one from the license plate?” he said.
“Boy, you are treading on thin ice,” I said.
Flight of the Fox Page 35