“So,” I finally said, breaking the silence, “thanks for the save. I was in a bit of a tight spot there.” The ninja nodded in acknowledgement and climbed back up to street level. I followed him up and emerged in a scene of chaos.
The building—it had looked like an abandoned store front of some sort when we left—was simply gone, a small pile of rubble all that was left to indicate there’d been a building there in the first place.
“I’m getting real tired of Boom-Boom trying to blow me up,” I said. “I’m starting to take it personally.”
The ninja gave me a nod and began walking off down the road. “Hey, wait!” I called after him. He stopped and turned towards me. “Um, thanks for the save, really. Any idea where I might find Guido and Billy Sunshine?” The ninja shook his head, turned away, and disappeared into the smoke and chaos of the explosion’s aftermath, leaving me to wonder what my next move ought to be.
* * *
I made my way back to the office, mulling over what I knew in a taxi.
There wasn’t much: Guido, Billy Sunshine, and Boom-Boom were working for someone who wanted to overthrow the Boss. Wally Stewart and his secretary had somehow gotten caught up in it. He’d been kidnapped and shot, and she’d just been shot and dumped behind the Funeral Parlor, possibly for me to discover. A gang war was brewing, one that would likely tear the city into tiny pieces if it happened, and I was stuck in the middle, trying like hell to prevent it.
Private detectives often find themselves caught up in cases bigger than they are, unable to halt the inexorable rising of some doomed tide. Some of us get real introspective when it happens. Some of us drink ourselves into oblivion. Some push back that much harder. Some of us just wax melodramatic.
Arcadia at the best of times was a barely-contained powder keg of violent offenders, vicious thugs, and corrupt civic leaders. The city managed to maintain some semblance of balance in large part because failure would hurt everyone, even folks like the Boss. It occurred to me that, as the head of the Organization, the Boss probably had a lot to do with the city of Arcadia maintaining its momentum and stability. Remove him, take away that balance that he provided against the darker elements in the Organization, and the whole city might wobble and collapse. Or, if Boom-Boom had a say in it, explode.
Well, it looked like it was up to me to save the day. Dammit.
* * *
Back at the office, I filled Miss Typewell in on the latest information and planned my next move.
“You could go see Skivers,” she said.
I shuddered. “I mean, if there’s really no other alternative,” I said with a deepening sense of dread.
“He’s probably your best lead at the moment, and he’s the only one we know has a history with Guido and Billy Sunshine,” she reminded me.
I groaned. “You’re right. I wish like hell you weren’t, but you’re right.”
“Of course I am. I have an appointment set up for you to meet with him at Pratchett Correctional in about an hour.”
“Great. Just enough time to get my affairs in order and plan out who I’m gonna haunt after he kills me.”
“You mean it won’t be me?” Miss Typewell asked with mock innocence.
“Of course it will be you, but I have to give the impression that I’m at least considering other options.”
* * *
Pratchett Correction Facility is on the west side of Arcadia, a sprawling super-max prison for the worst of the worst. It’s privately owned and operated by some shell corporation, which is owned by another shell corporation, which is owned by people with more money than sense. It’s a terrible place, filled with the sort of guys who have no business ever seeing the light of day ever again. Most of Pratchett’s occupants are unrepentant killers, rapists, and other horrible individuals. Given the chance, they’d gladly commit their crimes over and over again. Most of them are serving enough consecutive life sentences that they won’t breathe a breath of fresh air if they live to be a thousand years old. But guys with Organization connections treat the place like it has a revolving door, which is the advantage of having some of the best lawyers money can buy. They’re the assholes for whom the term “recidivism” was coined.
But there’s recidivism, and then there’s Earl Skivers. Whole countries could go bankrupt trying to repay his debt to society. He wasn’t a serial killer, per se. Serial killers have M.O.s, patterns of behavior, preferred targets. If you have enough data, you can predict their movements.
You couldn’t predict anything about Earl Skivers, except that if he saw you, he was probably going to try to kill you. He’d be on you before you knew it, either with a knife or a lead pipe or his bare hands or, in one particularly memorable and gruesome case, his teeth. He was unrepentant, psychopathic, and criminally insane. Earl would simply kill, and kill everyone he came across, until you caught him again. He was the sort of guy who, I often thought, it might be kinder and better for society if he were just executed. There were even times I wouldn’t have minded putting the bullet in him myself. He’d been on several murder sprees over the years, including a couple within the prison. He’d also killed folks during interviews exactly like the one I was about to have with him, which didn’t exactly fill me with warm, fuzzy thoughts.
What made matters worse was that Earl was also the single most cheerful, optimistic individual you’d ever meet. It was irritating, watching him smile and chat like a morning talk show host, but the banality of it all lulled you into a false sense of security. Right around the time you started to think maybe Earl wasn’t so bad, he stabbed you in the face.
I went through the security checkpoint at Pratchett, relinquishing my weapons and coat and hat. They sent me through two metal detectors, a body scanner, and a thorough pat down that was the closest I’d gotten to seeing any action in more than a year. I was then escorted into an interview room and told to wait. After about five minutes, Earl finally came in.
He was dressed in an orange Pratchett Correctional jumpsuit, slip-on shoes, and the latest in manacle finery. His wrists and ankles were all locked, linked by a chain that was then padlocked to a loop of metal bolted into the floor. Thus locked into place, the guards retreated to outside the interview room. No one wanted to be any closer to this guy for any longer than they absolutely had to be.
“Eddie! You’ve finally come to visit me. Have you been getting my letters?”
I shook my head. I knew Earl wrote letters to me—he felt we had a connection, since I was the guy who’d put him in here in the first place, back when I was still a cop—but I also knew they didn’t let those letters leave the building. That was fine by me. Not having to think about Earl Skivers or know that he was thinking about me on a regular basis meant I didn’t have to deal with the nightmares.
“No, I’m afraid not,” I said, giving the crazy man the once-over. Earl hadn’t changed much in the last ten years or so: still so skinny that scrawny was a better descriptor, all sinew and jutting bones. His hair was dark and wiry. His face was covered in a patchy, scruffy thatch of wiry hair sticking out at odd angles. They wouldn’t let Earl anywhere near any sort of razor, even an electric one. Not after what he’d done to those guards.
Earl’s skin was ghastly-pale and stretched—almost painfully, it seemed to me—over his bones, especially in the face. His cheeks were hollows, his eye sockets deep pits of despair, and the lines that creased his features when he smiled were like crevices in the deepest depths of the ocean, hiding God-only-knew what sort of Stygian horrors in them.
More than anything else about him, you noticed Earl’s eyes. They were deep, dark, and almost hypnotic. It would be easy to lose yourself in those eyes, not because of their beauty, but because they clearly hid so much.
Earl frowned at me, looking genuinely hurt. “That’s so sad, Eddie. I’ll have to speak with the guards about it.” He sounded like it was a trifle, like my meal at a fancy restaurant hadn’t been cooked exactly as I’d wanted it. I suppressed a shudder a
s I got down to the business of my visit.
“Earl, I hear tell through the grapevine you’re friends with Guido and Billy Sunshine,” I said.
“Oh, yeah, we go way back,” Earl said, his smile returning again. “They’re good fellas, Eddie. A little rough around the edges, mind you, but good guys at heart.” I kept my doubts to myself; Guido and Billy Sunshine were unrepentant killers, though not nearly on the same level as Earl was. Admittedly, no one was on that level, and thank whatever higher power you might believe in for that. The world did not need more Earl Skiverses. It didn’t really need the one it already had.
“So, what can you tell me about them? What are they like? Where do they usually hang out?”
Earl shrugged. “They talk a lot about nothin’ at all. They spent all of our time together in the cell or out in the yard. I know Billy Sunshine likes to lift weights a lot.”
I sighed. This was turning out to be a dead end. Earl hadn’t really seen Guido or Billy in a couple of years, what with being locked up in Pratchett while the other two were out roaming the streets of Arcadia doing things they shouldn’t.
“Do you know anything about their coup attempt against the Boss?” I asked on a long shot.
“Yeah. They’ve been working on that for years,” Earl said with a vigorous nod.
“What? Really?” I said, surprised.
“Oh yeah. They hate that guy. It was all they talked about, last time they were here. They were gonna break up the Organization, unmask the Boss, and take over for him. They were workin’ for someone else, and it all seemed pretty stupid since that other guy was clearly gonna run everything when it was over, but Guido and Billy aren’t too bright, y’know,” Earl said.
So, they’d been working toward this for a while now, it seemed. And even Earl knew there was someone higher up the ladder telling the dimwitted duo what to do. I filed away what little I’d taken away from the conversation for another time.
“Well, um, thanks for the help, Earl,” I said, rising from my seat.
“Wait, Eddie, you’re not going already are you?” Earl asked, his face a mask of sad puppy-ness.
“Yeah, I’ve got to track those two guys down. They kidnapped and killed a guy,” I replied.
Earl frowned again. “That doesn’t sound like the Guido and Billy I know,” he said doubtfully.
“I’ve seen the pictures, Earl. They killed a guy, an accountant named Wally Stewart.”
“Really?” Earl arched an eyebrow in surprise. “That doesn’t seem right at all, Eddie.”
“Why’s that, Earl?” I asked, wearying of the back and forth. I rose, heading for the door. This was getting me exactly nowhere.
“Well, I mean, he was their accountant, and he’d helped them steal a lot of money from the Organization over the years,” Earl explained.
I froze, my hand inches from the door. I whirled around, stormed back across the small room, and slammed the palms of my hands down on the table, leaning in much closer to Earl Skivers than was advisable. “Wait, he did what?”
VIII.
I left Pratchett with my head full of some strange thoughts. If Wally Stewart had a past relationship with Guido and Billy, why would they kill him? Had he double-crossed them? Was he planning to rat them out to the cops, or sell them out to the Boss? I had no answers, only lots and lots of questions.
I returned to the office to conference with Miss Typewell. She’d been doing research into the hierarchy of the Organization, trying to figure out where Guido and Billy Sunshine fit into the grand scheme of things. She hadn’t come up with much of anything. Not that I had much more to offer than she did.
“We gotta find Guido and Billy Sunshine,” I said matter-of-factly after I’d told her about Earl’s revelations.
“Sounds like we do. Any idea where they’d be?” Miss Typewell asked.
“No, but I know they’re in a red-orange van,” I said. It was the only clue I really had to go on at the time, so I was going to use it.
“A red-orange van?” Miss Typewell repeated.
“Or orange-red, possibly,” I said with uncertainty.
“You mean you’re not sure?” Miss Typewell asked.
“I mean, there can only be so many vans in the city of either color,” I replied helpfully. “Let’s just find a list of all of ’em and use process of elimination.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to just drive around and arrest anyone driving a reddish or orangish-colored van?” Miss Typewell asked sarcastically.
“Well, no,” I said, frowning. “That would be really inefficient and time-consuming. And all those false arrests would not look good for me.”
Miss Typewell sighed heavily. “Why do I work for you, again?”
I gave her a winning smile. “Because of my charm and wit?”
“God, no,” she replied, rolling her eyes.
* * *
Using DMV records and process of elimination, Miss Typewell was able to narrow it down to five vans in Arcadia. I crossed off three of them with half an hour’s driving around, discovering that the vans were owned by a painter, a carpenter, and a man who used his as a food truck selling churros. They were damn good churros, too.
“Last two are both on the east side of Old Town,” Miss Typewell said as I drove her car away from the churro van.
I nodded at her image in the vid window. “Great. Just got the route plugged into the GPS. I’ll let you know what I turn up.”
The drive across town was uneventful if rather slow. Midday traffic was heavy, and I seemed to hit every red light. While that was normal for driving in Arcadia, today it felt like an omen, a sign of terrible things yet to come.
On the other hand, Miss Typewell’s new car was the smoothest ride I’d ever sat in. The engine hummed quietly, just waiting to unleash its power like a barely-restrained electric tiger.
Which was good, because I’d picked up a tail somewhere.
I noticed them around the time I turned off the Jayne Simmons Memorial Parkway onto Harrison Boulevard: a dark towncar, keeping pace with me about four cars back. When I changed lanes, they’d change lanes; when I turned, they’d turn. I gripped the steering wheel tight, considering my options. I could ignore them, reach a good spot for an ambush, and try to get the drop on them, or I could try to lose them in traffic by putting a few clever twists and turns into my route. Traffic on Harrison was pretty light, though, so it’d be fairly easy for them to keep up with any curves I threw their way.
“Stupid ambush attempt it is, then,” I said to myself, speeding up and weaving around the slower cars. I knew Harrison dead-ended into a small city park with playground equipment and a public pool that had been closed and drained a few years back after a nasty round of city budget cuts. The pool would make a decent place for an ambush, if I had enough time to get set up. I put my foot down, blowing through a red light and getting honked at by cross traffic for my trouble.
Glancing back in my rearview mirror, I could see the tail was still back there, struggling to get through the tangled snarl I’d created in the intersection. That would give me enough time to set my traps. I sped on to the park, pulling up on the curb and jumping out of the car without bothering about the parking job. If it got towed, I’d go get it out of impound later.
Assuming I survived this encounter.
I set up in the concession stand, prepping my field of fire and settling in behind the counter, waiting. My knees started to ache almost immediately, proving I was getting too old to crouch behind things for more than a minute or two.
The goons didn’t disappoint. They came barreling into the dark interior of the concession stand, guns drawn, and kicked over the bucket I’d set up in the middle of the floor. The noise of the bucket getting kicked drew their attention and gunfire. The two mooks filled the bucket full of holes, emptying their clips like the thing had attacked them with a machete. When I heard the slider mechanisms in both guns lock back with a click, I rose and pulled the trigger of the popgun t
wice. Each guy was suddenly caught in a bubble of advanced science, and no longer my problem.
“Sorry, guys,” I said, tipping my hat at them, “but I take it kinda personally when folks follow me and try to shoot at me, regardless of how inept they are at it.” I sauntered out of the concession stand and right into the barrel of a third thug.
“I see I miscounted the men,” I mused.
“Indeed you did, detective,” the thug sneered. He cocked the hammer back on his pistol. “Goodbye, Mr. Hazzard.”
Personal force fields are not cheap or 100% effective. They fail all the time, usually when you least expect it. Using them at pointblank range is dangerous even under the best of circumstances; the kinetic diffraction can only do so much when the bullet is at peak velocity.
All that said, the one the Boss had supplied me with was top of the line, and it managed to deflect the bullet away from my face without so much as a powder burn for my troubles. The thug’s eyes widened in surprise, and he was about to pull the trigger again when the popgun went off with its customary pop. He was caught in a bubble, just like his buddies, and I deactivated the force field generator with a heavy sigh of relief.
“Who keeps throwing obstacles at me?” I asked him. He just fumed silently. “Look, it’s okay, I know how difficult it can be to be someone’s idiot henchman. No one expects you to actually stop me, guy,” I said with as much sympathy as I could muster. It had no appreciable impact on his scowl. “Seriously, no one will think less of you for giving up your boss. Was it Guido and Billy Sunshine?” He didn’t respond, but his eyes flickered, just for a second, back to the car they’d been driving.
I sauntered over and opened the front passenger door. The interior was piled with the detritus of a long stake-out: fast-food containers, empty soda cans, discarded e-readers and the like. I popped open the glove box and had a rummage. It contained the usual stuff: owner’s manual, a spare handgun and a few ammo clips, and a bag of something that was probably completely illegal. I pocketed the gun, ammo, and illegal substance, then started in on the backseat. I found someone’s personal computer, which was a nice prize. Opening up a vid window, I was pleased to see the idiot hadn’t password-protected the system. A quick search of his phone app records, and I knew he was working for the two would-be crime kingpins.
The Invisible Crown (Hazzard Pay Book 1) Page 11