Hashimoto Blues

by Sarah Dupeyron

  “Nobody calls me that.”

  “Nobody calls me Ulysses either. At least it’s a name. Orange is a color. Or a fruit.” He paused as if thinking of something then giggled. “If we ever have a kid, we can name it Banana. Or, better yet, Kumquat.”

  At that point, Anderson cleared his throat, wishing to go on. Clearly, he didn’t have a sense of humor.

  “Sorry,” we both said at the same time.

  He gave us each an envelope with a letter from Frank inside. Then, he gave us a key to a safe deposit box at the Chittenden Bank in Burlington Square.

  “Why don’t you go down there and see what he left you.”

  At the bank, the teller took us into the back vault where the safe deposits were kept. While Max opened the large box, I ripped open my letter and read Frank’s neat handwriting.

  Dear Ellie,

  If you are reading this, I must be dead. Hopefully, it was quick; I hate the thought of dying from a long, drawn-out illness (although, I am sure if things progressed that way, you both would be willing to ease my passing if it were needed).

  I wrote this letter because there is something I needed to tell you. I’m not a sentimental person and don’t always share my feelings, but I want you to know that I’ve loved you like a daughter.

  I have little of interest, but what I do have I want to leave to you. First, there is the photo album. Pictures are priceless. Then, there is the matter of the three boxes. Split them with Max. Enjoy. Edward will make arrangements for the properties to be transferred to your name. Of course, the farmhouse is yours.

  Take care of Max. He needs someone to look after him.

  I hope this letter finds you in good health. Please be safe.

  Love,

  Frank

  Max had pulled out the large safe deposit box and was looking at the contents. He backed away and took out his own letter, turning his back to me to read it. I picked up the photo album and flipped through the pages, remembering Frank and all the good times we had with him. I was looking at a photo of the three of us having dinner in Frank’s apartment the night after I first met Max when he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and peered over my shoulder.

  “I remember that,” he said. He kissed my cheek and gave me a squeeze. It felt good to be in his arms.

  “That was the first time we slept together. The next morning . . .” he paused, chuckling quietly, “Frank caught me sneaking out of your apartment.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I chuckled, too, remembering the lecture.

  “You know?”

  “Yeah, we had a little talk after.”

  “So did we. He told me that if I hurt you, I think his exact words were, ‘I’ll break your fucking face’.” He did a pretty good impression of Frank.

  “He said the same thing to me!” We looked at each other and cracked up. Both of us laughed harder and harder at the memory until tears rolled down our cheeks.

  When we stopped, I inhaled deeply and touched Frank’s photo.

  “I’m going to miss him.”

  “So am I.” Max looked at the rest of the contents of the safe deposit box. “What’s in here anyway?” he asked.

  “I don’t know, but it’s heavy.”

  He pulled the top box out and dropped it on the floor. Tearing the flaps open, he stared into the cardboard container. “Holy shit!”

  “What is it?” I leaned over to get a look.

  Inside the box, stacked in neat little green bundles, was money. Lots of money. Frank was always frugal and didn’t spend much. Hell, he drove the same car for nearly twenty years. I had no idea how much money he had hidden away. Max pulled out the other two boxes and looked inside. They were also filled with money.

  “How much do you think is here?” I asked.

  “No idea.”

  We stood in the small bank room staring at the find.

  “If Frank had all this money, why did he do this last job?” Max crinkled his forehead and his eyebrows furrowed in question.

  “Probably because you asked him.” I looked at Max and realized the mistake I made. His guilt over Frank’s death had been eating at him, and I just said the one thing that confirmed it. “Oh! That’s not what I meant. It’s not your fault. Frank loved a good scam. It turned him on. If someone came to him with an irresistible job, he’d do it no matter what. He wanted to. That’s the way he lived his life.” I felt like I was rambling, but I didn’t want Max to feel like he had pressured Frank into doing something he didn’t want to do.

  Max shrugged, a somber mood clouding over his previous good humor. “What do we do with it?”

  “My letter said it’s ours to split.” I could tell Max was uncomfortable taking the money Frank had worked so hard to put away. Although I felt bad taking it, I was more practical about things and knew it was the solution to our financial situation. There was more here than we needed, maybe even close to a quarter of a million, not to mention the rent money we’d get from the buildings that I now owned. Frank had once again saved our asses.

  I picked up a bundle of cash, a stack of twenties adding up to a thousand dollars, and shoved it into my pocket. Then I took the rest and put it back where we found it.

  “I think it’s better to leave the money in here.” After what had just happened to us, I had no intention of keeping all of my money in a flammable location. As for the photo album, that was never leaving the safe deposit box. I couldn’t bear to lose it.

  “That doesn’t feel like ours,” he said. “I don’t want to take money that belongs to someone else.” It was a funny sentiment for a thief. He never had a problem taking other people’s money before. But this was Frank’s money, not a random target’s. That’s what bothered him.

  “Frank wanted us to have it,” I said. “It won’t do him any good anymore and we really need it.”

  30.

  My plane was scheduled to be delivered to the farmhouse, or what was left of it, that afternoon. I didn’t want to go there, but I needed to put Pappy Volant back in its home in the barn. Jillian, once again, drove us to our property.

  Max said it was disrespectful to leave the mess of blackened beams and cinders, so he decided to clear it. He found a shovel in the barn to dig through the debris, trying to clear out the remains of the house in the burned out rubble. It was a huge task that would take far longer than the few hours I planned on staying. It kept him busy, though, and I was grateful to have him focus on something besides our problems.

  I sat and watched him work until the tow-truck pulled into the driveway and carefully maneuvered up the slope. Papy Volant sat on the back. I had made arrangements to have it picked up and brought to the barn. Even though I didn’t want to fly again, I wanted my plane back. It was all I had left of Frank. His house burned down, and he was gone. I needed that plane as a connection to him.

  The guys rolled it off the truck bed and wheeled it into the barn where I directed them. I paid them in cash, and they drove away.

  It was in tough shape. The landing gear had been removed and was sitting in the cockpit. They used some kind of dolly to move it. A huge rip tore through the wings and there were plenty of dents and dings to be smoothed out. I’d have to replace the door with the bullet hole in it.

  It wasn’t all bad, though. Other than the leaky fuel line, it still worked. The old wooden prop looked good, and the engine ran. Although I was scared to fly it again, I was willing to put in the effort to restore it, if only for Frank’s sake.

  I had pulled out the landing gear and was attempting to straighten the legs when Max walked into the barn. He was covered in soot and ash. His face had started to heal, the bruises faded to yellow stains, his right eye fully open with the black line of stitches still visible above, his left socket covered with a circle of gauze taped over it.

  “Can you fix it?” he asked, wiping his hands on his dirty jeans.

  “It’ll take a little work, but I’ll get it back together.”

  “Need any he
lp?”

  “Yeah, hold this.” I handed him the front leg and pointed out where to align the holes to screw it back in place. Although I had bent it back in shape, it was the most damaged of the three legs and I wasn’t sure how strong it would be. They would take the weight of the plane, though, and allow me to move it around, making it easier to work on. I screwed the leg on, then we worked together to attach the other two.

  I shifted uncomfortably on my crutches. My armpits ached, and I wanted to sit down. I was about to suggest we take a beer break when the UPS van pulled into the driveway.

  “Wow, my part must be here already.” I had ordered a new fuel line from a website the day before yesterday. It always amazed me how fast things were shipped.

  “I have two packages,” the UPS man said and read the name off of his digital pad. “Maxwell Cameron?” He looked up at us both, then focused on Max.

  “Two?” I said, more a statement then a real question. I was expecting my fuel line. I had no idea what Max was receiving.

  “That’s me.” Max stepped forward and signed the pad, handing it back after. The brown clad man took a wrapped cube from under his arm and handed it to Max.

  “Ellie Fox?” he said and looked at me.

  I nodded and signed for it, accepting the long narrow package he handed me. The return label read, “Harry’s Air Mechanics.”

  “Have a good one,” he said and climbed into his matching van.

  “What the hell is this?” Max turned his package over in his hands. There was no return address.

  “Open it,” I said, curious myself.

  He took a pocketknife out of his jeans and flipped it open. He sliced the seams and popped the top. Inside was an opaque plastic box with a typed note stuck to it.

  The note read, “We’re not done yet.”

  We looked at each other, a feeling of unease creeping up both our spines. Max pulled the interlocking top off and peered inside. He gasped in disgust and dropped the box like it was hot. A single eye rolled out onto the floor.

  My morbid curiosity got the best of me, and I bent down to get a better look. At first I thought maybe it was Max’s own eye that was sent back. The eye was familiar, but it didn’t belong to Max. The iris was brown, the white a jaundiced yellow. A thin film of blue cataract lay over the pupil. The last time I saw eyes like that, they were looking wildly at Max, begging for mercy. I was almost positive I knew the victim.

  I looked up at him. He was standing with one hand on his hip, the other covering his face. He was shaking his head back and forth, slowly, his jaw clenched.

  “That isn’t what I think it is, is it?” he asked.

  “I think it’s Karl’s,” I said. He gagged like he was going to lose his lunch, but managed to hold it down.

  I took the box and scooped the eye into it using the lid. Dirt adhered to the shiny surface where it rolled across the unswept floorboards. I closed the top, covering the ghastly content.

  “It’s okay. I picked it up.”

  “You didn’t touch it, did you?” He looked at me with horror.

  “No, I used the box.” I crinkled my nose as I imagined the gelatinous feeling of it between my fingers. I felt like my lunch was about to make a reappearance, too. I took a deep breath and tried to get the image out of my head.

  “Does that mean Karl’s dead?” I picked up my crutches and hauled myself to my good leg.

  “Good riddance if he is,” Max said with a sneer.

  The whole picture started to make itself clear in my mind. When we went to Karl’s apartment to threaten him, he was expecting someone. He said it was a woman, and I thought the only woman who could possibly be interested in Karl was a prostitute. And who had the best prostitutes in Montreal? Hashimoto. Like Laurent, Karl was getting his candle waxed by a professional. However, I don’t think he had anything to do with the initial report that Laurent made to Hashimoto. He actually was telling the truth when we questioned him. Laurent had told Karl not to show up for the heist, but that was it.

  My theory was Karl probably had another “date” with the prostitute who told him of the excitement in the Hashimoto camp, of our assassination, the whole story. Karl called Max to satisfy his curiosity and confirm that the rumor was true. When Jillian answered, Karl knew we were still alive and kicking and told the prostitute who in turn told Hashimoto. He probably killed Karl, first, so he could send us this gruesome message, and, second, because Karl, even though he had inadvertently given us away, “needed to be put down like a rabid dog” just like Laurent.

  That presented a terrifying problem for us. Hashimoto wouldn’t let us be until he had done us in.

  “Do you understand what this means?” I asked.

  He nodded slowly. “Ellie, he’s going to kill me. He won’t stop until I’m dead.”

  “Or we disappear.” I wasn’t about to give up and let Hashimoto kill either of us. “We need to leave. Now.”

  31.

  “Give me your cell phone,” I said, holding my hand out and wiggling my fingers impatiently. Max rummaged in his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. I flipped it open and dialed Jillian.

  “Are you on your way to get us?” I asked.

  “No. Do you want me to now? Are you getting tired?”

  “No. Don’t come here. We aren’t coming home with you.”

  “What are you doing?” Max asked.

  “Why aren’t you coming home?” Jillian asked.

  “I can’t really explain right now, but we’re in a little more trouble than I thought. I’ll call you in a few days when I have news for you.”

  “Are you okay? Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Don’t worry about us. We’ll be fine,” I lied and hung up the phone.

  “Why did you tell her not to pick us up?”

  “Because the moment you signed for that UPS package, Hashimoto had proof you’re alive. Not only that, he knows your exact location. It won’t be long before he’s here and I don’t want Jillian anywhere near us when that happens.”

  “Oh, shit,” he said, the reality of our situation hitting him. “How are we going to get out of here?”

  I looked at the plane. “Pappy Volant.”

  His eyebrows went up in surprise. “Can it fly?”

  “I think so.”

  “You think so? Ellie, that’s something you better be sure of.”

  “I just have to fix the fuel line and do something with the wings then it should work like a charm.” I had a whole contingent of tools in my workshop in the barn along with spare parts and loose screws. I knew I could make it work.

  I ripped open the cardboard box that had been delivered minutes before. The new fuel line had a rubbery smell, its brass fittings shiny and brightly unclogged with dirt and grease. I unscrewed the old fuel line and replaced it with the new one.

  Max watched me working. “I thought you said you weren’t going to fly anymore. I seem to remember something about a flying lawn mower?”

  “I don’t see much choice right now. Do you?”

  He shrugged. “No. Can I help with anything?”

  “Yeah, get me that thingy.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “My bag.” I was pointing madly at my overnight bag, one of the few possessions I still had. It was one of the most important, too. It had my lock picking tools and a few other items left over from our trip to Montreal.

  He handed it to me and I furiously dug through the contents to find the sewing needle and thread I had stolen from the hotel and thrown in my first aid kit. A bloody fingerprint smudged the top of the white case and a rust-colored stain smeared the needle. I pulled the remnant of old thread out, noticing it was stiff with dried blood, and laced a new bright red thread through the eye. I sewed up the tear in the wings, pushing hard through the tough canvas. I wasn’t sure it would hold so I plastered the stitches with duct tape, firming up the quick job and reinforcing my messy embroidery.

  I slapped a piece of du
ct tape over the bullet hole in the door and checked all of the points of doubt. I tightened a few bolts, added new fuel, and stood back to look at my handy work.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  Max looked doubtful but didn’t protest as he moved the plane out onto the grass.

  I threw my crutches into the cockpit, angling them in to fit sideways and still give us enough room, then slid myself into the pilot seat. I started the engine and smiled as it roared to life.

  “See? I told you it would be perfect. Get in.” I beckoned to Max and he eased himself into the passenger seat.

  “Oh, crap,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “You’re going to have to help me. See the pedals on the floor?” I pointed down to the floor between his feet. There were pedals on both sides of the cockpit as well as steering arms, allowing a person to pilot from either seat. “Those help me steer. I can’t push the right one. When I tell you, you’ll have to do it for me. Don’t worry, I can compensate with the left.”

  He nodded, his brows furrowing together, clearly not enjoying his new role as co-pilot, but accepting it as part of his fate.

  The engine purred as we taxied down the homemade runway, and the plane lifted into the air. I banked it to the left and circled around our property. As we flew over the access road, I could see a dark sedan creeping along the dirt drive like a panther after its prey. I knew it was someone from the Hashimoto gang, possibly the big cheese himself, coming back to finish us off. I extended my middle finger and pressed it against the Plexiglas window. “Take that, you motherfuckers!”

  32.

  Without my GPS, I had no idea where I was flying. I knew I was headed south but I needed a landmark to guide me. I pointed the plane south-east until I found the Connecticut River. It cut a border between Vermont and New Hampshire and gave me an idea of my location.

  “Where are we going?” Max asked.

  “I don’t know. Got any ideas?”

  “No, I thought you had a handle on it.”