Played!

by Michael A. Kahn

  “You can’t smoke that in this house.”

  “Oh. Sure.” Bledsoe grins and shrugs. “Sorry, Mr. Pitt.”

  He puts the Tiparillo back in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  Pitt continues to stare at the corner of the Persian rug.

  Bledsoe waits.

  Finally, he clears his throat. “I swear, Mr. Pitt. I didn’t see no one out there.”

  Pitt, still staring the rug, nods. “I’ll get the money tomorrow morning.”

  “Really? We gonna pay that guy?

  Pitt stares at Bledsoe. “Of course not.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Bledsoe waits. Pitt says nothing.

  “So, uh, then what are we gonna do?”

  “We? No, Billy. You. This is your problem, and you are going to solve it.”

  “Okay. Sure. Uh, how?”

  “You are going to kill him.”

  “Yeah. I get it. Makes sense.” A pause. “When?”

  “At the drop point.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Yes, Billy, tomorrow night. You are first going to show him the money. Then you are going to talk to him. And then you are going to kill him.”

  “Maybe I should just ambush him.”

  “No, Billy. You will do exactly what I tell you to do. Exactly. No fuck-ups this time. You will talk to him. I want you to hear what he has to say. I want you to find out whether anyone else is involved, and, if so, who they are. No shooting until then. Understand?”

  Billy frowns. “Okay. But what if someone else is involved?”

  “Then we will deal with it.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  Pitt stares at Bledsoe. He squints and then shakes his head. “Really, Billy?”

  Bledsoe frowns, confused. “Really what, Mr. Pitt?”

  “I hope you aren’t planning to kill him with that cheap Longhorn.”

  Bledsoe glances down at the bulge of the shoulder holster beneath his jacket. “Uh, I hadn’t decided.”

  “Is it registered?”

  Billy smiles. “Yep. It’s perfectly legal, Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt shakes his head. “Billy, sometimes I wonder if you can possibly be as stupid as you seem. You don’t kill a man with a registered gun.”

  Pitt walks out of the room and returns a moment later with a Walther Model P-38 and a handful of bullets. He holds them out to Bledsoe.

  “Here. This gun’s clean. Give me the Longhorn.”

  Billy reluctantly makes the switch.

  Pitt returns to his chair behind the desk and sets the Longhorn on the desktop.

  Silence.

  Billy scratches his neck. “You know, Mr. Pitt, um, your wife, she, well, she sure thought I was getting paid a lot for that hit. So does the guy on the phone. I ain’t complaining, you know. I mean, you been real good to me and all, but this is really starting to get hairy. First her, now this guy. Sort of, you know, like what you might call above and beyond the call of duty, if you know what I mean? Sort of.”

  Pitt stares at him. “Billy, you are going to have to learn how to be patient. You have made one serious mistake in this matter. You are going to meet that mistake in person tomorrow night. And when you do, you will be carrying a briefcase filled with twenty-five thousand dollars. It’s going to be just you and him. You get the information from him, then you eliminate the mistake, and then the money is yours, Billy. You will have earned it.”

  Billy grins. “Jeez, that’s great, Mr. Pitt. Twenty-five large, huh? Damn. Don’t worry about that guy, Mr. Pitt. He’s as good as dead already. No more mistakes, sir. I promise.”

  “Fine. We will talk in the morning.” Pitt gestures toward the door. “Good night.”

  Billy gets to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

  Billy puts the bullets into the front pocket of his jacket and tucks the Walther into his shoulder holster “No more mistakes. I’ll earn that money, sir. I promise.”

  He pauses in the doorway and turns back to smile. “Good night, Mr. Pitt.”

  Pitt nods.

  Chapter Forty

  A drum roll of rain awakens Hal with a start. He’d been sleeping slumped against the passenger window. Rubbing his neck, he checks his watch: four-twenty-seven a.m. Milton is seated behind the steering wheel, staring straight ahead.

  “Anything happening?” Hal asks.

  Milton shakes his head.

  Hal wipes his hand along the windshield and peers through. “Jeez.”

  The rain is coming in waves, thundering across the roof, clattering down the hood, crackling along the street. Two buildings down, under a blurred streetlamp, sits Bledsoe’s black Mustang. Hal zips up his windbreaker and takes a stick of black licorice from the bag on the front seat.

  He turns to Milton. “Get some sleep, Bro. I can watch for awhile.”

  Milton stretches against the steering wheel. “Maybe I will.”

  “Hey, how’s Peggy doing?”

  “I talked to her tonight. She’s holding up. Not too thrilled.”

  “Man, she’s a real trooper.”

  “I put them on the plane yesterday.”

  “How about the girls? They okay?”

  “Peggy says they’re having fun with their grandparents.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right. They’re all staying with her folks?”

  Milton nods.

  “Cleveland, right?”

  “Suburb. Beachwood.”

  “Those girls of yours are so cute. I love ’em.”

  “They love their Uncle Hal, that is for sure.”

  The two of them listen to the rain, the windshield fogging up again.

  “Guess who came to visit me on my last day in jail?”

  Milton turns to his brother. “Who?”

  “Moran.”

  “The detective?”

  “Yep.”

  Milton snorts. “That’s outrageous. A flagrant violation. He is not allowed to do that.”

  “No, no, no. We didn’t talk about the case.”

  “Oh? Then what did you talk about?”

  “Baseball.”

  “You talked about baseball?”

  “Turns out he played two years of semi-pro. Figured he wasn’t going any higher. Gave that up, tried life insurance for awhile. Said he couldn’t stomach having to peddle that stuff to all his pals. Took the police exam on a lark, passed, and decided, ‘Why not?’ Still plays ball, though. He’s on some police league team. Softball, though.”

  As Milton studies his brother, he tugs on his right earlobe.

  “What?” Hal finally says.

  “You think he likes you?”

  Hal shrugs. “I guess so. I mean, as much as you can like someone in jail for kidnapping and murder. Why?”

  Milton frowns. “He might be the one.”

  “What one?”

  “Who we call.”

  “When?”

  “When we have what we need.”

  “I’m not following you, Bro.”

  Milton yawns. “I shall explain that later.”

  He folds his jacket in half and uses it as a pillow as he rests his head against the window. “Keep an eye out.”

  “Will do, Bro. Get some shut-eye.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  Milton awakes to the sound of the car door opening. It’s Hal, returning with a McDonald’s bag.

  “Morning, Bro.”

  Milton rubs his eyes. “Anything happen last night?”

  “All quiet.” Hal opens the bag. “Rain didn’t last long. Got us some coffee and Egg McMuffins.

  He hands a cup to Milton. “Need sugar or cream?”

  Milton shakes his head.

  Hal grins. “You like it black, eh? Like your women.”

  Milton
frowns. “Pardon?

  “Airplane, Bro. The movie.”

  Hal hands him an Egg McMuffin in the wrapper and a couple napkins.

  “Thank you, Hal.”

  “My pleasure.”

  They eat in silence. The sky is cloudy.

  Hal asks, “Want another? Got us each two.”

  Milton wipes his mouth with his napkin. “I’m good for now. Thanks.”

  Another ten minutes pass.

  “Wow,” Hal says, “this feels like one of those cop movies. You know, the stakeout part.”

  Milton nods, staring at Bledsoe’s apartment.

  “You’re a rightie, right?”

  Milton turns toward Hal with a frown. “What do you mean?”

  “Right-handed.”

  “I am.”

  “Perfect. I put two gloves in the trunk. You can have your old catcher’s mitt. Finish your coffee and I’ll show you my stuff.”

  “Really?” Milton looks at Hal and shrugs. “This morning?”

  “Sure. We’re just sitting here doing nothing. I bet that creep is still asleep. It’ll be fun, Bro. Just like old times in our backyard, right?”

  Milton sighs. “I suppose.”

  Back when Milton was in high school and Hal was in middle school, Milton would occasionally help Hal work on his pitches in the backyard. Milton had no interest in baseball—or any sport, for that matter. But Hal, who worshipped his big brother, saved up his allowance and bought Milton a used catcher’s mitt. After their father died a year later, Milton started working with his younger brother once or twice a week. He’d catch—or at least try to catch—and Hal would pitch. Milton didn’t like the crouch position, so he brought out a short stool to sit on when Hal pitched to him. Fortunately, even back then Hal had such good control that Milton rarely had to move his glove more than a few inches.

  “I got a mean curve, Bro. You’re not going to believe it.”

  Milton took a sip of his coffee. “Okay.”

  “By the way, you got some weird stuff in your trunk.”

  “I did some shopping for us on Amazon.”

  “What kind of flashlight did you get?”

  “Not a flashlight. That piece of equipment is a stun gun.”

  Hal’s eyes widen. “Really? Like one of those Tasers?”

  “Similar.”

  “For what?”

  “I shall explain in detail later. It all will depend upon how this scenario plays out.”

  “Yeah, like, what is the scenario?”

  “Again, Hal, all in good time.”

  “Cool.”

  ***

  Forty minutes later, Hal wipes the sweat from his forehead and takes a breath. The breeze flutters his windbreaker.

  “Okay,” he says.

  Hal and Milton are down the street from Bledsoe’s apartment building. Hal has his back to the building. He’s partially shielded by a dumpster. About sixty feet further down the street, Milton faces Hal. He has on the catcher’s mitt.

  With a grunt, Milton squats and puts two fingers down. Curve. Then he gives Hal the target.

  Hal nods, winds, and pitches.

  The pitch comes in on the left of Milton but dips down into the strike zone in the last several feet and thunks into the catcher’s mitt. Milton shakes his head in wonder. He never had to move the catcher’s mitt. He stands and tosses the ball back toward Hal, who catches it on a bounce.

  “I’m warm,” Hal says. “Let’s try a heater.”

  “A what?”

  “Fastball.”

  Milton nods, grunts as he squats, puts one finger down, and then gives Hal the target.

  Hal grins as he goes into a full wind-up and pitches. The ball whacks into the catcher’s mitt, knocking Milton back onto his butt.

  Milton smiles. “Single to left.”

  “No way, Bro. That’s strike three.”

  Hal throws another dozen or so pitches, each hitting the target, popping the catcher’s mitt.

  He takes off his glove and tosses it to Milton. “You try, Bro. I’ll catch.”

  “I can’t pitch.”

  “Sure you can. We’ll start off closer together.”

  They trade gloves. Hal stands Milton about thirty feet away. He squats, bangs the catcher’s mitt with his fist a few times, and says, “Let’s see what you got, Mr. Gibson.”

  Milton winds, looking every bit the former president of the high school chess club, throws a pitch that bounces to Hal’s right and bangs off the dumpster.

  Hal trots back to get the ball, but when he turns around Milton is running toward him.

  “What?” Hal says.

  “It’s Bledsoe.

  They run back to Milton’s car. Milton climbs in behind the wheel and starts the engine as Hal gets in the passenger side, tosses the catcher’s mitt into the backseat, and shoves the baseball into the pocket of his windbreaker.

  ***

  Thirty minutes later, they watch as the black Mustang parks in a No Parking zone in front of an eight-story office building on Locust Avenue downtown. Milton pulls his car into a space on the other side of the street, several cars back from the Mustang.

  Bledsoe gets out of his car and walks into the building.

  “Is that where Pitt’s office is?” Hal asks.

  Milton nods.

  They wait.

  And wait.

  And finally, Bledsoe walks out of the building carrying a briefcase.

  Milton chuckles. “Well, well, well.”

  He starts the engine.

  They follow Bledsoe’s Mustang back to his house and watch as he gets out and walks back into his apartment carrying the briefcase.

  “Houston,” Milton announces, “Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”

  Hal frowns. “Huh?”

  Chapter Forty-two

  “The River Des Peres.”

  Hal frowns. “The sewer? You want to meet him in the sewer?”

  “Not in the sewage part. That’s underground.”

  “Where are you talking?”

  “The section above ground. That stormwater sewer. Right where it comes out of those tunnels at Macklind.”

  “Tunnels? What tunnels?”

  Milton sighs. “I will show you.” He starts the engine. “As you will see, it is ideal for tonight’s rendezvous.”

  Twenty minutes later, driving south on Macklind Avenue, Milton slows the car as they rumble across the railroad tracks and then pulls to a stop halfway along the overpass that runs above a large culvert.

  “There,” he says, pointing to his left out the driver’s window.

  Hal leans forward to look out Milton’s window.

  “Whoa!”

  Hal stares at the tunnel openings—two huge ones, side by side, horseshoe-shaped, each tall enough and wide enough for a semi-trailer truck to drive through. To the right of those two openings is a third one, much smaller, slightly angled away from the other two, just tall enough for a man to enter. The overpass where they sit is about fifty yards from the tunnel openings. Hal squints. Along the concrete wall above the tunnels is etched: 1928 DES PERES DRAINAGE WORKS.

  All three tunnels open onto the concrete culvert. The culvert’s side walls are maybe twenty feet high, each side angled outward in a wide V-shape and ending in the downward sloping embankment of earth and gravel that rises on either side above culvert.

  Hal turns to look out his window in the direction away from the tunnel openings. The culvert runs beneath the overpass and continues on, passing beneath another overpass about three blocks further down, and then another one further down in a left-curving line until it disappears in the distance.

  He turns back toward the tunnel openings.

  A thin stream of water flows out of the center tunnel
and runs down the middle of the culvert and beneath the overpass. Scattered on the cracked cement of the culvert in front of the center tunnel entrance are several tree branches, a battered and rusted shopping cart on its side, some empty plastic grocery bags, a bicycle tire, a mangled car fender, and what looks like a broken broomstick.

  Hal turns back to Milton with a befuddled frown. “What is this, Bro?”

  “The River Des Peres.” Milton points out Hal’s window down the culvert in the opposite direction of the tunnels. “It goes all the way down to the Mississippi. About nine miles from here.”

  “But back there,” Hal says, pointing toward the tunnels. “The river runs underground?”

  “Only through Forest Park.”

  “Why there?”

  “Back when it was a real river, the River Des Peres ran through the middle of Forest Park. Wreaked havoc every spring. So almost a century ago they dug a huge trench two miles long right through Forest Park and built the two big tunnels and this culvert. It was one of the largest engineering projects in the country back then.”

  “Why two tunnels?”

  “One carries the stormwater and the other carries the sewage. The sewage portion drops even further underground before it reaches the end of that tunnel. It runs beneath this culvert to a treatment plant near the Mississippi River. The one you see, the one with the water coming out, that’s the one that empties into the river. The other one serves as the backup during big rains.”

  Hal peers down at the culvert and shakes his head. “Not much water down there.”

  “Not now, but you should see it after a major rainstorm. All the stormwater sewers from the north side empty into the River Des Peres, and by the time that water comes pouring out of those two tunnels it’s up to the top of that culvert, sometimes near the top of the embankment.”

  “Wow.”

  “It can be dangerous. People have drowned.”

  “How do you know all this, Bro?”

  Milton smiles. “My firm represents the Metropolitan Sewer District. MSD. I worked on a lawsuit for them during my first years at the firm. MSD was sued by the Missouri Department of Natural Resources. Nasty case. A big part involved some environmental issues with the tunnels. I spent a lot of time down in those tunnels—sometimes a full day—with our expert witnesses. That’s how I knew.”