“I know. I found them.”
“You found them? Bullshit. Where did you find them?”
“I found three. One was under my nightstand. Of course, one was in my telephone. The third one was on the light above my kitchen table.” “If I ask you a simple question, can I get a straight answer?” “It depends on the question.” “Did you ever even go to law school? Wait, let me rephrase that.
What the fuck are you up to?”
“I graduated from law school, but I'm not a lawyer, at least not officially.”
“Goddamn. I knew it. You're working undercover, aren't you? Is it the FBI or the State Attorney's Office? I bet you lied about failing the bar exam.”
“Danny boy, if I answered your questions, I might have to shoot you. Don't look so serious, I'm only kidding. The part about me failing the bar exam was true.”
“One more question. Why didn't you say something when you saw me steal Turner's keys?”
“That one's easy. I wanted to stop you from doing whatever you were up to, and I needed those keys myself.”
“Spooner, you're full of shit. Like I said before, I was surprised you gave up a career in professional football to become a lowlife ambulance chaser. Now I find out you gave up the NFL to become a cop. Guess that's why we're friends. We're both morons.”
“Danny, I'm leveling with you because you're a good guy. I could use some help with Turner. Before you say yes, you should know this Turner thing could get messy, and I mean legally. You've got your career to worry about.”
“I don't give a rat's ass about my career, or what's left of ‘it,' ” he said, imitating quotation marks with his fingers. “How can this get legally messy? Why am I asking you? You're not a lawyer, at least not officially.” Dan shook his head in disgust and stared out of the window. I wonder if he's telling me everything. “Spooner, would you mind driving a little faster, I'd like to get home sometime this century. I've got someone staying on my boat you're gonna find very interesting.”
***
Lynn Allison and Dan Gillespie became inseparable over the next two months. Lynn's living on the Irish Mist became a permanent arrangement. When the news reached Max Turner, he was delighted. What better way to keep tabs on his exwife?
They ran the Irish Mist to Key Largo for a long weekend. On another weekend, they made the fifty-mile crossing to the Bahamas. Jesse had dinner onboard three or four nights a week. He seldom missed cocktail hour.
Both men continued to work at Turner and Turner, and both saw a gradual change in Max's behavior. Max would interrupt a conversation with a partner or place his hand overthe telephone mouthpiece if they came within earshot. They were exiled from the Monday morning strategy meetings. Their duties at the firm were reduced to busywork. Every Friday, they would have lunch together and discuss the possibility of Max giving them their notice. Everything changed when Savanna Williams got fired.
On Sunday afternoon, they drove to Belle Glade to visit Jesse's mother. Gillespie waited until he was alone with Jesse before questioning him about Savanna. Lynn Allison had driven Jesse's mother to the First Baptist Church. Lillian Spooner didn't tolerate drinking in her house. Gillespie needed a little help to get straight after a hard Saturday night. The two men sat alone on Mrs. Spooner's back porch, sipping Cokes spiked with Bacardi.
“Lynn asked you to invite Savanna Williams for dinner a dozen times. You said you weren't interested. Either you're gay, or you were setting Williams up. You got Savanna fired, didn't you?”
Jesse knew Dan was eventually going to put two and two together, and had his response rehearsed. “You're the one who told me Turner suspected someone was working undercover. You saw how Max treated us. Turner was looking for an office snitch and I gave him Savanna. What choice did I have? At least she won't be around when the shit hits the fan. In a way, I may have saved her career. Don't worry, Savanna's a smart girl. I'm sure she'll land on her feet.”
“You should have told her the truth. What you did was rotten.” Jesse couldn't help but smirk. “I did her a favor. Look, it's my job. Speaking of favors, I need one. Don't look so happy. It means breaking into Max's office again. If we get caught, I can't protect you. Do you still have the keys?”
“I'm surprised it took you this long to ask. Of course, I still have the keys. We should use Jimmy the locksmith as our lookout. One thing's for sure—he won't drive off and leave us.”
“I was thinking about tomorrow night,” Jesse said.
Gillespie didn't answer immediately; instead, he thought about how he could pump more information out of Jesse. “Tomorrow night? You're on. You're not after Turner, are you? It's this Chinese arms dealer, Chang, isn't it?”
“Nelson Chang's the primary target, but Turner knows where all of the dead cats are buried. We believe Chang gave Turner part of the action in an arms deal. What better way to make sure he kept his mouth shut? Turner's so greedy he couldn't say no. Turner came right out of law school doing Chang's contract work. One thing led to another. I'd love to put both of them behind bars.”
Dan carefully funneled the rum into his Coke bottle. “So it's the gook. I thought you said you worked for the Bureau. You're an agent with ATF.”
“I never said I worked for the FBI, you just assumed it. Let's get the jokes about Waco behind us.”
“I'll leave that one alone. If you had passed the bar exam the first time, you could have gone to work for the postal service.”
“Very funny. Give me Turner's keys.I've got no right to ask you to get involved.”
“C'mon Jesse, you know I can't do that. A man needs a little excitement in his life. Hell, I can't lose my drinking buddy.” He decided to tell Jesse about his invitation. “Funny, all of a sudden I've become Turner's newest best friend. He invited me to a pigeon shoot he's hosting at his Okeechobee ranch. Probably see some of my old divorce clients. Turner can't make it, something about a meeting in Washington.” When he didn't get a response he carried on. “Let's drink up before your mother gets home,” Dan said, draining his bottle. He closed one eye and squinted into the bottle. It was as if he was afraid he might miss a drop.
Jesse took the last swig and said, “Gillespie, you're turning me into an alcoholic.”
“You can thank me later. Pass me the rum. I'm getting depressed thinking about Lynn leaving for Africa. I'm gonna miss her. Never thought I'd say that about a woman. I'm becoming a sentimental old fool. Here's to Lynn Allison and that felony favorite, breaking and entering,” he said, holding up his bottle. “Spooner, you do know what a felony is? I know you failed the bar exam and all.”
“Let's just hope I know enough not to get us arrested.”
“I'll certainly drink to that.”
***
The following night, Spooner and Gillespie picked up Jimmy and drove to the Turner building. This time they used the east parking lot.
The break-in ran as smooth as silk. The file on Nelson Chang was still in Turner's desk. Jesse fanned out the sheets of paper and photographed each one of them. Gillespie used the office copier to photocopy all of Turner's son's letters. The work was completed in less than an hour. As they were leaving, Gillespie grabbed two handfuls of cigars from the humidor on Max's desk. They exited the building and jumped into Gillespie's Caddy.
“I got you some more Havanas, courtesy of Turner.” He handed the cigars to Jimmy.
“Thanks, but you guys are still buying me dinner,” Jimmy said.
“I know what you're gonna say. The restaurant has to use white table clothes. Jesus, the labor laws for the criminals' union are getting tough.”
***
The next day, Turner stood behind his antique desk. He was too nervous to sit down. He forfeited his usual cigar for a cigarette, and cursed himself for doing so. Something in his office had been altered, but he couldn't identify the change. He summoned his bodyguard to review the building's surveillance tapes.
“I got them, Mr. Turner. They used the east parking lot on Monday night,”
Bob said, handing him a photograph that had missed Jesse Spooner.
“Gillespie was the Judas all along. Who's the other guy?”
“He's a local locksmith. Crippled prick with a long criminal record. I'm sorry about this. I guess I screwed up.”
“I've invited Gillespie to the pigeon shoot on Saturday. Need I say more? Do what you want with the locksmith.” Turner walked over to the bay window and looked out at the Atlantic Ocean. He placed his hands behind his back and sighed. “The Lord is a jealous God filled with vengeance and wrath. He takes revenge on all who oppose him and furiously destroys his enemies. It was the cigars.”
“The cigars?” Bob asked.
“I filled that humidor myself. They stole my Cohibas.”
8
Okeechobee
The weather cleared enough on Saturday for Dan Gillespie to put the top down on his Coup de Ville. It took him an hour to drive from West Palm to Okeechobee. He glanced at the directions he'd scribbled on a cocktail napkin. There's the pickup truck where I'm supposed to turn off, he thought. The road was marked with milky potholes from the previous night's rain. He veered to avoid a deep rut and made his own road around a clump of palmetto bushes. The twisted cypress trees lining the dirt road were suffocated in Spanish moss. He gave up looking through the muddy whitewash on the windshield and stuck his head out the window. Up ahead, he saw three men standing in front of a metal cattlegate. When he stopped the car, one of them walked up to him.
“You are…?” a man asked, looking over the top of his reflective sunglasses.
“Dan Gillespie.”
“Very good, sir.” He motioned to another man to open the gate.
Gillespie had heard rumors about pigeon shooting. It was a blood sport for the rich and famous. When Max asked him to stand in for him, he was intrigued. Old Maxyboy's doing his best to bring me into the fold. He even put up the two-thousand-dollar entry fee.
The clearing was surrounded by willowy Australian pines. There was a large tent erected in the middle. After parking his car, he stepped into the tent. Bartenders worked the open bar. Waiters hustled between the tables. Dan eyed the bar, but hesitated. He leaned his Browning 12-gauge in a rack between a Purdey and a Parker Brothers. These guns cost more than my boat.
The only seat available was one next to an older woman and her younger escort. Dan recognized them. She was rich, and her escort wasn't. Her face had been overstretched by plastic surgery. His hair was dyed the color of a fox. Much scarier in person, he said to himself. Dan tried to strike up a conversation, but they brushed him off.
A man walked to the front of the tent and started tapping a glass with a spoon. “Listen up. Today's shoot is worth one hundred thousand dollars. I failed math, but we have fifty shooters at two thousand per head.” Laughter rippled through the crowd. “We have some guests with us today, so I'm going to go over the rules. I'd like to thank Mr. Turner, who couldn't be here, for letting us use his ranch. Let's hear it for Max.” The man's remarks were followed by enthusiastic applause. “Back to the rules. As you can see, we have a fiftyfoot ring surrounded by a threefoot fence. You will note three trapdoors inside of the ring. When the shooter is called, he or she will step forward. Your guns must be opened and unloaded. Failure to comply with this rule means automatic disqualification. On the command ‘Load,' the shooter will load. I'll ask if you're ready. You'll indicate yes with a nod. At your command ‘Pull,' a live pigeon will be jettisoned out of one of the trapdoors. The shooter must fire both barrels at each bird. If the bird's hit, but manages to fly out of the ring, it's a miss. All birds must fall and stay in the ring to be counted. There will be no appeals.
“More about safety. You will note the bird boys. Please don't shoot them. Shooting a bird boy also means you're disqualified.” This remark was met with hilarity. “I'm sure you saw the men standing around the perimeter. These men are here to shoot any pigeons you fail to kill. We don't want an injured bird landing on some Audubon Society member's windowsill.” The crowd's laughter was less energetic. “I know some of you have disconnected your safeties. I cannot stress this enough, please be careful. Are there any questions?” he asked, scanning the crowd. “I guess not. The first two shooters, to your marks, please.” The woman sitting next to Gillespie and a suntanned man stepped forward.
The man was dressed in designer khakis complete with a hat banded in leopard skin. He twisted his hips trying to get an easy kill on a bird coming from his left, but the first pigeon came out the right trapdoor; he missed it with both shots. He was sure the next one would come from his left, but the bird flew out of the middle trapdoor. He missed again. Gillespie heard the blast as a perimeter shooter killed it. The contestant was so unnerved; he had no chance of hitting the third pigeon that did fly out of the left trapdoor. He was zero for three.
It was the old woman's turn. She held her 28-gauge like a mother cradling an infant. She squared her stance and placed the Purdey against her chin. “Pull!” she screamed in a croaky rattle. She stroked the barrel across the sky as smoothly as a great painter would swirl his brush. The shots were fired so close the sound fused into a single noise. That bird and the next two were pulverized into organic dust. She was three for three. Her opponent examined his gun as if it was defective.
As the afternoon bore on, Gillespie noticed a man staring at him. He wore his hair in a ponytail and he had tattoos on his arms. When he stared back, the man looked away. This guy's gotta be one of my old divorce clients, he guessed.
Gillespie was called as the next shooter. He was surprised to find the man with the tattoos walking next to him. “I'm Dan Gillespie. Good luck.” He extended his hand, but the man refused to shake it. So that's the way you want it, he thought.
“Mr. Gillespie will shoot first. To your mark!”
He tried to visualize the old woman's shooting. He squared up and fought off the tendency to guess. The first pigeon came out of the left trapdoor. He hit the bird before it could gather any speed and hit it again on the ground for insurance. The next one came from the middle. He killed it easily. The last bird got lodged in the tube. A timeout was called. The bird boys ran into the ring. One of them rung the pigeon's neck and another boy reloaded the tubes with fresh birds. The interruption broke his concentration. He missed his last pigeon with both shots. He was two out of three for the first round.
Gillespie stepped aside to allow his opponent to pass. A shot was fired. The blast knocked Gillespie down. The flash in time was reduced to slow motion. He couldn't move or breathe. He tried to scream, but couldn't. The sulfuric smell of gunpowder filled his nostrils. There was only the ringing. Please God, let this be a dream, he thought. When he opened his eyes, he was looking up at people. They were speaking, but he couldn't hear their voices. There were distorted faces with uncaring eyes looking down at him. His mind raced through a kaleidoscope of his life. It stopped with a vision of Lynn. He felt his bowels ooze. A terrible sadness filled him. The sadness wasn't because he knew he was dying, it was because he wanted to tell Lynn something. His breathing stopped, but he had thoughts. He saw a man's ear. His felt the man's fingers close his eyes. There was nothing he could do.
One hour after Dan Gillespie died, a man pushed Jimmy over the top of the stairs above his locksmith shop. His legless body was vaulted from his wheelchair. The bald man who pushed him reached down and picked up Jimmy's cigar. “Shame on you. Smoking is a nasty habit,” the man said, extinguishing the butt between Jimmy's eyes.
***
Jesse was relieved to find a police car parked at the marina. When he received the telephone call about the accident, he agonized over how he would tell Lynn. Walking down the dock, he passed two policemen headed in the opposite direction. Their expressions meant they had informed Lynn about the accident. He found her curled up in a fetal position in her cabin. There was nothing they needed to say to each other. He sat down on the edge of her bunk and placed his hand on her shoulder. She covered his hand with hers. Jesse stayed with her
well into the night. Finally he said, “Lynn, let's get out of here. My mother's expecting us.”
The drive to Belle Glade was a silent one. Lynn had planned to tell Dan everything about her involvement with Turner, but she could never find the right time. Jesse had also kept things from Dan. Now it was too late for both of them.
It was after midnight by the time Jesse parked his Chevy in front of his mother's house. The minute Lynn stepped on the porch, the immense woman engulfed her in a bear hug. “Honey, I expect Danny's with the Lord now. I'm gonna fix ya'll some eggs and pork sausage. Son, put her suitcase in my bedroom.”
The women stared at each other over the kitchen table. They were too griefstricken to speak. Lynn looked away and began to sob quietly. Lynn felt she had become a pariah. The men in her life were either terribly flawed or terribly unlucky.
Jesse tried to sleep, but he tossed and turned and never closed his eyes. There was something about Dan's death that didn't make sense.
He was up by six and gone by seven. He bought a newspaper and a cup of coffee at a convenience store. He dropped the paper, and ran to his car. The headline read, “Local Locksmith Found Dead.”
Jesse took his time driving back to his mother's house. He wondered if Lynn and Danny had been totally candid about Max Turner. There's something I don't understand about the relationship between Lynn and her exhusband. I need some straight answers.
For the next two weeks Jesse commuted between his mother's house and West Palm.
Mrs. Spooner was a keen observer, especially when it concerned her son. She was happy to have Lynn as a guest, and she told her so. Lillian watched Lynn's affection for her son change from friendship into something more. She worried about the way they touched each other. When she confronted him in private about his attraction to Lynn, he shrugged it off. Mrs. Spooner never told her son, but she was relieved when Lynn left for Africa.
***
The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) Page 11