Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-7

by William Bernhardt

  The kid frowned. “I thought you didn’t have any money.”

  “I lied, okay? How much do you want?” He started ripping bills out of his wallet. “You want two hundred? Here it is! Or make it three.”

  The kid eyed the wallet carefully. “Looks more like you’ve got five.”

  Joe threw the wallet into the kid’s hands. “Fine, take it all. Just give me the antidote!”

  The kid hesitated. “I shouldn’t do this.”

  “Please!” Joe could feel his heart weakening, his lungs collapsing. “Please!”

  The kid took a deep breath. “All right.” He removed a small vial containing a purple liquid from his top bib pocket. “Here.”

  Joe snatched the vial away. “Oh, thank you. Thank you.” He removed the cork and downed the contents in one swallow.

  It went down smooth, with a pleasant grape flavor. He could feel the liquid coursing through his veins, calming his heart, strengthening his body. Slowly but surely he felt his old self returning. It had been a narrow escape, but somehow he had managed to survive.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, leaning against the side of a building. “You don’t know how grateful I am.” His breathing began to normalize. Thank God, he thought, he was going to make it. Now he needed to get his cash back. “Look, about the money …”

  He turned, then stopped abruptly in mid-sentence.

  The kid had disappeared.

  About a quarter of a mile away, in a dark alley behind the remains of the old Mayo Hotel, the kid counted his loot. His eyeball estimate had been conservative. There were more than seven hundred dollars in this wallet. And now it was all his.

  He tossed the wallet, credit cards intact, in a nearby Dumpster, and took his own wallet from his back pocket. He removed the shredded paper he had put in to make his pocket bulge, inserted his newly acquired cash, and shoved it back in his pocket. It felt good in there. Nothing cushioned the tush quite so sweetly as other people’s money.

  Tyrone Jackson grinned, congratulating himself on another successful scam. He laughed when he thought about the boys he had grown up with, the North Side Hoover Crips, the gang that had first taught him how to work a con. Back then, they had preyed on innocence and kindness, exploiting people’s desire to help and backing it up with the threat of violence. He had never liked that, and now that he had split from the gang, he didn’t do it.

  It was much more satisfying to scam the scammers. He never felt a trace of remorse, much less regret. And as it turned out, con artists were the easiest people on earth to fool. They’d gotten so accustomed to thinking of themselves as the most clever dudes on earth that it never occurred to them that someone might try a little flimflam at their expense. They’d lived so long in fantasy they’d lost their grip on the real world. Who else would believe the dreaded Ebola virus could be cured by Welch’s grape juice? He’d been working this con for four months now, and it had worked almost every time. Dress up like a country boy, get off the eastbound bus, and watch the patsies fall at his feet.

  Tonight’s killing was an absolute record, though. Most con men carried a fair amount of cash to sustain them through emergencies, like making bail, but he had never scored anything like this before. With seven hundred smackers, he could live high and happy for days. He could get some new clothes, maybe get a good meal at the Polo Grill. He might even treat himself to a little North Side entertainment. Jazz. That was his favorite. He was learning to play sax, and he loved nothing better than to hear the pros play.

  It was only natural that he would gravitate to jazz. He was kind of a jazz artist already, playing his riffs on the streets of the city. The only difference was, his improvisations were making him rich.

  Chapter 4

  WITH HIS LAST bit of strength he managed to propel the rolled-up rug into the back of his van. It landed with a heavy thud, reminding him of its fragile contents.

  “Sorry about that,” he gasped as if the corpse might actually hear. “Couldn’t be helped.”

  Bracing himself against the van for support, he turned around … and jumped almost a foot into the air.

  There was a man standing directly behind him, someone he’d never seen before. He was white, middle-aged, and entirely bald. As soon as they made eye contact, the man plastered a smile on his face so earnest it was almost vomit-inducing.

  “Charlie Conrad,” the man said, jabbing his hand forward. “Friends call me Chuck.”

  Seeing no escape, he took Chuck’s hand and shook it.

  “Just moved into the place next door,” Chuck explained. “Been meanin’ to come say howdy to the neighbors, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Then I saw you out here haulin’ this rug and thought, Well, Chuck, maybe this is the time. Maybe you ought to go do the right neighborly thing and give the man a helpin’ hand.”

  So that was it. Of all the damned luck.

  Chuck bounced from one foot to the other, filling the awkward emptiness created by the other man’s failure to speak. “So … what kind of work do you do, anyway?”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m in … consulting.”

  “Consulting. Oh, well. I see.” Chuck continued his annoying bouncing. “Must be interesting work.”

  “Yes, it is.” He started to turn away.

  Chuck stopped him with another question. “What exactly does that mean—consulting?”

  He took a deep breath. “It means other people bring me their problems and … I try to solve them.”

  “Oh. I see.” Chuck began to fidget with his hands. “Well, that must be—must be damned interesting work.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Chuck pointed toward the interior of the van. “So what’ve you got in there?”

  “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “Looks like a rug.” Chuck pressed forward, inching toward the van,

  “Yes, that’s what it is.”

  “You know, my grandmother had a rug like this.” Chuck reached forward to touch it.

  The man slapped his hand away. “Stop!”

  Chuck drew back, startled. “But—”

  “It s—it s very dirty.”

  “Oh.”

  He reached for the back van door. “If you’ll excuse me—”

  “You’ve got a stain on your rug.”

  He turned slowly around to peer into the van, fearing the worst. His fears were not misplaced. A dark black stain was seeping through the bottom of the rug. Blood.

  He glanced back at Chuck. His expression had changed. His smile had disappeared.

  Slowly, with no great movement, the man slid his hand inside his jacket and touched the long silver serrated knife tucked inside its sheath.

  Chuck cleared his throat. “Is that stain what I think it is?”

  The man gripped the hilt of the knife. He could have it out in a second, he calculated. He could have it out and slit this fool’s throat before he knew what was happening. “And what do you think it is?”

  Chuck shook his head. “Coffee.”

  The hand on his knife relaxed. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah. Coffee stains are the worst. You just can’t get them out. I suppose that’s why you’re hauling it away.”

  The man tried to smile. “That’s it exactly.”

  “Do you have more to carry? I could help—”

  “No, that’s all there is. But thank you.”

  “Oh, not at all. Just bein’ a good neighbor. That’s what it’s all about, right?”

  The man watched as Chuck lumbered back to his own domicile. That good neighbor would never know how close he came to being a dead neighbor.

  He closed the back of the van, slid into the driver’s seat, turned over the ignition, and switched on the tape deck. Dr. John’s Gris-Gris. It had some moving parts. The good doctor was not bad at all, for a white boy.

  He smiled contentedly as he pulled into the street, pounding the steering wheel in time with the pulsating jazz rhythm streaming out of the speakers. Almost showtime!
r />   Chapter 5

  SOME TIME AGO, Christina had discovered that an access panel in the closet of Ben’s bedroom opened up onto the roof. Many a day, and even some nights, they had crawled up there to get away from it all, to find a quiet nook to talk or just relax. And on one occasion, the passageway had saved her life.

  Ben was stretched out on one end of a flat narrow section of the roof wedged between two gables. Christina was on the opposite end, sitting in the lotus position, catching the setting sun directly in her face.

  “Are you meditating?” Ben asked.

  She hesitated a moment, eyes closed, as if deliberating whether she really wanted to answer. “If you must know, I’m communing with my angel.”

  “Oh, please.”

  She opened her eyes. “What? What’s so unbearable about talking to angels?”

  “Honestly, Christina. Do you have to jump on the bandwagon for every New Age fad that comes down the pike?”

  “Angels are not a fad.” She closed her eyes and turned away. “You can be so intolerant.”

  “Intolerant? I don’t think so. I tolerated your digression into past lives. I made no comment when you plunged into the wonderful world of crystals. I remained altogether silent as you charted your course through holistic medicine and when you read The Celestine Prophecy eight times, marking key passages with a yellow highlighter. But angels?”

  “Angels are not a fad,” she repeated. “They’ve been around forever.” She looked down her nose at him, which was quite a trick, since her eyes were still closed. “They’re in the Bible, you know.”

  “Actually there are only four angels mentioned by name in the whole Bible, and one of them is Lucifer. I assume you’re not communing with him.”

  “Angels aren’t just guys with wings and harps,” Christina informed him. “Angels are all over the place. Some of my best friends are angels.”

  Ben raised his eyebrows. “Am I an angel?”

  “I’d have to say you are at best an angel in training. Still trying to fight your way through cynicism and a sort of neurotic crabbiness so you can earn your wings.”

  “Shades of It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  “But the good news is, you don’t have to do it alone. You have a guardian angel, you know. We all do.”

  “Mine must be on vacation.”

  “Don’t joke. It’s true. Your angel is always watching you.”

  “Like, when I’m picking my nose? Going to the bathroom?”

  “Would you be serious for a minute? If you communed with your angel on occasion, you’d be better off.” She raised her head, letting the bright rays beam down upon her. “Do you miss him?”

  “Miss who?”

  “Oh, stop pretending. You know perfectly well who. Joey. You kept him for almost six months. Your life must be a lot different now that he’s gone.”

  “True. I only go to bed once a night now, as opposed to six or seven times. I haven’t had to mind-read what a crying baby wants. And I haven’t had the supreme thrill of changing dirty diapers.”

  “Once again, you’ve skillfully managed to avoid the question. Don’t you miss him?”

  Ben shrugged. “Now and again.” He shook his head. “Julia doesn’t deserve a kid like Joey.”

  “Face facts: parenthood isn’t a merit-based appointment. Heard anything about him?”

  “You know how things are between Julia and me. She’s not likely to phone with an update. Especially after all those nasty remarks she made when she took him away.” He paused. “I don’t know how these things happen. There was a time, when we were little …” He let out a slow sigh. “I remember when Julia and I were the best two friends in the world. When she—” He stopped abruptly. “It seems like only yesterday.”

  Christina laid her hand gently on his shoulder. “Did I tell you your mother called?”

  “What? Mother?”

  “Would you stop acting like that’s so bizarre? Mothers have been known to call their sons on occasion. Especially when their sons have a tendency to forget to call them.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Apparently she read about tonight’s anniversary show in The Daily Oklahoman.” Ben’s mother lived in the upscale, elite Nichols Hills section of Oklahoma City, about two hours from Tulsa. “She was thinking about coming down.”

  “Why?”

  “To see you, you blithering idiot. It’s not like you ever invited her to come hear you play.”

  “My mother doesn’t know anything about music, much less jazz.”

  “That’s beside the point.”

  “She’d be miserable.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “I hope you didn’t encourage her.”

  “No, but I did give her directions.”

  “Christina!” Ben rolled over on one side. He wanted to complain, but what was the point? Christina obviously did what she thought was right; nothing he said was going to change her mind.

  After several minutes had passed, Christina broke the silence. “I’m sorry the audition didn’t go better.”

  “How did you know?”

  “If you’d gotten the gig, you would’ve mentioned it already.”

  Christina had a habit of startling him with her understanding of matters she had no business understanding. Her instincts were uncanny. It was almost as if she were a mind reader. Which, given all the other weird stuff she was into, was not altogether impossible.

  “You must be disappointed.”

  He shrugged. “Not really. I never expected to get it. I’m all right playing with other musicians—Mike when we were in college, the guys in the jazz band these past months. But I’ll never cut it as a soloist.”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re the best pianist I’ve ever heard.”

  Ben laughed. “Remind me to take you to a Van Cliburn concert.”

  “But I don’t think jazz is your forte.”

  “Yeah, well, people expect folk music to come from a guitar, not a piano. And there aren’t a lot of folk music clubs in town.”

  “Maybe you should start one.”

  He laughed again. “You’re dreaming.”

  “True. Wish I could get you to do the same.”

  “You can’t start a club playing music people don’t want to hear.”

  “Ben, do you know what your problem is?”

  “I suspect I’m about to.”

  “You always try to please other people. Which is commendable, but there are limits. You don’t start playing a kind of music just because that’s what other people want to hear. At some point in your life, you have to be who you really are.”

  “You know, this is the second time today I’ve heard this speech, and frankly, I’m tired of it.”

  “Then listen for a change!” Her words poured out with unexpected force. “Do you think I’d be telling you this if it wasn’t true?”

  Ben turned away. “I don’t need other people to tell me who I am.”

  “Evidently you do!” She threw up her hands. “And this is all a symptom of this ridiculous business of pretending you don’t want to be a lawyer anymore.”

  “I don’t.”

  Christina didn’t respond.

  “I said, I don’t.”

  She remained silent, impassive.

  “I don’t!”

  She turned her head slightly. “Methinks he doth protest too much.”

  Ben rolled his eyes and edged toward the access panel.

  “You know, Ben, just because your last case turned out badly—”

  “I do not want to discuss this!”

  Christina drummed her fingers. “I stopped by to see Jones and Loving today.”

  “Please don’t start with that again, all right?”

  “They need you.”

  “They do not. Jones is a top-notch legal secretary and office manager, and Loving is a relentless investigator with great business connections. They don’t need me for anything.”

  “They feel aban
doned since you closed your law practice.”

  “I didn’t close my practice. It was blown to smithereens.”

  She made a tsking sound. “Excuses, excuses. Think of all that time you spent at OU getting your degree.”

  “So what? Is it written somewhere that I have to be a lawyer forever just because I spent three years at the best law school in the state?”

  “Tulsa has a perfectly good law school,” Christina interjected.

  Ben stopped. It was true, of course, but since when did she become the defender of TU’s law school? “The point is, I don’t have to be a lawyer. I’m doing just fine.”

  “Right, living off the proceeds of your big case. It won’t last forever, you know.”

  “I make an income as a musician, too.”

  “Not enough to pay the rent, but money isn’t the issue. I know you’ll eventually learn to be who you really are.” She paused, staring up at the sky. “I’m confident you will. In time. I just get tired of waiting. So do Jones and Loving. They need you.”

  “Oh, would you stop with the guilt trip already? They do not need me. I’m sure they’re staying perfectly busy on their own …”

  Jones leaned back, aimed carefully, and propelled another wad of paper toward the trash can. It came in high, bounced off one office wall, ricocheted off the other, and dropped just outside the rim.

  “Blast!” Jones said, swinging around in his black swivel desk chair. “I had eleven baskets in a row and I blew it!”

  “That’s so excitin’,” Loving said, looking up wearily from his magazine. “I’ll alert the media.”

  “Yeah, well, at least I’m not wasting my time reading some idiotic magazine for the third time through. What is that, anyway?” Jones walked over to Loving’s desk and snatched the magazine out of his hands. “UFO Newswatch?. Give me a break. How can you read this junk?”

  “It ain’t junk,” Loving said, snatching it back. “It’s serious journalism.”

  “This is one step removed from the National Enquirer,” Jones replied. He scanned the cover of the magazine. “ ‘What Really Happened at Roswell? What—or Who—Is Hidden in Hangar 18? Elvis and JFK Alive in Andromeda?’ Sheesh.”