Shares

by A. W. Gray

  Over half of the barstools were occupied; Frank sat at the end with two seats between him and the nearest customer. The bartender, a young guy in a flowered shirt, approached, drying his hands on a towel. Frank considered a Scotch and water, changed his mind, ordered plain soda with a twist, then said, “Look, I’m expecting a call in here. Frank White, that’s me.” The young man nodded, squirted soda from a liquor gun and added a rind of lime, served the drink, and went on about his business.

  Frank fiddled with his glass, vaguely conscious of Garth Brooks’s voice on the sound system, and squinted at the clock above the cash register. He swallowed hard as he scanned the numbers reading 8:42. Jesus, was the clock in the Cherokee slow or something? Had he missed his call? The rabbit dies, the note had said. Then all at once he relaxed; Alcoholic Beverage Commission watchdogs came down hard on bars caught serving booze after two in the morning, so nearly all Dallas gin mills turned the time forward a quarter hour or so. Frank motioned to the bartender and pointed at the clock, saying, “How fast is that?”

  The young guy followed Frank’s direction, nodded slightly and said, “Thirteen minutes.” Frank expelled a relieved breath and fooled with his glass some more.

  The back bar phone rang at 8:45 by the register clock, and Frank straightened on his stool. The bartender answered, looked directly at Frank, then laid the receiver up between two half-full Jack Daniel’s bottles and called out, “Louise.” Frank slumped.

  Louise was a floor waitress wearing tight jeans and a loose mesh top, and set her tip tray up on the bar before grabbing up the phone. Then she leaned a hip against the counter and told someone named Jack that she was working double shift, and that she wouldn’t be off until around three in the morning. Apparently, Jack didn’t like those arrangements. Louise’s features twisted as she told Jack that if he didn’t like it, he should get off his ass and get a job. Apparently Jack said that he couldn’t find a job, because Louise further opined that Jack might have better luck if he’d quit sitting around watching Oprah and all that other shit.

  Frank ran his fingers through wet hair and had a sip of soda. The register clock changed to 8:47. He nervously scratched a knuckle.

  Louise was saying, “Here’s the picture, Jack. I don’t leave here with any men ‘cause I’m so tired I couldn’t even give a good hand job. And if you don’t believe it you can kiss my ay-yass.”

  Frank went around behind the bar and tapped Louise on the shoulder. From down the way, the bartender said loudly, “Excuse me, sir, you can’t…”

  Louise turned to face Frank, her dark eyes rolling up to look at him. Frank said, “Look, I’m expecting a call any minute.”

  Louise showed a quick smile. “You are? Well, you can keep on expecting, then. I’ve already got a call.” Then, into the receiver she said, “Just some guy, Jack. No, not some guy I’m screwing, just this guy in here.” She turned her back and lowered her head.

  Frank’s temper boiled. He reached to the phone base and pressed the disconnect button. Louise looked stunned, stared arm’s length at the receiver. Then her gaze fell on Frank’s finger, still with the button held down. “Listen, mister,” she said.

  “What the hell you think you’re doing?” the bartender said, hustling down the runway like a man on fire.

  Frank looked at the bartender, then at Louise, then at the bartender again. The phone rang. Frank released the cutoff button, grabbed the receiver from Louise and placed it to his ear. Louise said, eyes flashing fire and hands on hips, “You goddam bastard.” Frank said into the mouthpiece, “Hello?”

  The voice was deep and muffled, like that of a man talking with something in his mouth. “I’m calling for Frank White.”

  The bartender made a move as if to grab for the phone and then apparently changed his mind. “This is Frank,” Frank said.

  “Congratulations, you’re right on time. Doing good. You getting wet?”

  “I’ve had better days.” Frank turned his back on Louise and the bartender, and stuck his finger in his unoccupied ear to shut out the sounds of “Lookin’ for Love” on the sound system.

  “So far this has been a drill. Now we’re getting serious. You ready?”

  Frank softly closed his eyes. Something about the accent. “Yeah, I’m listening,” he said.

  “Go back to the pisser, middle stall, there’s three of them. Reach up inside the toilet-paper dispenser and you’ll find an envelope taped to the metal. There are instructions and a map in there. You with me?”

  “Note inside the toilet paper dispenser, gotcha.”

  “This is all very simple. You’re still under a limit. Forty minutes this time. Plenty if you take the shortest route from A to B, but no leeway for a lot of fucking around. You’re doing fine, Frank. You make this one last leg on your trip, you’re okay, we’re okay, she’s okay. Easy as eggs over, as I see it.”

  Frank sagged against the counter. Jesus. As I see it. The picture came to him, wavy gray hair parted on the right, wide-gapped teeth with silver-filled molars. Jesus. A table in the prison chow hall, ham salad oozing with too much mayonnaise. We need a new chef, men, as I see it. A bench under a tree just outside the prison library, Darla Bern walking away, hips undulating. The gray-haired guy on the bench next to Frank, watching Darla go, saying, Best arse in the camp, Frank, as I see it.

  “You listening, Frank?” the muffled voice said.

  Frank gritted his teeth. “You better take good care of her, Randolph. If I find so much as a scratch on her body, you’re dead.”

  The pause lasted a full ten seconds. Then, his voice no longer muffled, the New York accent clear as a bell, Randolph Money said, “Just bring us the money, Frank. Not one tiny bit of fucking around, you understand?”

  The middle stall was locked, and a pair of cowboy boots crossed at the ankles were visible underneath the door. Frank stood back and looked both ways, at tiny white tiles on the floor, porcelain sinks and a hot-air hand dryer on the wall. A young guy with a skater cut was washing his hands. Frank stepped up and knocked on the stall. “Listen, I need to get in there.”

  There was a startled gasp from within, then a gruff voice said, “The fuck, man, just a minute.” Skater cut swiveled his head to look, rubbing his hands together under the faucet. His jaw slacked.

  “It’s an emergency,” Frank said.

  “Jesus Christ,” the voice inside the stall said. “Ain’t one of the others open?”

  “No, I mean,” Frank said, “there’s something in there I need.”

  “Look, I ain’t gay, if that’s what you’re…”

  “No, no, I…” Frank tugged at the hem of his T-shirt. Skater cut was now grinning. “I don’t have to come in,” Frank said, “if you could do something for me.”

  “Listen, buddy,” the voice inside the stall said.

  “Reach up inside the toilet-paper dispenser,” Frank said. “There should be an envelope taped in there.”

  There was a rustling noise, a faint clink of metal. A big hand appeared beside the boots holding an envelope with a strip of tape stuck to its edge. Frank reached down, took the envelope, and stepped back. “Hey, thanks.”

  “You guys running around leaving each other messages in the toilet.” the voice inside the stall said, “Just don’t include me in no daisy chain, okay?”

  The federal people were six blocks to the south, crammed like sardines in the back of the white Doran Cleaners panel truck, which sat in the storm-drenched parking lot of a Tom Thumb Supermarket. The camouflaged surveillance vehicle was directly behind a row of cars nosed in to the curb, blocking their exit route. Twice during the past ten minutes the truck had had to move to let autos back out, the most recent of which was a pickup driven by a cigar-smoking, red-faced man who’d shot the feds the finger. The panel truck’s driver, a rookie FBI agent named Marks, had briefly considered arresting the guy. The rain had subsided some, tiny drop
s spattering the puddles like pepper grains. Lightning continued to flash and thunder continued to roll.

  In the rear of the truck, the blinking cursor shifted its position on the monitor. “He’s moving,” Weir said.

  The surveillance expert was hunched over the computer and audio receiver, Tate and Turner side by side on a built-in padded bench, Turner’s knees splayed out, Tate’s legs crossed finishing school style. “Let’s have some audio,” Turner said.

  As if on cue, Frank White’s voice cut into the speaker static. “I’m southbound on Greenville, planning to cut over and head south on I-45. The instructions are I’m supposed to take I-30 east out to Lake Ray Hubbard, cut across the dam to the north side of the lake, and find a pier in front of a bunch of condos. I’ll be giving you the exact location once I get off of the interstate. Listen, I know the guy on the phone.”

  Tate and Turner exchanged a look. Tate murmured, “I’ll just bet you do, sweetie.” Frank’s voice went on.

  “Check out Randolph Money, guy was at Pleasanton until late eighty-eight or early eighty-nine, I’m not sure exactly. Some kind of white-collar fraud conviction. I’ve turned west now, and I’m about to enter southbound I-45 at the University Boulevard on-ramp. I’ll be back in touch when I get to the lake.”

  The speaker continued to crackle. The cursor moved slowly toward the lower portion of the screen. Weir pressed some buttons on the keyboard and the cursor was once again centered in the picture. Turner scratched his ankle as he said, “Mr. Money wants the money, huh? Well, ain’t that cute.”

  Tate leaned forward, removed her petite glasses, and rubbed her eyes. “What do you think?”

  “Same thing I’ve always thought,” Turner said. “I think our boy Frank’s full of it.”

  “We’ve got to check this Randolph Money out.”

  “Sure we do. Just like we checked out the broad, that Darla Bern. I got the report back on her today.”

  Tate swiveled her head, light from the computer screen coloring her features an eerie green and adding sparkling highlights to her hair. “That’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Guys were a couple of days late getting it to us,” Turner said. “The night they snatched the girl, the Bern woman was shacked up in her motel with a guy staying down the hall. Our people interviewed him, he verified. This afternoon she flew back to California, we also verified the flight number and the fact that her cute little fanny was in one of the seats. Also, according to Darla Bern, our man Frank tried to recruit her to help in the kidnapping.”

  “She’ll testify to that?” Tate extracted a notepad and wrote something down.

  “Not specifically the kidnapping. What she said was, Frank White met her in some honky-tonk and asked her to help him out with something. According to our report, she turned him down before he could tell her exactly what it was he was up to.”

  “We know how to get in touch with this woman if we need her?”

  “Got her address and phone number in L.A. Big point is, if she’s in on it she’s doing it long distance at the moment. Like I said, I think our boy Frank’s full of shit.”

  Tate chewed on the end of her ballpoint. “Him just talking to her, that’s grounds to revoke his parole. Consorting with a felon.”

  “Yep,” Turner said. “Asshole’s in on it, take it from me.” He leaned up behind Weir and tapped him on the shoulder. “That gizmo of yours got the capacity to call us up a map?”

  Weir swiveled his head. “Sure, I just give her the command and it comes out on the printer over there. I can even get you recipes if you want em.”

  “Good,” Turner said. “I want a detailed layout of the area around Lake Ray Hubbard, kabish?” He knocked on the partition separating the rear of the truck from the cab. “Hey up there,” Turner called out.

  The partition slid to one side and the driver stuck his head through. “Guy gave me the finger a minute ago.”

  “Yeah?” Turner said. “Well, just you find I-forty-five, head south, then take us east on Interstate Thirty. You start bouncing us around back here and I’ll give you more than the finger, you listening to me?”

  24

  Frank steered down a twisty wet gravel road in the dark, with barely enough room ahead for two autos to pass abreast. Gnarly mesquite trees grew on both sides, and overhanging branches slid over the Cherokee’s roof like car-wash brushes. Darts of rain reflected in the headlamp beams. The deluge slackened for an instant, then beat steadily down, the wipers swishing back and forth, back and forth across the windshield. The defroster was blowing and the window was partway down, the odor of soaked vegetation drifting up his nostrils.

  As he inched along at ten miles per, Frank switched on the interior lights and checked the map. Five minutes earlier he’d read the dropoff instructions into his collar mike, assuming the federal people were hearing him but never sure. All at once he was clear of the mesquites, the path in front of him dipping down and to his left, the lap-lap of wavelets providing background to the whisper of rain. Visible through the right rear window, condo roofs towered in the darkness.

  Frank’s breathing quickened as the dock came into view, solid gray planks stretching forth, two cabin boats rocking up and down, up and down, tied to the end of the pier. He stopped, read over the instructions one final time, extinguished the interiors, and fished in the glove compartment for his flashlight. He thumbed the switch and a sudden beam stabbed the interior of the Cherokee. After turning off his headlights, he killed the engine and pocketed his car keys, then shouldered the door open and stepped outside. Rain soaked his hair, ran down his face, and dripped from his chin. On the way to the rear of the car, his foot slipped. He staggered, righted himself, and continued on.

  He opened the tailgate and hefted out the suitcase, then stood in the downpour and directed the flashlight beam down to the dock. The beam spotlighted the words Sassy Seaman painted aft on one of the cabin boats, then zeroed in on the end of the pier. The anvil-shaped piece of iron was right where the instructions had said it would be. Frank’s jaws clenched as he lugged the suitcase down the incline and out onto the dock.

  He knelt and touched lukewarm metal and grunted slightly as he hefted the anvil to test its weight. A chain encircled the iron and looped inside itself, and a hook dangled from the chain’s slack end. Frank fastened the hook to the suitcase handle, squatted down, placed his hands on the anvil, and, with a heavy sigh of exertion, shoved. The iron slug teetered, then toppled from the dock, dragging its load behind. The suitcase bounced once, then vanished over the side, the splash barely audible over the deluge and the lapping tide. Frank stood and shone the flashlight on inky-black, rain-pocked waves for a moment, then trudged up the dock in the direction of the Cherokee.

  Chester Rankin’s secretary sat bolt upright and said breathlessly, “Oh, it’s her. I know it is.” Then she pulled the sheet up to cover her bare breasts, lay back down, and buried her head underneath the pillow. The loud pounding downstairs continued.

  Rankin raised up on one elbow, his hard-on wilting. “No way, I put her on the plane.”

  “Some private detective, then.” The pillow muffled her words. “Someone taking pictures.”

  The knocking ceased for a count of three, then resumed, echoing up the staircase and reverberating through the bedroom like jungle drums.

  Rankin scratched his head through thinning hair, peering through the darkness at shapes, his robe laid over a vanity chair, her dress, panties and bra strewn about on the floor. He threw the sheet back and sat naked on the side of the bed. On the night-stand, a roach glowed in an ashtray. He ground out the stub, then dug in the drawer for his Beretta. Pistol in hand, he went over and put on his robe. The hardwood was cool underfoot.

  His secretary raised up, curls askew in the semi-light. “You’re not going to shoot somebody.”

  “Protection.” Rankin said. He leaned over her to peer out
the window. Two hundred yards away and a story below, someone came off the dock carrying a flashlight. Visible through a film of rain, the beam swiveled left and right as it approached a shit-kicker vehicle of some kind parked on the incline. A Bronco, maybe, or could be a Jeep or an Isuzu, Rankin didn’t know one of these goat-roper cars from the other. Somebody was out there fucking around in a downpour, while somebody else pounded on the condo door in the middle of the fucking night. Rankin didn’t know what the fuck was going on. Some fucking hideaway, huh? Next time he wanted to bang his secretary he’d do it downtown in the middle of Main Street, less of a fucking audience.

  The knocking quickened its pace, bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang, bang-bang-bang.

  Rankin sucked in his gut as he went down the steps. Then he thought, To hell with it, and relaxed, letting it all hang out, figuring the loose-fitting robe for plenty of camouflage. He reached the door and looked out through the peephole, at huddled shapes on the porch, heads bent down in the rain. “The fuck you want?” Rankin yelled.

  A brisk male voice spoke out. “FBI, sir. I’m Agent Weir. We need your help.”

  Rankin nearly gagged. He switched on the outside light, the two figures in full view now, men wearing yellow slickers, raindrops plummeting through the yellow glow all around them. “You better show some ID,” Rankin said. “I got a gun in here.”

  One man reached up inside his coat, snapped open a wallet, and exhibited the shield to the peephole. Rankin opened the door a foot. “You need a warrant.” It was more of a question than a statement; Rankin didn’t know if the FBI needed fucking anything to hassle somebody.

  A smallish figure stepped around the guy holding the wallet, and said in a businesslike female alto, “I’m not FBI, sir, he is. I’m Felicia Tate, Assistant United States Attorney, and we’ve got a critical stakeout going. Your condo backs up to the lake, and we need to set up shop where we can watch from your upstairs window. The government will reimburse you for—”