The Green Rolling Hills

by V. J. Banis

  Jett stopped walking and turned around. “What did you just say?” he asked Kincaid.

  * * * *

  Back at the cabin, Jett tried phoning Mac, then finally called his landlady. She hadn’t seen Mac for days, but she mentioned acidly that he owed her two months back rent and hoped Jett would be good for it.

  “Damn boy is worthless,” Jeff muttered to himself, climbing into the Bronco and heading back to Tanky’s place. “Tried to get him a good job in the city. Tried to get him to join the Army, but no, he don’t want no normal life.”

  As he approached the house, country music blasted through the open front door. A baby wailed somewhere inside. Jett hesitated, recalling his previous encounters with Naoma Minns back in the days when he’d been with the West Virginia State Police. Nate was right, she was crazy as a bedbug. Why had he come? He probably wouldn’t get anything sensible out of her anyway.

  Just then the screen door banged open. A large woman, twice the size of Naoma, filled the doorway. Tiny black eyes peered out under a high pile of orange curls. Wobbling double chins and flushed, puffy cheeks encased cupid bow lips. A huge, flowered, tent-like covering hid the rest of her body. She wasn’t smiling.

  “Is Naoma in?” Jett asked, half-hoping she’d be out. “I’m Jett McCabe. She knows me.”

  “Naoma don’t wanna see nobody, especially no cops.”

  “And I sure ain’t gonna talk to no McCabes,” Naoma yelled from inside the house. “Tell that asshole to clear out, Mother Minns.”

  “You done heard her, get out.” Mother Minns tried to push the door closed.

  Jett shoved his foot in the doorway. “Listen up, I’m trying to locate the owner of some recovered money. Need to know what was missing from the garage.” Jett shifted his weight, not budging from the doorway. “I’m so sorry, Ma’am, about the death of your son. I knew him well.” He grinned.

  The mountain in the doorway hesitated. “You knew my Tanky?” She started to bawl loudly. “Naoma, this here guy knew Tanky.”

  “Of course he knew Tanky,” Naoma yelled back. “Sonnuvabitch arrested him enough times.” But Jett saw her walking toward the door. She was wearing a bright pink spandex top, tight black jeans, and four-inch silver high heels. Hands on bulging hips, she said, “What the hell you want, Jett? Ain’t you able to see we’re in mourning here?”

  She’s sure looking older, Jett thought. Now it took twice as much makeup and half as much spandex to produce the same product as a few years ago. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a blonde. Now her hair was a brassy orange, a couple of shades brighter than old Ma Minns’.

  “Naoma, I just come by to try to do you a favor.”

  “Ha! What favor?”

  He ducked in through the doorway. The room was cluttered, but clean. A TV blared in the corner. Twanging country music blasted from somewhere in the rear of the house. The baby still wailed. Tanky’s picture, surrounded by withered flower arrangements, adorned the mantel. Jett could see that Tanky was already on his way to sainthood with the Minns’ clan.

  “Well, eh, this here’s the thing. Certain amounts of money have been recovered, and I’m trying to trace the rightful owner. If you could just answer a few questions, it really would be a help. Let’s start with Tanky and Mac. What kinda business deal did they have going?”

  “Business deal? What the hell you talking about? I don’t know nothing about no deals.”

  “Why was Mac here on Tuesday night then?”

  “How should I know,” Naoma started to move around the room, stopping in front of Tanky’s picture. “Tanky was good to everybody, even Mac. Give him a beer that night. That was just like him.” She blew her nose loudly. Mother Minns started bawling again.

  “Was Tanky dealing with anybody down in the city? Could he have had any enemies there? Have you seen any strangers hanging around here?”

  “Enemies! Strangers! You just look to Mac McCabe for an enemy. He done attacked poor Tanky with a ball peen hammer. I told them other dumb cops all this, and ain’t nothing been done.” Naoma began wailing.

  “Shit,” Jett muttered. “Listen, Naoma, I know this is hard for you. But the police report stated that the only cash missing in the garage was roughly fifty dollars from the cash box. Much more than this has been recovered, so I figure there had been some business deal in the works. Maybe something had gotten screwed up, gone sour?”

  The mention of money had an instantly calming effect. “More money,” Naoma blubbered. “Well, maybe Gene Gray would know. He done some work for Tanky from time to time. Guess I forgot to mention Gene to the State Boys. Yeah, Gene stopped by on Tuesday evening.”

  Jett was already edging toward the door. He’d gotten what he wanted. “Okay. Well, here’s my card if you think of anything else. Thanks.”

  “Not so fast,” Naoma was right behind him. “When will I get my money? Left with no man, me and my kids and grandkids, and poor Mother Minns here.”

  “Let you know soon,” Jett shouted over his shoulder as he bolted for the Bronco. Throwing the truck into gear, he floored the accelerator and headed for Great Cacapon, a small town about six miles west of Berkeley Springs. It was time to see old Gene.

  He never had liked the sneaky little bastard, so this ought to be a pleasure.

  * * * *

  Gene was skinning a large catfish near the Cacapon River, which ran behind his trailer. His short, pudgy fingers worked skillfully. Concentrating on his task, he didn’t hear Jett slip up behind him till Jett spoke. “Morning, Gene.”

  “Oh my God Almighty.” Gene jumped, dropped the big catfish, and brandished the skinning knife. “Damn you, McCabe. Sneaking up on a person like that. What the hell you want?”

  They eyed each other in the lengthening silence. Gene finally bent down and retrieved the fish. Jett noticed that his hand shook. Gene’s light blue eyes were watering and his breathing was shallow and rapid.

  Jett decided to try a long shot. He moved closer and smiled. “Gene, what can you tell me about Tanky Minns, Mac, and the Mafia?”

  Gene’s labored breathing seemed to stop; the fish again slipped out of his grasp. “Nothing. I don’t know nothing.”

  “Naoma Minns says you do. All I want is the name of your D.C. contact. Fact is, you and Naoma could both be in danger. I work in D.C. I know what these guys are like.” Hell, if they looked for Mac long enough, Jett thought grimly, he himself could even be in danger.

  Gene’s doughy complexion became paler. “Vito Delucca,” he whispered. “He runs a small specialty garage in D.C.”

  Jett nodded. Things were falling into place. “What about Mac? When’s the last time you seen Mac? Anybody been asking around for him?”

  Gene looked down and mumbled, “I ain’t seen him since last Tuesday night. But I heard he’s around. Honest, you’re the first one asking.”

  “Yeah, well you just tell Georgia you’ll be gone for a few hours,” Jett said as he slipped the cuffs on Gene. “You need to talk to Nate Kincaid.”

  * * * *

  At 2:00 P.M. Jett was back at his desk in D.C. First, he requested a search on the serial numbers from the four recovered one hundred dollar bills. Then, he spent the afternoon going over data on the De Marco family. The computer screen displayed names, birth dates, last known addresses, criminal records, etc. Jett knew many of these hoods, including De Marco, by sight. Under “known associates,” Vito’s name popped up. The program had already been updated to include his date of death.

  Jett picked up the phone and called for the homicide file on Vito Delucca. By the end of the day, he had digested most of the available information on Vito’s murder. One fact stood out: a flatbed truck with a West Virginia plate had been parked in front of Vito’s garage on Wednesday, the day of Vito’s death. Efforts to trace the registration had been unsuccessful, but two clear sets of prints had been lifted. No matches so far.

  Drinking a third cup of coffee, Jett speculated on what he had. Vito and Tanky had some kind of
deal going. He wrote “No. l: Deal” at the top of a note pad and thought of the hot Porsche found hidden near Tanky’s garage. He also thought of the Porsche’s dented fender and Naomi’s story of Mac and the ball peen hammer. Mac was probably the runner, and one of those sets of prints was his.

  He added “No. 2: Mac”. Vito’s Italian niece, Rosa, turned up missing on the same day her uncle was murdered.

  He wrote “No. 3: Rosa”.

  Homicide had labeled Vito’s murder a gangland execution. And the motive? Well, it seemed Vito had been holding out on Jimmy De Marco. Jett wrote “No. 4: De Marco.” He bet the serial numbers on the recovered money from West Virginia would match a list of serialized bills from a recent heist involving De Marco. He completed the list with “No. 5: Money.”

  So it was pretty clear. Mac and the girl had the money up in West Virginia, and the Mob was hot on their heels. Putting it all together, Jett realized that Mac was a damn stupid kid who didn’t know what he was into.

  Jett left a message on Nate Kincaid’s office recorder. He wanted to know what, if anything, Nate had learned from Gene. He figured it was time to head back to West Virginia and look for his dumb-ass cousin.

  In the Bronco, fortified with another cup of coffee, Jett tried to think of where Mac and the girl could be. So far, they’d stuck to places that Mac was familiar with. After all, he would naturally hide in the mountains where he’d grown up. He knew Morgan County, and this would probably work for him and the girl if they stayed put.

  But that fool, Mac, had never stayed put anywhere. And when they surfaced, which they were bound to do sooner or later, they’d be in danger.

  Jett’s mind raced over the possibilities. They’d need supplies, food, gas, and such. Did they really have the mobster’s money? This seemed unlikely. If Mac had cash, he’d be long gone. But if Mac needed money, Jett knew how he’d probably get it, and this thought scared him the most. What would flush them out? Who would they contact? What about the girl? Damn Mac and his women. Damn fool! Nothing was worth having the Mafia on your tail.

  When Jett pulled off the Interstate at Hancock, Maryland, it had started to rain. He stopped at the Park ‘n Dine for a sandwich and home fries. He would have much rather thrown down a couple of cold beers at the bar across the street, but he couldn’t do booze anymore.

  This thought triggered the uncomfortable memory of a younger Mac. Mac had helped him out several times when he had been trying to beat a serious drinking problem. With a grimace, Jett remembered one particular summer night at the cabin. Mac had sat up all night with him, helping him fend off the demons, pouring out hidden supplies of Jim Beam.

  Jett conceded that he owed the kid. He at least owed him enough to try to keep Mac alive. Damn stupid kid wasn’t making it easy, though.

  Jett wolfed down the sandwich, remembering that he hadn’t eaten all day. He ordered another sandwich and a piece of apple pie. Looking around at the few late evening regulars and handful of travelers, he tried to work out the puzzle. Where do people go when they’re under stress, scared, and in need of reassurance? Where would these people go?

  He checked out an elderly couple in a corner booth. The frail, white-haired woman wore a large silver cross, which glinted in the glare of the florescent lights. “Bingo,” he said quietly.

  That heathen, Mac, was out of this picture. But what about the girl? He tried to recall the paragraph from Vito’s homicide report: “Rosa Delucca, eighteen years old, Italian citizen, orphan, raised in a convent school, planning to become a nun.”

  He added what he knew about Rosa. She left payment for anything she took. Well, the girl had a conscience, he thought. And he knew where she’d go. The Catholic church in Berkeley Springs would be an easy stake-out.

  Before he left the restaurant, he dialed Kincaid’s home phone number from the pay phone. Nate answered on the second ring. “Nate, this is Jett. Anything new?”

  “Glad you called, Jett. Thanks for the fax on the De Marco family. Listen, I didn’t get too much outta that screwball, Gene. He knows a lot more then he’s saying. He’s pretty scared. I can tell you that.”

  “If you get any stolen vehicle reports, call me, Nate, no matter how late it is. I have a feeling something’s gonna break.” On the ride over to the cabin Jett mentally added the last item to his list: “No. 6: Gene.”

  * * * *

  Mac left the cliff-top house about nine P.M. on Saturday. They’d set up an escape plan in case anyone showed up, and he’d cautioned Rosie to keep the curtains drawn. Now he wasn’t taking any chances.

  The steady rain made the night cold and foggy, but he made good time. He figured the low water bridge would be flooded out, so he crossed the river downstream. He left the old boat he had “borrowed” tied to a tree. The owner would find it if he started searching soon.

  Looking back at the river, Mac realized how lucky he’d been to have made it across. The brown, rushing water was spilling over the banks. If he hadn’t known to cross at the bend, where the current ran near the shore, he’d never have made it. Hell, he’d be on his way to the Potomac!

  The problem was that he had to get to Great Cacapon, get his business over with Gene, grab a vehicle, and get back for Rosie very quickly. Gusting wind was driving the rain in cold sheets. He decided he had better pick up a four-wheel drive. He’d probably have to take the back road over the mountain, and it was sure to be washed out and treacherous tonight.

  Damn Gene! Mac knew the sneaky bastard probably wouldn’t be much help anyway.

  * * * *

  Gene fiddled nervously with the TV antenna, twirling the pole back and forth in his short, stubby fingers. He was already drenched. After each new location, he’d yell in through the trailer window, “Georgia, can’t you see nothing yet?”

  The wind had picked up. Gene braced his feet and rotated the antenna again. When he looked up, he was face to face with Mac. Gene jumped two feet and swore. The look in Mac’s eyes unnerved him. “What the hell you want, McCabe? I’m tired of you bastards sneaking up on me.”

  “Why, Gene, you don’t sound too glad to see me. Couldn’t help me out with the run to D.C. the other day, could you?” Mac moved closer. “Matter of fact, Gene, I need a little help now. Guess you heard about Tanky?”

  Gene staggered back a few steps, slipping in the mud. “Tanky, yeah. Poor sonnavabitch. The cops was here today. Your relation, Jett, as a matter of fact. Hauled me inta the station, but I wasn’t no help to them. I don’t know nothing. You know who did it?”

  “Same guys I delivered the Porsche to. The Mafia. Now they’re after me.”

  Gene backed toward the trailer door. “Look, Mac, somebody might have followed you here. I got a family to look after.”

  Mac’s arm shot out and held the door. He stepped nearer to Gene. “The way I see it, Gene, you owe me. What I need is a 4-wheel drive vehicle and some cash.”

  “Cash! I ain’t got no cash.” He measured the look on Mac’s face, now inches from his own. “Take my brother-in-law’s pickup. It’s next door.” Gene waved his arm. “I got the key, even. I was supposed to fix his headlight tomorrow. Ain’t nothing wrong with the engine.”

  By the time Mac had pulled off in the old pickup, Gene was already at the phone. “Yessir, Mr. De Marco, I told your man I’d let you know. He just left in a l985 Chevy truck, black. I got the license number. Yessir, when you get me the cash. He didn’t say where he was headed, but he wanted a four-wheel drive. No Sir, I done my best. Well, I tried, Mr. De Marco, but he’s a crazy sonnavabitch. I tell ya, if it was me, I’d be getting the hell outta here.”

  When Gene hung up the phone, he yelled to Georgia over the blaring TV, “Done stuck it to that cocky bastard, McCabe. Picked us up a nice piece of change. Whadda think of your ol’ man now?” Silently, he added that Georgia didn’t need to know it was Mob money. Money was money. Besides, he’d also settled a long-standing score with his brother-in-law. Not a bad night’s work.

  * * * *

&nb
sp; The steady rain had turned into a downpour. Thunder crashed, echoing off the hillsides. Jett gave up trying to sleep and started pacing the small rooms. The electric flicked off and on, not as bright as the blue-white flashes of lightning. Tomorrow, he thought, he’d make the rounds of all Mac’s old haunts. He’d turn up. Then the phone rang. Checking his watch, Jett realized it was almost midnight.

  “Jett,” Nate Kincaid’s voice sounded hollow through the crackling wire. “Crazy thing. Gene Gray’s brother-in-law, lives right next to Gene, just reported that his pickup was stolen in the last hour. He had run out to check whether his shed roof was leaking and saw his pickup was gone. It’s a ’85 Chevy, black, 4-wheel drive. He suspects Gene. See, Gene had the key....”

  Jett wasn’t listening.

  “Yeah, thanks, Nate. Listen....” The line went dead. He banged down the phone.

  Jett couldn’t sleep; he kept trying to put things together. Tonight, Mac had heisted a truck in Great Cacapon. He had to be hiding out somewhere nearby. Even with Mac, there was a limit to how far he could travel on foot in this weather. He wouldn’t have been able to take the girl with him. He would have left her in a summer cottage somewhere near where the last one hundred dollar bill was found. So they had to be near Briary Bottom, which was only a few miles from Great Cacapon.

  If the truck had been stolen between 10:00 and 11:00 o’clock, it was doubtful Mac would have been able to return across the low water bridge—water too high. He’d have taken the mountain road back for the girl and this would slow him down. Nate had said that the stolen vehicle was a four-wheel drive, which made sense. That area was pretty rough, isolated country, especially on a night like this, with one storm front rolling in after another.