***
McBride was sitting in his office, reading the various newspapers reporting Eddie's disappearance. They were so easy to manipulate. They had no idea how they were being used to serve his purpose. Once Harris was driven out of office, he would have no trouble running anything he wanted in town. Harris was a mistake that had gotten elected, and now McBride was going to fix that mistake. This was almost fun, with him working the press and the mayor to his advantage. Jackson and Gloria stealing from him had almost become a blessing, since he had figured a way to use that to his advantage. By his calculations, paying to have a public official eliminated would cost roughly half of what Jackson and Gloria had taken. Not a bad bargain, really. McBride set the paper down on the table behind him and stretched out in his chair. Just a little remorseful, really. Too bad that young man had to be caught in the middle of this, but that was how the business went.
Eddie was tied up in this by chance, and there was no way for him to go back and change what happened. Now, though, Eddie was out there wandering around, likely to be caught or involved in a shootout. McBride turned this scenario around in his mind and found it bothered him that he did not know where this man was. There was an agreeable level of control when he knew Eddie was right where he could find him and be manipulated. The papers gave no clue as to where he disappeared to, but the more he thought about it, he began to think he should step in and find him. Eddie was an asset he needed to keep. If McBride knew where Eddie was, he could control all the stories and hysteria. So far he had been doing that to some extent, and Harris and the Mayor were getting the brunt of the press's wild speculations. McBride folded the papers and put them into the trashcan by his desk. He would have to make an effort to find Eddie. There was no clear path to doing so, but he had the connections and knowledge to start, and that was usually enough.
McBride had spent many hours trying to find a person intent on hiding, and he knew this would become painful for some people. There was a point at which McBride had to make a choice of either going down the path he had taken or staying a small man in a big city, selling two-bedroom houses. McBride could not think of when that moment was crossed, though he knew the first time he killed another man that his choice was final. He was smarter than the other men working with O'Connor. O'Connor was not sure if this was a threat or a help, but McBride knew he was being tested when he was in charge of shutting down a prostitution ring that was moving in on their business. McBride knew what was needed, and he put together the right crew to carry it out. They waited in an alley most of the night until these men (McBride never even learned their names) came out of a door. He fired the first shot, and it was over in about five seconds—a complete success, and O'Connor could not have been more pleased with how McBride had handled everything. Eddie was insignificant. Eddie had been to prison once, and he should have known what the stakes were. Using him to work Harris was a stroke of genius. Finding him and destroying Harris would be even better.
27
Mike never liked to meet McBride in person. In reality, he never liked to form a connection with anybody who hired him. McBride was also not a person to be trusted, and he had the annoying tendency to assume Mike worked for him exclusively. Mike was a private contractor and generally only took jobs he wanted to take. There was also the worry that McBride might try something to get Mike into trouble or worse. Mike was quick, but getting ambushed by a group of goons was a no-win situation. With that in mind, when McBride had called, asking to meet with him, Mike had insisted they be in an open area, preferably outside with other people around. While on the phone, McBride had started yelling, and Mike quietly hung up. A few moments later, McBride had called back and offered to meet in a park downtown. When Mike arrived, he saw McBride sitting at a bench, overcoat on and fedora pulled down low enough to obscure his face. Funny, really, if Mike had a sense of humor.
When Mike approached, McBride looked up and asked, "What happened to him?"
After a few seconds, Mike could not think of what he was asking about. "I'm afraid I don't know who you're talking about."
"Don't you read the papers?" McBride asked, his voice rising.
"No I don't, why would I need to start doing that?" Mike remained standing, watching McBride look around the park. When he had approached, he did not spot any of McBride's "helpers," but he was still uncomfortable being with him.
"Eddie, that kid you scared for me. You met him when he came out of Aron's not long ago. He disappeared. It's all over the news," McBride said, standing as well.
"What's that to me—or you, for that matter? I thought you wanted him dead." A few weeks earlier, when Mike had met Eddie, McBride had told him to not kill him, yet. Mike had made the assumption he would be hired sooner or later to finish the job. When he met Eddie, he thought it would be a good opportunity to learn his patterns for when he needed to perform the hit.
"Well, I don't know where he is. If I can't find him, I can't control him. I need you to find out where he is and bring him back," McBride demanded.
"That's not what I do. If that's all you want, I'll be on my way," Mike said, turning to leave.
"Hold on. You do what I hire you to do. That's how it works," McBride said, moving around to block Mike's departure.
"About that. Don't bother calling me to pass along threats, or nanny, or anything like that anymore. I'm done with those jobs. If you want a bounty hunter, hire a bounty hunter. If you want to scare a man, call one of your two-fisted hoods. It's not what I do," Mike said.
"What the hell is so hard about this? Talk to people you know, ask around. A snot-nosed school kid could do it. I'll pay you your regular fee for just finding him," McBride said. Mike reminded himself how much he did not care one way or another for McBride.
"It's not like there's a club where we sit around, smoke cigars, talking about who we're going to whack. For all I know, I'm the only one in this business. You find him and tell me where he is, I'll take him out. That's how I work." Mike put his hands into his pockets. His piece was in his left coat pocket, but he did not intend to use it on McBride. It was just there, and his hand naturally wrapped around it.
"I never could trust you. Maybe I'll start finding help elsewhere," McBride said.
"That's fine. If you know a better man for the job, by all means. It doesn't make any difference to me." Mike never had feelings one way or the other if he was hired. He knew he was good, maybe the best, but it was such a personal profession, comparisons were never spoken of to him. "I'm clean and efficient at what I do, but if that's not what you want, there are others around. Clarence, when you need me to do the job, I'll do it right. Other than that, we're done here."
Mike could feel McBride looking closely at his face. What the man was thinking, Mike could not really tell, other than this meeting had not gone as planned, and he was not pleased. "What does bother you? Anything get on your nerves?"
"Sloppiness. A man who thinks he can do what I do but makes a mess of things."
Mike had to give McBride credit. He understood, and by the look on his face, a drop of the scowl around the lips, he had accepted this answer. "We'll be in touch," McBride said before leaving. He watched him for a few moments, then went the other direction, among the young mothers and their children enjoying a spring morning. A few kids crossed his path, and he politely let them go on their way.
28
When Eddie got up that next morning, at first he thought he was in his own apartment and needed to get ready for work. After a few seconds, he knew where he was and fell back in the bed. There was some movement coming from downstairs, and he smelled bacon cooking and coffee brewing. After a few minutes, his door was unlocked, and Carl stuck his head in. "Margie's got breakfast on the table. Come on down."
The table was covered with food, and the gang was wasting no time eating. "Mind your manners," Margie scolded one of the men. "Use the fork like I sho
wed you! What are you, some kind of white nigger?" The rest of the men laughed at the crude joke, though by her creased brow, Margie did not seem to think it was funny. Eddie took a seat next to one of the men who had ignored him the night before.
"What's the deal? We movin' today?" the man asked Carl.
"I ain't got no word yet. Maybe today, maybe a week," Carl said as he read the morning paper.
"What the hell we going to do? Sit on our asses?" Nelson said.
"That's exactly what you're going to do. There's a movie house in town, but don't go around causing trouble. We don't want to draw attention," Carl said. There was a general grumbling around the table.
"What are you waiting for?" Eddie asked.
"There's a truck load of Canadian coming through here," the man next to him said. "We's meeting up with it to take delivery. I'm drivin' it to Harrisburg."
"You do this often?" Eddie asked.
"Yes," Carl said. "Part of the load's going to Bridgeport. We need to do some collections there, too."
"Who's driving the second load?" the other man asked. Eddie had not paid too much attention to him, though as far as he could remember, these were the first words he had said.
"We're going to have you drive it. Eddie, me, and Nelson are going with you," Carl said. The man smiled broadly. Carl turned to the man next to Eddie. "When the load comes in, we'll split it up, and you and the guy driving the first truck go on to Harrisburg. The next load will follow in about ten days."
"You drive trucks?" the man next to Eddie asked.
"I've driven a few. Why?" Eddie said.
"This is good money. I make twice what I used to haulin' steel. I made a hundred dollars two months ago. Real steady, ain't it?" he asked the other truck driver.
"It's good money. Keeps my boys fed," he said.
"These guys have been doing this for a couple of years, and we haven't had a bad month yet. Most of them worked for me before O'Connor hired us," Carl said.
"Except for me," Nelson said, that crazed smile spreading across his face. "I'm on my own."
The other men finished eating, again leaving Carl and Eddie at the table. Once they were far enough away, he said, "These boys aren't real smart, but they're good. O'Connor saw my trucking company was going out of business and made me an offer to run this operation. I knew trucking, and I had the equipment and drivers. These two were the only ones that stayed on, but it worked out fine for them. They make about twice as much as they used to, and their families are taken care of."
Eddie always knew people running most of the liquor were everyday men being lured by easy money. Take a few men with some skills and not much future, pay them well, and of course they were going to haul illegal booze around and not ask questions. Not too many years ago, he would have done it without hesitation.
"You still haul other things?"
"Sure. When Earl there goes to Harrisburg, he'll have a load of furniture and the delivery. Coming back, he'll have produce. It's still a legitimate business. We just haul for all customers." Carl poured himself a cup of coffee and rolled a cigarette.
Eddie felt out of place asking too many questions about what Carl did. Carl seemed to be a decent person doing an indecent job, probably working independently or at least partly owned by O'Connor. Nelson was there to take care of the crude part and probably worked for O'Connor directly. "So what do I do?"
"Simple: You stay in the house until we leave. Then you go with us." Carl finished rolling the cigarette and lit it. He looked over at Nelson and added, "You run out of here, then that's no longer my problem. Trouble's going to hunt you down."
Eddie understood what he meant. He got up from the table and picked up the morning paper. He leafed through it, half wondering if his name would appear anywhere, but he never found a mention. They were not that far from Providence, but news took a day or two to reach out from the city. All he could do was sit and wait for his moment. He looked over at Nelson, who was listening to the radio with his head leaned back. The last thing he wanted was a crazed gun-toting man chasing right behind him. Nelson was the type who would keep firing until he hit something, whether it was what he was aiming for or not. In prison, the guards liked to keep people like him away from the other inmates.
Eddie waited through the day. Some of the men left for a few hours and came back. In the evening, a few of them went to a movie that was playing, while he spent the time reading or listening to the radio. Margie was in and out, but she never said much as she cleaned the rooms. She too left for a few hours and came back with a load of groceries. The men helped her bring them in, and Eddie helped her put the items into the pantry. She generally acted like a stern grandmother, to which they responded accordingly. Eddie was curious how she was connected to all this, but felt it was better not to ask.
29
The wanted poster went out the next day. They printed a thousand copies and distributed them to post offices and police stations from Philadelphia to Boston and straight west for three hundred miles. In talking with the Feds, Harris felt that this covered O'Connor's and McBride's territories. They had some connections farther west, but there was only a limited amount of time to get the word out. Harris had briefed the Mayor on the progress, but he appeared more interested in distancing himself from the problem. Harris continued tracking down leads and acquaintances to find Eddie. He considered talking to O'Connor again, but the less they talked, the better. When Eddie learned he was on a wanted poster, he would likely be moved even farther away, if he was even still alive. Harris and Thomas talked to Eddie's neighbors and to his friends. They even talked to Sam, but everything turned up empty. It was still early in the investigation, he was reminded numerous times, but that did not make the problem any easier.
The bigger problem for Harris was what this would do to his ambitions. He had always seen the election to prosecutor as a step up the political food chain. When he was working his way through law school, he often read up on the biographies of well-known mayors and governors. Many had established themselves at lower elected posts, where they were put to the test and made the right connections. When he ran for the office, there was talk that such a position was really to groom him for higher office. The party faithful had backed his tough stance on attacking organized crime and violence in general. To do that, he would have to show that criminals had been put away during his tenure. Now, the entire plan had taken a strange twist.
When the first murder was committed, Harris thought that Eddie could not have done it, but it was completely feasible that McBride could. The story of chasing down one the most high-profile members of organized crime was everything he had hoped for, and Eddie had given him a perfect opportunity. Now the entire problem had been turned around. Eddie could very well have done the crimes, with or without McBride. Maybe he was working for him all along. In any event, in order to keep his career going, he had to avoid a big case going awry. He was beginning to feel he had to lock up someone just to salvage his reputation. This was getting so much publicity, he had started to believe that if he never found Eddie and put him away, or used him to put McBride away, he was done politically. He had been fretting about this, wondering if locking Eddie away for any reason was worth his political livelihood. He seemed to be getting driven that way. Maybe Eddie was guilty. After all, he did have a record that would make a conviction easy to get through. Harris brushed the thought away and went back to work on the other cases piling up on his desk.
30
Eddie was rousted out of bed as he had been the day before. For being locked up, the setup was not very bad. He had good food to eat, and the others mostly left him alone. He had talked to Nelson a few times, though Eddie found him difficult to communicate with. Eddie noticed that Nelson never sat still, and the other men tended to not include him in a card game unless he asked. Even then, the tone of the game would always change when he joined. The joking
stopped and the game would end early, though no one would say why. This morning was a little different, as the shipment was coming in and an exchange was to be made. They all sat down to breakfast, and Carl began to describe what was going to happen, while Margie served up a continuous stream of pancakes, fried ham and coffee.
"The load's going to be here in a couple of hours," Carl said. "We's meeting the driver about ten miles out of town."
"At the pond?" Earl asked.
"No, I moved it. I don't like to use the same place too often. Never know when the Feds might drop by," Carl said.
"Fuck the Feds," Nelson said. He appeared to have heard nothing else in the conversation.
"We'll drive a good ways out 'til we hit 82. We'll turn left and go about a half mile 'til there's a red barn. The dirt road leading to the barn goes on back into the woods. There's a clearing back there."
"How much they got?" Clay asked.
"Almost a full truck. We gotta split it with the other truck before moving the furniture behind it. Should cover it up until somebody wants to crawl all the way back there," Carl said.
"We'll make it quick," Earl said.
"What's he doin'?" Clay asked, pointing at Eddie.
"He's got talents besides counting and carrying boxes," Carl said, turning towards Eddie.
"I know some accounting. I took a few courses back in school."
"You'll keep the books," Carl said.
The others looked at him with what seemed to be expectation. Over the past few days, he learned Carl was right: none of these men had much in the way of schooling, certainly not the arithmetic needed to do rudimentary accounting. "Sure. That's what most of my classes were about."
A big smile went across Carl's face. "Good," he said. "You guys finish up and we'll get going."
Everyone finished eating and got up from the table. As he was standing up, Carl said to Eddie, "Just a second." Eddie sat back down at the table. "I need you to keep track of what we got coming in. Those big boys keep track of that, and if the numbers don't add up, I start getting questions from some of the uglies."
"I know how they work," Eddie said, having been mistakenly involved with two murders at the hands of McBride.
"Clay and Earl are good men, but they can't count much past twenty. Nelson, well, he doesn't care one way or the other. I want you to help count what they sent so's I can enter it into the books."
"I can do all the recordkeeping, if you want."
Carl waved his hand quickly. "Not yet. Not until I can trust you. I might have you look over everything when I'm done."
"Sure," Eddie said.
Carl went upstairs for a moment and came back down. "Nelson!" he yelled up the stairway. "Let's move it."
A few seconds later, Nelson came down carrying a large revolver. He looked at Eddie and smiled while he put it in a holster inside his jacket. "Got my friend right here," he said to Eddie, winking.
Carl led them out the front door and into a car. Carl and Eddie got in the front, and Nelson climbed into the back. When Carl started the engine, Eddie had the uncomfortable feeling of having Nelson being out of sight behind him, with the thought of that big revolver foremost in his mind. This did not seem to be a set up, but there was no way of totally trusting the people he was with. He started to dwell on what his options were when he heard a truck engine start and then roll out from behind the house. Clay and Earl were in the cab. Carl took off, and the truck followed not far behind.
The two vehicles traveled out of the small town and into the farmland. As Carl had said they would, they drove for about thirty minutes until they came to the road he had described. A few minutes later, they found the barn, and Carl, with the truck behind, turned down the rough dirt road and around the barn. The woods were about a quarter mile back from the road, out of sight from any passersby. The small clearing, barely enough to turn the truck around after a few back-and-forths, was a good ways into the woods. They parked the vehicles, and everyone got out.
"So, where are these jokers?" Nelson asked.
Carl looked at his watch. "We might have to wait a few hours. Depends on if they're making good time."
Earl spoke up. "The drive down from Plattsburgh can be kinda slow. Some of them roads are still barely paved. I been up there a bunch."
With nothing left to do but wait, Clay went to the back of the truck and opened the door. Eddie went around to see what they had inside and found it about full of boxes and crates of furniture. Eddie crawled up to have a look. "Looks like nice stuff."
Clay came up behind him. "It is. There's a factory outside o' Hartford makes it. I takes a load down with me whenever I go. Give me a hand. Might as well move it now while's we got a few."
Eddie helped him pull some of the things out and set them on the ground. The rest they pulled towards the back of the trailer, presumably to make room for the booze up front. Eddie guessed the items they moved out would be going with the incoming truck. Good thinking on Carl's part. He obviously was trying to still run a reputable business, besides using it as a cover. Just then, they heard a shot fired outside.
"What the hell you doin?" Carl yelled. Eddie jumped out of the truck to see Nelson with the gun in his hand, standing like a gun fighter in the old west. "Put it away."
Nelson had that same wide-eyed grin Eddie had seen earlier that morning. "Gotta make sure it works," he said as he holstered the weapon. Earl and Clay each stayed by the back of the truck with Eddie.
"Keep that thing put away. How many times I have to tell you? We can't let people know we're here." This was the first time Eddie had seen Carl visibly upset.
"How am I supposed to protect you guys if this doesn't work?" Nelson said. standing taller.
"The last thing we needs is to have somebody pokin' around when they hear a gun shot."
"And what they going to do when they start pokin' around?" Nelson said, moving closer to Carl until they were about a foot apart. "What they gonna do, huh? Think they're gonna mess with me?"
Carl stared back at Nelson for a moment. From his earlier conversation, Eddie knew that Nelson could go off with the smallest provocation, and Carl had been around Nelson enough to realize this, too. "Leave the gun away. I'm sure at some point you might be needing it. Just not now."
"And what, you're the boss here? Hey, I know you and your guys just do this 'cause O'Connor owns part of you. I'm my own man. I don't owe nothin' to nobody." Nelson had moved until he was a few inches from Carl's face.
"It's real simple. Me and my boys don't get paid if this load don't get through," Carl said in a surprisingly calm voice. "I don't know how you work, but if we get stopped, we go to jail and don't get paid. Their kids don't eat."
Nelson did his best to understand what Carl had just said. He turned away and spit on the ground. "Son of a bitch," he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear. He went over to the edge of the woods, then came back about fifteen seconds later. "So what do you guys think? How many is the Sox going to make it this year?"
With that, the incident was over. The five of them sat on or around the back of the truck as the morning went along. None of them, even Nelson, seemed to be the least bit worried about the other truck showing up late. Occasionally someone would mention it, but the comment was more of a small topic of conversation than a major concern.
After almost two hours, Carl began to get nervous and starting looking at his watch a few more times. "Earl, when you supposed to be in Port Jervis?"
Earl scratched his head. "'Bout three," he said.
Carl looked at his watch again. "You won't get there before evening. If they ever get here, I'll try to call ahead and let them know. We gotta get the other shipment back to Bridgeport before tonight. Damn it, I wish they'd get here."
Carl was the only one concerned about when everything arrived. The others, including Nelson, were still content with sitting in the grass and waiting for
the truck. In fact, Eddie guessed they would all be happy just to spend the entire day there waiting. For some reason, he had imagined O'Connor ran a tighter operation than this, but then again, they were basically smugglers. Eddie looked at the men sitting around and almost felt comfortable being around them. He had spent the last day as sort of a prisoner, but other than Nelson, he did not feel in any danger. They had for the most part gotten used to having him around.
Eddie stepped off the back of the truck and walked around to the front. They had left the house about three hours before, and he needed to urinate. After a quick pause he started towards the woods. He had not gotten more than ten steps when he heard someone behind him.
"If you go too far, you'll give me a chance to shoot you in the back," he heard Nelson say.
Eddie stopped and turned around to see him standing about ten feet behind him. "I need to pee. I'm just going to the edge of the woods."
Nelson smiled. "Why stop? Keep going. Give me a chance to hunt you down. Make it fair."
The smile was disarming, and Eddie was not sure what to think. Nelson did not have a humorous bone in his body, so Eddie had to take him literally at what he said. He was not sure what to do. He really needed to go, but was that worth a bullet in the back from a half-crazed gunman. Eddie figured it was best just to go right there, so he turned his back to everyone and did.
"Need to wash up?" Nelson asked.
"No I'm fine," Eddie said, zipping his pants up and turning back around. Nelson started to walk away. It was then that Eddie saw a cloud of dust, and heard the whine a large truck moving in low gear. He joined the other men at the back of their truck. Within a few moments, the other truck appeared out of the field and drove towards them.
"Where the hell you been?" Earl said when the other truck pulled up along side.
The driver, a small blond-haired man, shut off the engine and climbed down. "Part of the road was washed out south of Albany. Had to go way around. How you want to do this?"
Carl came over. "It's best to back right up to the other truck and start carrying the load over. Come on, let's get movin'. Y'all held us up enough already."
31
The two trucks were backed up to each other, and the men started to unload the liquor. Eddie did the count as they went, though most of it was the same brand, and there really was not much more to do than add as they walked by.
"Nelson, you going to help?" Carl asked. The truck that arrived was loaded full to the back, and there was a considerable amount of work to do.
"I'm not paid to move fuckin' boxes," Nelson said. He was leaning against the fender of the truck, looking out over the field and down the road, smoking a cigarette. As he looked around, he toyed with the handle of the gun. He had long ago replaced the bullet he shot, though he always seemed to be preoccupied with handling the gun, rarely leaving it in the holster.
The men paid no attention to Nelson's not wanting to lend a hand. If anything, they appeared to be better without it. The morning began to get warmer and they started to work up a sweat, mechanically moving boxes from one truck to the other, not saying much except an occasional instruction. The clinking of the bottles in the boxes was the only constant sound.
Occasionally, Carl would ask for the count. When they reached, 400, they stopped. "See if you can get a count on the rest of them. They're going on with those."
Eddie did his best to look at the stack and determine the width, height and depth. "About three hundred."
Carl looked at the sheet Eddie had been using for the tally. He compared it with the one the driver of the truck had given him and with another sheet in his pocket. Eddie could see the one from his pocket had listed about ten cases more than what had been delivered. The sheet from the trucker agreed with Eddie's count. Carl carefully folded the sheet and slid it back into his pocket. "Right," he said to the group. "Looks like we're good here."
Eddie was not surprised, as he was sure a few cases had disappeared or had been sold off the back of the truck during the trip. "Except for thirty cases of Scotch, it's all Canadian."
"They had Scotch in there?" Carl asked.
"Yes. Is that a surprise?" Eddie said.
"I just didn't think they would have that." Carl looked at the men standing around waiting for an order. "Ok, everyone, come over. Let's be sure what we got."
In a few seconds, all of them gathered around Carl, even Nelson, to get some last minute instructions before setting off in their separate directions. "Earl, you're heading up to Port Jervis. Be sure they pay you what they owe. Artie up there has a habit of coming up short. Don't want to send Nelson up there."
Nelson's ears perked up at the sound of his name. "Why? Need him taken care of?" he said smiling.
"No. Calm down. Everyone know where they going?" There were positive nods all around. "Right. Let's go."
Earl joined the man who drove the truck in that morning, and they climbed into the cab. After a few moments, they fired up the engine and started the dusty crawl back to the main road.
"Clay, you follow us. We got a bunch of stops to make before we get done."
Carl, Eddie and Nelson were back in the car, with Clay by himself in the truck. Eddie was in the front with Carl, and he was handed a map of the stops they needed to make. Carl took the map again and pointed out a few of the stops on the way to Bridgeport, making sure Eddie knew where they needed to be. As far as Eddie could tell, Nelson laid down in the back seat and went to sleep. They bounced along the path back to the road and were on their way.
Though Eddie was an outsider to their group, Carl seemed to enjoy the company. If Eddie had not been there, Nelson would have been the only person to talk to. Eddie learned Carl had a family in Hartford and really wanted to get back home to see his wife and kids in a few days. The money he had made in the past few years had allowed him to buy a new house. "Sure it's dangerous, but what ain't?" he said. "I worked on the railroads for fifteen years. Saw enough men get killed just doing what they're supposed to that it don't make much difference what I did.
"You work for O'Connor?" Eddie asked.
"Sure. O'Connor more or less contracts, but I work for him. I haul, I get paid. That's about it. That's why I gotta have a good count of what we got. Pays me by the case. Pretty simple. I haul so many, he pays me. I toss it in with another haul of furniture, lumber, whatever, and I make double."
Eddie liked Carl. He handled the men well and even had a sense of how to keep Nelson under control. When they were in the field, the other men looked to him for guidance. Carl only had to instruct them on what to do, and they did it.
"Tell me," Carl said. "What's your story? I only really heard he wants you hid away."
Eddie saw no reason to disguise what he was saying, so he told the entire story from beginning to end, leaving no small detail out. Even to his time with Gloria and his meetings with Harris. When he was done, Carl's gaze did not shift from the road. Eddie could only guess at what was going through his mind. Maybe Carl thought he was lying. "You believe me?" he asked after a few moments.
"Not sure. I never met McBride, but his reputation is known. Not sure you have a reason to lie either."
Suddenly, from the back, Nelson said, "I believe him. Every word."
"How's that?"
Nelson sat up and leaned forward so he was looking over the back of the seat between Eddie and Carl. "McBride, he don't give a shit about nothin'. Guys like that never do. They do what they want, and fuck the rest of the world. If this La Rule and Gloria, if they tried to screw him over, a guy like him, he'd've popped ‘em."
"I have no idea what they did," Eddie said.
Nelson sat back and spread his arms across the seat. "That's what I'd do. Son of a bitch did that to me, they'd be gone before they knew what happened. POW! One shot."
Carl looked out the side window at the fields as they passed along at a decent rate, then
he reset his hands on the steering wheel. "Drove trucks to Buffalo many times. Got a good bar down by the lake." He continued on talking about all the places he had traveled both on the railroad and while driving trucks. Eddie was content to listen. From time to time, he would catch a glimpse of Nelson in the back seat, aimlessly watching the same country scenes he was. Eddie found himself continuing to look at Carl enough so that he could see Nelson out of the corner of his eye.
They made deliveries to garages and small warehouses in towns all around the area. In most, Clay would pull the truck in, and then Carl and the buyer would unload and exchange money. Carl was friendly and open to the men he dealt with. There was laughter and slaps on the back as booze and money changed hands. Finally, as dusk was starting to move in, there was one last delivery to make. Clay backed the truck out of the warehouse they were in and then waited a moment while Carl did the same with the car. Carl sat for a moment and then set a map in Eddie's lap. "Need to get us to that red circle," Carl said. Eddie looked on the map and saw the circle was in the middle of a road, with no towns or cross roads shown.
After about a half hour of bouncing along back roads, they came to where the map said and drove up to a garage much like all the others. Carl took a deep breath. "This should be it for today. I'm getting kind of tired of driving. My back's killing me."
Eddie looked at the map, then folded it up and placed it on the seat. Nelson had been quiet since the last few stops and was now sitting in the corner of the back seat.
"Let's wait for a moment," Carl said. "You stay here. Let me talk to Clay real quick." Carl got out and went over to the truck. The sun was starting to sink down, and Eddie saw a light come on inside the garage. A few minutes later, a small, overweight man stepped out and came over to the truck. Carl shook hands with the man and came back over to the car.
"I need to talk to him. You stay here."
Eddie said, "Sure." Nelson only stared out the window towards the man who had come out to meet them.
Carl disappeared into the garage. Eddie turned to Nelson and said, "Have you met that man before?"
"Yeah," Nelson said. He had been keeping his eyes on the door through which they had gone. Eddie tried to think of anything to talk about, but he realized Nelson was not one to enter into idle chatter to pass the time. So he sat there, watching the sunset behind the trees, and the shadows slowly disappear, hearing Nelson breathing and moving around from time to time.
"This ain't right," Nelson whispered.
"What?" Eddie asked.
"This ain't right. What's goin' on?" Nelson said. "Fuck it. We're not waiting out here." Nelson started getting out of the car.
"What?" Eddie said, as Nelson started opening his door. A moment later, he opened
Eddie's door.
"Get out," Nelson said.
"Where—" Eddie started to say, before Nelson grabbed his arm and hauled him out.
"We're going to find out what they're talking about." Eddie walked ahead of him as they approached the door. He glanced over at Clay sitting in the truck. Clay looked back a moment, then looked down.
Nelson went to the door and drew his gun before entering. He kicked it open and stepped in. Carl and the other man were sitting at a small table. There was a boy about fifteen years old standing behind him. The boy jumped back a foot as soon as he saw Nelson come through the door. "Wait," the man said.
Carl held his hand up to Nelson and said, "We're working it out. Give us a few."
"He ain't paid the last two times, but he will now," Nelson said. He went over to the small man, grabbed him by his greasy shirt, and pulled him to his feet.
"Dad!" the boy said. Nelson swung the gun around to the boy for a second. The boy stepped back a few more feet.
Nelson stuck the gun in the man's mouth, then pushed him backwards fast enough that he tripped and landed in a dusty heap on the floor.
"Stop," the man said, before Nelson straddled him and jammed the gun in his mouth again. Eddie could hear the barrel contact the man's front tooth, knocking it out. They stood there for a moment, and blood began to trickle out of his mouth and around the barrel of the gun.
"Nelson," Carl said. Nelson did not move. "Nelson," he said louder.
"He ain't paid the last two times. He knows what happens."
"We're working it out," Carl said. "He'll get it."
"I'll get it out of him," Nelson said. He cocked the hammer on the gun. The man's eyes were wide with terror, and Eddie could see a small wet spot spreading in the crotch of his pants.
"Nelson, stop," Carl yelled.
"Stop for what? This is what I do. People pay, they talk to you. They don't, they talk to me." The man began to gag on having the barrel rammed deeper into his mouth. Saliva and blood was coming out and running down his face as he was struggling to breathe. He began to kick in an attempt to move out of the way. Nelson kept the gun right where it was.
"Nelson, stop, now!" Carl said, putting his hand on his shoulder, trying to pull him back. Eddie knew that Carl was smart enough to know any sudden movement would set off the gun. Nelson had a grip on the trigger and he could squeeze it at any moment.
They stayed like that for several long seconds, before Nelson uncocked the gun and ripped it out of the man's mouth along with the tooth. He then turned the gun sideways and hit the man along side the head. Nelson stepped away, and the man rolled over on his side and coughed up a long stream of phlegm.
His son ran over and gave Nelson a push out of the way. "Look boy, he pissed his pants for you," Nelson said moving back out of the way.
"Dad," the boy said, kneeling down holding the man's head.
"I'm fine, Joey," the man said. "I'm fine, I'm fine."
Carl came over to Nelson and said, quietly but firmly, "Get your ass outta here."
"I don't think you can take care of this," Nelson said, setting the gun back into his shoulder holster inside his jacket.
"Thinkin' ain't your job. If I need you, I'll let you know."
"Yeah," Nelson said before going back to the door and leaving the garage.
Joey was holding a rag to his father's forehead to slow down the bleeding while helping him to his feet. He was still coughing lightly.
"Stan," Carl said, walking over to them. "We can't leave you anything."
"I got the one payment with me. I'll have the rest next week. I owe you one, Carl."
Carl looked at the two of them, Stan hunched over leaning on the table and his son trying to steady him. "Pay up and get out of this business. It gets rough. Too many like Nelson running around, and I can't stop them all the time."
Stan pointed to a storage cabinet along the wall. "Joey, it's on the second shelf." Joey went over, brought back a small cardboard box, and set it on the table. Eddie helped count the money out and marked it down in the book. As he was doing so, he noticed that Stan was much further behind in his payments than they had said. He looked up at Carl, who gave him a knowing look.
Carl placed his hand in the middle of Stan's back. "Listen carefully," he said in a steady voice. "This here can get worse. Do whatever you have to do to get them paid off. Sell whatever you need to. They got you and won't back off until you do."
"Game's up," Stan said. "Gottcha."
"Listen, I'll stop by in a few days. Just me. Not Nelson. I ain't bringin' you no more booze. I don't want this. Pay up then."
Stan finally sat down and placed his head in his hands, still holding the rag against the gash above his eye.
Carl and Eddie left him there like that and walked out of the garage. Eddie walked beside Carl back to the car. Carl held his head down. Eddie knew Carl was a good man in a business that required violence, and there was no way around it. He climbed into the passenger seat of the car. Before Carl started the engine, Eddie could hear Nelson in the back only a few feet away, spinning the chambers of the revolver. "Fat ass spit all over my gu
n."
32
Harris picked up the flyer with Eddie's picture on it and read through the description.
Wanted for Murder
25 years old, brown hair, brown eyes
5'5" approx. 130 pounds
Included were his fingerprints, list of past crimes committed, and details of his previous incarceration. The picture was taken from his prison file and doctored to show his present haircut. Not a bad rendition. The fingerprints were acceptable and could be used for identification if he were caught, but they would need to compare his to the originals for it to hold up in court. Harris looked at the picture again and thought he looked like any of thousands of young men around the country. In a way, though he would never admit this, he hoped he would never be caught and would disappear into society, or at least stay hidden until evidence proved his innocence. At this point, if Eddie came back, he would never get a fair trial. Porter was convinced and did not want this on his record. McBride had too many strings in his hands for Harris to battle right now. Men like McBride had the funding and influence to operate almost without restriction, and they had no compunction about doing so.
Harris took another bite of his corned beef sandwich and tossed the flyer back into his briefcase. Failure was always a part of any career, but this was difficult to take. This was not so much a failure as it was being set up. Part of the profession was the constant vagaries of working with people's opinions and unpredictable ways. That was the excitement for him, but it was also the cause of a great deal of uncertainty. Harris took out a piece of paper and began to list the facts as he knew them. On this list he put Eddie's story, McBride's response, Gloria's connection to McBride, and so on. With Eddie's background and involvement in most parts of the crimes, he knew logically that he was in some way responsible. Harris had talked to some of Eddie's friends and co-workers, and the profile did not add up. There was no weapon found or motive established. He still needed to talk to a few people locally. At the bottom of the list, Harris wrote "fugitive." He stared at this for a moment and wondered if O'Connor had told him the truth.
Harris heard the door open and noticed Thomas coming into the deli. Thomas gave away nothing in his walk or manner, though the other patrons, by the way they looked up when he entered, seemed to know he was a cop. He took a seat across from Harris. "Heya," he said as he sat down.
"Any news?" Harris asked.
"Naw. We been checking sources around the city that might know where he went. All empty," Thomas said. "This could take a few weeks."
Harris did not have a few weeks. "Who's working this around the clock to find out?"
Thomas pursed his lips. "We're trying. We got so many of these crimes and a small staff. They keep us jumping and they know it."
"Keep working with the Feds," Harris said. By the raised eyebrow from Thomas, he knew what he said had sounded wrong. "I know your staff is good, but we might have to call in some more help."
"Ok. If we get stopped up, we can call them in. You know how they are. Once in, never out, and they take all the credit."
Harris knew they were stymied, and finding one man was hard to do. They needed to be looking into other corners for more answers. "Can we squeeze McBride?"
Thomas made a low whistle through his teeth. "That's a tough one. He's a boss that's hard to crack open."
"It's Eddie's word against his, right now."
"Right. Maybe we can rattle a few of McBride's men. We can call a few in. Don't expect much, though."
Harris was aware of this, but knew they had to pursue this avenue anyway. "It's what we got right now. See what you can do. There has to be one that hates him more than he hates us."
"That's a hell of a way to put it. What we got is they ain't Einsteins, the bunch of them." Thomas slapped his hand on the table and got up. Harris went back to his sandwich and the other files in his briefcase.
33
McBride read over the article in the paper that he had paid to have written. He knew a reporter who was always in gambling debt, because although he was a good writer, he knew next to nothing about odds and mathematics. With $50, McBride could get almost anything he wanted into the paper and add pressure to the person he was aiming at. In this case, Harris was that person, and the article went to skillful lengths citing sources that could not be traced. McBride had to admire the skill of the man; although the article had not come right out and said it, anyone who read this would conclude Harris was a bumbling idiot. An idiot the man was not; however, McBride knew Harris was in way over his head and did not know how to deal with organizations. He placed the paper on the dining room table and watched as Rita finished serving dinner for their children.
"Are you sure you won't be too late tonight?" she asked as she took her seat.
Their two children began to eat their soup with polite slurping sounds that made the two of them giggle. "Mind your manners," McBride said. The children did as they were told. Then, to Rita, he said, "I need to talk to a few people there. I should be back by ten, eleven at the latest."
"Are you sure you have to go? I made chops tonight. Gardner's had some of the best cuts I've seen in a long while," she said.
"It's an awards banquet. The mayor and other city officials will be there." He stood up and kissed her on the cheek, then patted his children on their heads.
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