by Rob Brunet
“Sure I can help ya, Dan. Do whatever it takes. Hell, you’re fresh outta jail and all. Someone’s gotta help, right? I mean, what are friends for?”
Danny tossed a small bundle of bills at Terry’s feet. “I want you to blow five hundred bucks on a little party.”
Terry said, “I think I can handle that.”
The sound of his tortured breathing drowned out the soft slap of wavelets against the boat’s hull. In. Out. In. Sputter, cough. Inhale. Wheeze. And out. From where he huddled on the floor of George Meade’s boat, he could see the jumble of sheets spilling off the bed behind Danny. A fleeting image of Cindy Meade getting dressed before darting off to play tennis that morning flashed through his mind. Thinking of Cindy made him grin.
“You think this is a joke, Terry?” Danny hissed.
“Well, you are kidding me, right?” Terry paused to take a drag on his cigarette. “I mean, are you messed up or what? I’ll take your money, Dan, but you gotta tell me what this is all about.”
Terry reached for the handful of fifties and winced as Danny’s heel landed on the back of his hand, pinning it to the floor.
“Not so fast,” Danny said. “You’re going to take a little stroll over to The Boathouse. Some of the Libidos are there. And they’re looking for me.”
“Ya, so? Why don’t you head over there yourself?”
Danny kicked Terry’s shin.
“Shut up and listen.” He gave Terry precise instructions and made Terry repeat them back to him three times:
“I flash some cash and tell ’em how you gave me a wad to drive you over to Bobcaygeon.” Terry’s face crumpled to a contorted frown. “Shit, Danny, but that’s a load a cash. Why’n’t ya just take a taxi?”
“I’m a fugitive, shit-for-brains, remember?”
“I just don’t get why want me to go tellin’ lies to the Libidos. They’re gonna beat the shit out of me.”
“Maybe they will. Maybe they won’t. One thing for sure, you don’t help me, I’m coming after you with a bat and a dog. You remember how that goes?”
Terry said, “No offense, Danny, but I’m thinkin’ I like my odds with you more’n a bunch of bikers.”
Danny looked out the porthole toward The Boathouse. His breath was shallow and his lips were white with dried spittle. When he leaned over Terry, his breath reeked of stress. Terry tried to turn his face away but Danny grabbed his chin and pressed in even closer. Terry’s back was hard against the hull.
“How about I give you another thousand bucks.”
“What am I? A human punching bag? Pay me enough I can take a few shots to the head?”
“Five thousand.”
“Gimme a break. Why don’t you promise me a hundred thousand, Danny? It’d be just as easy to believe as five.” Terry chortled. “Like you could ever come up with five thousand bucks, fresh out of prison and all.”
Danny stood up and paced up and down the cramped cabin. With his back to Terry, he said, “I haven’t told you everything.”
Terry sat still and stared at Danny’s back.
“I need you to get the Libidos off my tail. Send them in the wrong direction. I need them distracted, looking at something else. For a couple hours is all.”
“I got that part, Danny. But why?”
Danny turned back toward him, licking his lips. “Because I know where the money is. The money from the buy. The night of the bust. It’s right where I stashed it. And I need time to go get it.”
“You took the Libidos’ cash?”
“Uh huh.”
“You mean to say you stole my job running the greenhouse, and then you stole the money from the Libidos?”
Danny nodded.
“And now you want me to get my head cracked by that bunch of thugs, send them on a wild goose chase looking for you and their money? And you ride away in the sunset with a bag full of dough?”
Danny shrugged.
“Boy, you musta gone to school in prison or somethin’, come up with a winner like that. I may not be bright as you but that’s insulting, is all. Think I’m stupid enough for a plan like that...”
“Ten thousand bucks.”
“No way...”
“Fifteen.”
“Geez...”
“Twenty-five.”
“I...uh...fifty?”
“Thirty thousand, Terry. Tops.”
Terry frowned, scratched his ear.
“What is it you want me to say to them again?”
Buzz dunked the honey cruller in his large double-double and took a bite. This was the third Tim Hortons he’d stopped at since arriving in Peterborough in the car he had borrowed from his father. It wasn’t much like a cop car, but Buzz fashioned himself more of a detective, anyway, undercover like.
The thing was, nobody in the donut shops took him all that seriously. He’d stormed out of the last place in red-faced humiliation. A bunch of high school kids taunted him for asking about “Terry the fireman.” They suggested he go buy a fire stud calendar if that’s what he was into. Or maybe google “men with hoses.”
He struggled to recall how cops got strangers talking in the movies and decided there must be a Detecting for Dummies book he could pick up. When an older couple sat down at the table attached to his, he laid the newspaper article between their soup and sandwich platters.
“Excuse me, folks,” he said. “I’m trying to find this place. There was a fire about a week ago? Guy died in it and everything. You wouldn’t happen to know where that happened, would you? I think that dog in the picture was mine. He ran away from our campsite when a groundhog showed up, and...”
“Lakehurst,” said the old man without so much as a glance at the article. “Fifteen miles out of town. Straight up number 26 and across the Gannon’s Narrows. Ask up there. Everyone’s bound to know it. Biggest thing that’s happened out that way in a coon’s age.”
“What a pretty pooch,” said the man’s wife. Buzz thanked the couple and had to tug a bit to take the article away from her. He grabbed his coffee and headed back to his car. He still had the hero’s touch after all.
Twenty-Six
Perko fumed. The Grant bastard still hadn’t shown up. The more he thought about it, the more he wished they’d leaned on Little Miss Tie-Dye when they had the chance. Whatever. It made no difference to this part of his plan. He waited in the bushes until Jonah showed up on the crotch rocket.
As Jonah got off his bike, Perko hiked up his chaps and strutted through the undergrowth to Ernie’s clearing.
“Wow, big fire,” Jonah said. “Izzat the one my pa was on about?”
“You got it.”
“Roast in Hell.” Jonah glanced around. “Where’s your wheels at?”
“Camouflaged. We gotta move fast. You bring the explosives?”
Jonah pointed to the satchel strapped to the back of the trail bike.
“You straight with the instructions?”
“Yep. Old hat.”
“Then wire the dynamite to the underside of that there outhouse.”
Jonah gagged at the skunk in the shithole. He fished it out and pitched a few shovelfuls of composting crap over top of it before strapping the sticks of explosive to the cavity under the shitter.
“Man this thing is built but good. They’s like an oil drum or somethin’ under here on the inside. Prob’ly hardly smells at all when she’s set right.”
Perko stood at a distance and picked his teeth. With his luck, Hawk or Mongoose would show up early and his plan would be foiled. He needn’t have worried. Jonah worked fast.
“That’ll do her!” the yokel called out, beaming like a proud puppy.
“Good. Now, give me a hand righting the damn thing.”
The two men groaned and strained and pushed the heavy structure back upright.
“Built like a rocket,” Jonah said.
“Guess the old fucker had time on his hands.” Perko wiped the sweat from his forehead as he walked away, putting distance between himself a
nd the outhouse. “I scouted a location by the shoreline. It’ll put you a couple hundred feet away. That bunch of brambles will keep anyone from wandering over.”
“And you want I should run my ignition wire from here to there?”
“Yeah, get at it.”
Jonah did as he was told. Perko helped, covering bits of exposed wire with loose leaves. The fire mess made concealment easy. When the job was done, Perko showed Jonah where to hide his bike.
“Sit tight on the shore,” he told him. “The guy you’re waiting for is big as a brick shithouse. He’ll be wearing a black leather jacket, bright red hair standing up on top like a rooster; he spits a lot. Thing is, there’s another guy may come first. He’s skinny, my height, has a pony tail. He is not your target. Got that?”
“Blow the fuck out of the rooster.” Jonah spat for emphasis.
He was well-hidden by the time Hawk showed up for his turn on the stake-out. Perko was pissed. It would have been so much simpler had Mongoose taken the second shift. His demolition expert was at the ready; he felt in his bones that Danny Grant and the money were nearby; and he desperately wanted to see Mongoose blown to smithereens. He’d even planned to stick around and watch. Now, he had no choice but to drag his ass back to The Boathouse and practice patience one more time.
“Punk-ass farmer is hooked up with granola girl from across the street,” Perko told the senior Libido. “Saw his shirt in her laundry. He’ll be back.”
“You’d better hope so,” Hawk said. “Thing is, Perko, I’m not so sure Mongoose won’t want to beat your head in, regardless, after all the grief you’ve caused us.”
Perko watched Hawk, waiting for a smile, a wink, anything. Hawk was stone-faced. Without so much as a sneer, he said, “Just sayin’.” He spun around, whipping Perko’s cheek with his steel-nutted pony tail, and walked to the bushes.
Perko took his sweet time getting back to The Boathouse. He rode up and down every county road on the way into Buckhorn, breathing in the crisp autumn air. He knew it was a long shot he’d see the car belonging to the neighbor chick, but anything was better than chilling with Mongoose.
When he arrived, he immediately asked the waitress to deliver an extra-wide slice of raisin pie to the other biker where he sat by the window. It paid to know a man’s weaknesses. Then he went to the can and shoved three rolls of paper down the toilet, causing a minor flood and putting the washroom out of order. He called Jonah on the burner to give him the green light. “Remember. He’s a big motherfucker with a Mohawk ’do. Not the guy you just saw me with. Can’t miss him. He should be there in an hour or so.” With a gut full of breakfast grease, the raisin pie was bound to push Mongoose to the outhouse when he arrived at the cabin for his watch.
While Perko was on the phone, some scrawny guy with long blond hair perched himself at the bar. He made a production of ordering one bourbon, one scotch, and one beer. Perko watched the newcomer throw back the shot of bourbon and smack his lips. He dipped his tongue into the scotch, then downed it with the same elaborate arm movement, elbow high, banging the shot glass so hard Perko half-expected it to shatter. Hardly skipping a beat, the guy picked up the mug of beer and blew the head of foam across the wooden bar. He chugged about half, then slammed it down with the same force as the shot glasses before it.
“Here’s to Mr. Thorogood!” he said, flashing Perko a toothy grin.
“Big fan, are you?” Perko didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone act out the famous blues song before.
“Closest I ever came to seeing Hendrix on stage.”
Perko said, “Huh?”
“You know, the whole Johnny B. Goode thing. Damn good cover.”
“Right.”
“Just thought I needed a special kind of toast today. Hey, Barmaid! How about a round for my friend here?”
The waitress glanced at Perko. He nodded. Shooting the shit with this joker would be a welcome relief from Mongoose’s incessant bitching. “What’s the occasion?” he asked.
The new guy said, “Buddy o’ mine got out of jail, is all.”
“Lucky him,” said Perko, doing a quick mental check to make sure no one he cared about was due for release.
“Yep sirree,” the blowhard went on. “My good ol’ buddy ol’ pal just got free and gave me a nice wad o’ cash for looking after his cat while he was inside.” He pulled a roll of bills from his jacket pocket and thumbed it with pride. “Nice cat. Shed a little much. Hated changing the litter.” He raised a finger signaling another shot.
Perko thought even Mongoose’s moaning might be better than listening to this bullshit.
The stranger raised his shot glass and said, “Here’s to Danny Grant.”
Perko had his mouth full of bourbon when the name reached his brain. He snorted. Eighty-proof alcohol flooded his sinus cavity, making his eyes water and sending a hot shot up his nostrils.
“You say ‘Grant?’” he managed to sputter.
“Yep. Good ol’ Danny. Known him my whole life. He went away for better part of four years. Just got out this week.”
“Really. What was he in for?” Perko struggled to keep his hand from shaking, the shot glass clattering against the top of the bar. He let it go and watched it roll into the glass rail.
“Oh, this and that,” the long-haired dork seemed to relish the attention. “A little trouble with a baseball bat, but really, he was into like growing pot and stuff. Serious bad guy. Anyway, he called me up this morning said he wanted to give me five hundred dollars for taking care of his cat, and asked if I’d drive him over to Bobcaygeon. He said he had some banking to do. Helluva nice guy. You know him?”
“Never met him. Thanks for the drink.”
Perko got off the barstool and ambled over to where Mongoose was busily stuffing the last of the pie into his mouth, wiping up the plate with his index finger. Perko gave his chair a little kick from behind and said, “Caught a break. Text Hawk and tell him to get his ass back over here. We’ve got work to do.”
Hunched down in the back of Judy’s car, racing back to her place, Danny looked up at the back of her head and marveled at how nice she was being to him. He thanked her for about the hundredth time for loaning him the five hundred bucks. Without it, he doubted he’d have been able to convince Terry to risk his life with the bikers.
“Least I can do,” Judy said. “Ernie would be helping you if he were alive. It’s kind of in his memory, I guess, that I’m doing this.”
Danny couldn’t help but think the ten grand he’d promised her for her troubles held some sway in the “least I can do” department.
As they pulled into her driveway, a volley of backfires erupted from the bushes a couple hundred feet up the road. Danny peeked out the window to watch a Harley speed away. The rider was tall and thin with a scraggly grey pony tail that hung limp over the unmistakable Libidos patch on his black leather jacket. Danny was surprised it wasn’t the chunkster, but it didn’t matter: Terry had done his thing.
Twenty-Seven
Perko tightened the bungee cord around Terry Miner’s chest and said, “This’ll keep you from falling in the water.” Then he climbed back up the ladder on the side of the lock, grinding his boots onto the guy’s shoulders and head for good measure.
Mongoose stared over the edge and nodded with a half-smile. “Gots to hand it to ya, Perks. Not a bad idea.”
They had strapped Terry to the ladder that descended into the concrete-walled channel between two enormous wooden gates. The channel was wide enough for two large boats side by side and over a hundred feet long. In peak season, as many as ten boats would be tied off in the lock. Water was alternately flowed in or drained, moving boats between Buckhorn Lake and Lower Buckhorn Lake, whose levels were about six feet different depending on the season.
Since he was tied to a ladder on the lock wall, only Terry’s feet were wet for the moment. Once the lock filled, however, he would find himself under water up to his forehead.
The lock master just happ
ened to enjoy the kind of favors the Libidos were known to dispense among locals. They were friendly to those who helped move guns, drugs, and assorted chattel around the neighborhood by whichever means were most convenient. Perko gave him a thumbs up and called over the side, “You know how this works, Terry—if that’s your real name. It’ll take all of seven minutes for the water to rise to the level of your chin. If you’re done talking by then, I’ll let Billy-Bob over there know he can close the valves while I untie you. If, on the other hand, I’m not happy with what you’ve told us, well, you’ll be done talking anyway. Way I see it, you’ve got, oh, I dunno, six and half minutes to convince me I should let you live.” The biker lit a cigarette, his hand cupped to protect the match from the wind.
“I don’t get it,” Terry whined. “I told you where to find the dude who stole your money and now you want to drown me?”
“Kind of. Yeah.”
“But why? I can, like, you know, be useful to the gang and all. Hey, you guys want a boat? Real nice Sea Ray—thirty-three footer. I got a key and everything.”
Perko spat into the water. “Focus, punk. Listen to the questions.” Terry jerked his head up and down. Perko said, “You just finished lying to me about some fucking cat. We were all over that punk’s life when he disappeared into prison. He never had a cat.”
“Alls we want is to make sure you tell us the truth, the holy truth, and no butts,” added Mongoose. “You do that, we cut the cords and you swim on outta here.”
Perko looked across the water. The motel was closed for the season and there was just one car parked outside the hardware store—likely the owner’s. If the dude started screaming, there would be no one to hear except the lock master and maybe the waitress in The Boathouse. He said, “Mongoose, maybe you should go keep our waitress friend busy until Hawk shows up. I got this under control.”
The bigger biker snorted and shuffled off to the bar. Perko saw the water had reached Terry’s knees. The man whimpered and squirmed, saying, “What do you want from me?”