by Otho Eskin
“Has Mariana given you any trouble?”
“Not a thing. She hasn’t tried to leave. Or to make a phone call. We’ve had a very nice conversation.”
I’m not reassured.
CHAPTER FORTY
FROM OUTSIDE THE Friendship Motel, it looks dingy and rundown. Inside, it looks worse. In the lobby the chairs are worn, the carpet threadbare and stained, the front desk ratty and smelling of disinfectant. Two cats lying on one of the couches raise their heads to study me as I enter. They dare me to make them move.
“We’re full,” a man behind the desk announces in a bored voice without looking up. He’s about seventy, bald, his nose aflame with broken veins.
“Just delivering flowers to your guests,” I announce and head for the elevator. I’m not carrying flowers, but the deskman doesn’t care. There is a very old elevator. The cab lurches and bumps slowly to the third floor.
There is one ceiling light bulb in the hallway that I remove, leaving the hall in darkness. That’s the way I prefer it when making house calls. I knock on door 3B and inside I hear muffled voices. The door opens a crack, and an eye peers out at me from a dark room.
“Yeah?” a voice demands.
“I’m here to see Skinner.”
“Who wants to see him?”
“A guy with ten thousand dollars in small bills.”
There is more silence broken by urgent whispers.
“You want the money or not?” I ask. “Or should I leave it here in the hall for the cleaning crew?”
The door opens and a large man with a swarthy complexion and a fierce mustache looks me up and down. “What’s with the monkey suit?” he demands. He looks over my shoulder into the dark corridor to confirm I’m alone, then steps away from the entrance. “Get in here. Quick!”
As soon as I’m inside, he slams the door behind me and I’m in the dark.
“Turn on the lights,” I say.
“Why should I do that?” someone asks.
“Because I like to see the people I do business with.”
After a brief pause, someone switches on a table lamp next to a bed. I’m in a small, cramped room with one unmade bed with dirty sheets. There is a door leading, I imagine, to a bathroom. Three men watch me. One is the swarthy guy, wearing a leather sheath at his belt, with fancy stitching, containing what looks like a serious, six-inch Bowie knife. The second is a short man wearing bib overalls carrying a 12-gauge over-and-under shotgun aimed vaguely at my head. The third is older. He’s in his shirtsleeves and wears a ratty, food-stained tie. He has a holster at his belt holding what looks like a Colt revolver.
There are greasy pizza carryout cartons on the bed and floor. The place smells of pepperoni and cheese and beer. There are a dozen Bud and Coors cans on a side table and as many more empty cans stuffed into a wastebasket.
“Search him,” the man with the tie orders. The guy with a knife pats me down. He’s clumsy and unsteady, and I smell beer on his breath.
“Clean.”
“Which one of you is Skinner?”
“None of your business,” the tie man says. “Let’s see the money.”
“I like to know who I’m talking to.” The three men look at one another.
“I’m Skinner,” the man with the dirty tie and Colt revolver says.
“Okay,” I say. “Tell me how I collect the Skorpions and how I contact the buyer. Then you get your fee.”
“Not so fast, pal. We get our fee. Then we give you the contact info.”
I drop the tote bag onto the bed. “Open it,” Skinner orders.
I open the tote bag to reveal bricks of dollars, in small bills, bound together with rubber bands. I spill the money out on the dirty sheet.
“Count it, Earl,” Skinner orders the short man.
The man with the shotgun steps to the bed, slings the shotgun under his left arm, and starts counting. I’m somewhat reassured to note these bozos are amateurs, drunk and without a clue what they’re doing.
The two others watch as Earl counts the money. Skinner stands next to the bed, switching his gaze from the money, then to me, then back to the money. Immediately behind me stands the big guy with the six-inch knife.
It takes a long time for Earl to go through the money. He fumbles often, his hands shake. Earl has been drinking a lot of beer, I think. And he’s scared shitless.
“There’s $10,000 here,” Earl mumbles at last.
“What’s to prevent me from just taking your money and collecting our fee direct from the buyer?” Skinner asks me.
“That would be dishonest.”
“Do I look like a Boy Scout to you, mister? You’re just a middleman. We don’t need a middleman. We have a buyer. We double our profit.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
“What you gonna do about it? There are three of us. Just one of you. We got guns. You got shit. That don’t look like good odds for you.”
“The odds look fine to me.”
“Earl,” Skinner orders. “You can shoot this man now. But don’t get any blood on the money.”
Earl staggers a bit, moving the shotgun from his left to his right hand, so it’s inches from my chest. He doesn’t stand a chance.
I grab the shotgun barrel and jam it back into Earl’s face. He yells in pain and tries to grab the gun back, but he’s slow and clumsy. I swing the gun around so my finger is on the trigger. The big man with the mustache draws his knife and lunges at me.
I squeeze the trigger, the shotgun muzzle barely six inches from the man with the knife, striking him in the upper right chest. He staggers back, slamming against the wall, his knife spinning from his dead hand. He leaves a long smear of blood on the wall when he slides to the floor. A 12-gauge shotgun blast at very close range will do that to you.
My ears are ringing from the blast. I turn so the remaining two men are in my sights and point the shotgun at Skinner who stares, one hand on the gun at his belt, at the man on the floor who twitches a couple of times and then lies still, eyes and mouth open.
“You killed Trevor,” Skinner says, his voice shaking.
“It looks that way.”
“Why’d you go and kill Trevor for?”
I point the shotgun at Skinner’s face. “Should I improve the odds in my favor again, you think? There’s one round left. Who should I use it on?”
Skinner shakes his head.
“Move over there.” I point the shotgun at the corner of the room where dead Trevor is stretched out on the floor. The man I’d just taken the shotgun from stumbles across the room. “On the floor! Next to your buddy.”
He gets down on his knees.
“All the way,” I order. “Lie on the floor. On your stomach.”
He does what I tell him.
“You,” I say to Skinner, “very slowly unbuckle your belt.”
“My belt? What you want my belt for?”
“Your belt. Let your pants fall to the floor. With your gun and holster. Don’t do anything funny or you end up like Trevor.”
Skinner starts to undo his belt and tugs nervously at his buckle but has a hard time. Finally, the buckle comes loose and his pants sag, then drop to the floor around his ankles.
“Okay,” I announce, “let’s get back to business. What’s the arrangement to pick up the Skorpions?”
“They’re on a truck.”
“Where’s the truck?”
“Can I put my pants back on?” Skinner asks.
“No. Where’s the truck?”
Skinner glances at his watch. “Should be parked at a truck stop somewhere on I-95 South ’bout now.”
“What’s the plan?”
“The driver’s waiting for me to call and tell him where to deliver the goods. The original destination had to be changed. It got blown up, I hear. Once the driver has the new address, he’ll meet us at the agreed location.”
“Where is the buyer in all this?”
“I call him and give him the address whe
re he is to pick up his merchandise. That’s it as far as I’m concerned. Can I put my pants on now?”
“No. I’m going to give you an address. You call the driver. Give him this address.” I write out the address on a pad of paper next to the phone. “Just the address. No small talk. No chitchat. Tell him to be at this address at five thirty in the morning. Got that?”
“I need my cell. The driver’s number’s on speed dial. And the driver won’t answer the phone unless he recognizes my caller ID.”
“Where’s your phone?”
“In my pants pocket.”
“Very slowly take the phone from your pocket.”
Skinner reaches down to his pants bunched around his ankles and gropes for the phone.
“Very carefully now,” I say. “If you so much as touch that gun it’s over for you. Your friend over there can bury you with Trevor.”
“I’m being very careful.”
Skinner pulls his cell phone from his pants pocket.
“Make the call.”
Skinner stabs at his phone several times and, after a minute, says: “Hello. You arrived?” Silence. “Okay. Here’s the address.” Trevor reads the address I gave him. Then reads it again. “Be there at five thirty.” He switches off his phone.
“Very good, Skinner,” I say. “Go across the room. But leave your pants where they are.”
Reluctantly, Skinner steps out of his pants, crosses the room, and stands, in his underwear, near where Trevor lies crumpled on the floor. I retrieve the Colt revolver from his belt holster, collect the note with the address, put the revolver and note along with the cash in the tote bag, and put it under my arm.
“Here’s the way it’s going down,” I explain. “I’m going to leave now.”
“What are you doing with my money?” Skinner demands.
“I’m taking it with me.”
“You can’t do that! It’s mine.”
I point the shotgun at Skinner’s face. “This says otherwise.”
I collect the shotgun, Skinner’s pants and his cell phone, grab hold of the tote bag, and go to the door.
“Can I have my pants back?” Skinner whines.
“No.”
“What am I supposed to do with Trevor?”
“You’ll figure something out.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I LEAVE THE motel to make my call on the phone I took from Skinner.
“Yes!” a voice demands.
“Sweet Daddy? Or should I call you Colonel Crowley?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“I’m the guy your boys tried to kill at Fast Freddie’s.”
“How did you get this number?” Crowley demands.
“Skinner suggested I call you.”
“Skinner’s a dead man.”
“Let’s discuss the arrangements for delivery.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Thanks to you, we have to change the location for the delivery.”
“I don’t want to talk to you. I want to talk to Skinner.”
“Skinner’s occupied burying one of his associates. You have to talk to me or you don’t get your shipment, Crowley.”
“Stop using my name, asshole!”
“Whatever you say, Crowley.”
“Where’s the shipment?”
“Approaching Washington this very moment. I take possession of the goods in a few hours.”
“When can I pick up my stuff ?”
“When I see Kenneth.”
There is a long silence at the other end. “This has nothing to do with your boy.”
“Then we have nothing to talk about. Bye-bye.”
“Don’t hang up.”
“I need to see Kenneth.”
“He’s okay.”
“I see Kenneth, then you take the shipment. That’s the deal. I’ll call you when the shipment arrives and tell you where you can pick it up. You bring Kenneth.”
“I tell you, your boy’s okay.”
“I decide that. Bring Kenneth or there’s no deal.”
“If you screw me, you’re finished.”
“I decide who’s screwed, Sweet Daddy.”
The connection is cut. Next I call Larry Talbot. No answer. I call again, thinking maybe I punched in the wrong number. Again, no answer. I’m getting a bad feeling about this. Is Mariana okay? Has Cloud or his people got to her? Why is Larry Talbot not answering?
I’m a block away from Mariana’s apartment building when I know things have gone very bad. A dozen police cars, their lights flashing, are stopped in front of her building on 16th Street. Two ambulances are pulled up onto the sidewalk. Uniformed police have blocked off 16th Street, directing traffic to detour around the site.
I abandon the Jag in the middle of the street and race toward Mariana’s building, swerving around cars, flashing my badge at the policeman blocking the street, diving under the yellow police tape and running to the front entrance.
I know the cop guarding the entrance. “A shooting,” he tells me.
I charge through the entrance and head for the elevators. The doors are just about to close but one of the homicide detectives I know holds the door open for me.
“One dead,” he announces.
“Man or woman?”
“I don’t know. I just got here.”
“Who’s in charge?”
“Frank Townsend.”
“Why’s Frank here?”
“We’re running out of investigators. You know, with the street violence. And we just received a call about a murder at a motel on New York Avenue. Some men were seen putting a body into a dumpster.”
The corridor is filled with cops. Residents of the other apartments on this floor peer out their doors, dressed in pajamas and nightgowns—curious and frightened.
The door to Mariana’s apartment stands open. Two cops block the way. I know them both and they wave me through.
There is a crowd of crime scene technicians, medical examiner personnel, photographers, and detectives.
Larry Talbot lies sprawled on the couch. Blood soaks into the white fur. His Beretta lies on the floor at his feet. Carl Nash, one of the crime scene investigators, kneels next to the body.
“Shot twice,” Nash tells me. “In the head. Once from a distance, looks like. Once up close.”
I’m sick to my stomach and have to take several deep breaths before I can speak. “Have you identified the victim?”
“Not yet. Will go through his pockets when the medical examiner’s done.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“It looks like the victim was standing here by the couch. Someone must have come through the front door and shot point blank. The poor son-of-a-bitch didn’t have a chance.”
“Any other victims?” I’m almost afraid to ask.
“None so far.”
I walk quickly into the dining room, then the kitchen. There’s no sign of Mariana. I race up the spiral staircase to the living quarters. She’s not in the master bedroom. The bed looks unslept-in. Mariana’s clothes in her closets look undisturbed. I check the two guest bedrooms. There’s nothing to see. I don’t know whether to feel relief or rage.
I go down the spiral staircase for one last look at Larry Talbot.
“Marko!” someone yells. It’s Frank Townsend, charging through the crowd toward me.
“Get the hell out of here!”
“I can help.”
Frank stands directly in front of me, his face flushed, breathing heavily. “This is a crime scene. It’s closed to everybody but authorized official investigators …”
“I’m a senior detective.”
“Not anymore you’re not. You’re relieved of duty as of this minute.”
“I’m in the middle of a case …”
“You hear me? You’re out! Done! Turn in your weapon and your badge first thing in the morning,”
“This is crazy …”
“You’re off the force
. If I have my way, you will face criminal charges! Now get out of here. This is a crime scene. Out! Before I have you arrested.”
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
FUCK FUCK FUCK fuck. My voice is hoarse so I must be yelling. I slam my fists on the Jag’s wooden steering wheel. I see the image of Larry Talbot’s bloody head against the white couch. My hands shake and a uniformed cop manning the police line farther up the street watches me anxiously through the Jag’s windshield. He must hear me screaming and probably thinks I’ve lost it. He’s not wrong. Fuck fuck shit shit shit fuck fuck.
I take a deep breath and grip the steering wheel until my hands ache and I force my nerves to settle. Slowly I release the steering wheel. My hands have stopped trembling. It is safe for me to drive now. It is safe to get to work and do what I have to do.
By the time I get home, my pulse is steady. It’s dark outside, and when I look out the windows, I see my reflection. And the bloody face of Larry Talbot. My anger and guilt will have to wait until another day. I’m ready now and it’s time to make my move.
I reset the security checks, including motion sensors for the entire house. I change into street clothes, then return to the kitchen and search the shelves next to the oven and pull out a large roasting pan. I’m not sure why I have a roasting pan. I rarely prepare my own meals, certainly nothing as elaborate as to need roasting.
In the basement I pull up a tall chair to a wooden workbench. Here I drill four small holes in each corner of the roasting pan. I open a false wall panel above what was once a bar, open the door of a heavy commercial safe, and remove a box covered in red plastic.
After putting on my glasses, I carefully remove the box’s red plastic covering, open the box, and take out several pounds of Semtex. I prefer Semtex to C-4. Call me old school. I form the Semtex into six shaped charges and secure them carefully into the roasting pan. I attach the blasting caps into the shaped charges, then wire one of the cell phones Leonard prepared for me into the blasting caps. Semtex is stable and easy to work with but I like to show high explosives proper respect and I take my time and work cautiously. With this charge, if something should go wrong, I’d blow the house to pieces, not to mention me.