by Alan Lee
“One of my underlings.”
“He’s an associate of Marcus Morgan, though Marcus doesn’t know about this particular quandary.”
“This is a weird fucking phone call,” he said. He spoke in a soft rasp. Power in abeyance.
“John Wick’s daughter is being held by a coyote working in your area.”
“How do you know the coyote is working in my area?” asked Duane.
“He demanded PayPal. We refused and requested a cash drop. He told us the cash drop was in Virginia Beach, and so was the girl.”
“Yeah, so? Big fucking deal, we do that,” said Duane. “Part of the business. Tell John Wick to pay the promised money and he gets his daughter.”
“Trouble is, John Wick is now being extorted. The coyote is holding the girl hostage. He’s demanded four times the agreed price. We’re now in Virginia Beach, here to kill the coyote,” I said. “I figured it’s your area, we owe you the respect of calling first.”
Duane stayed quiet. I heard him breathing. Carlos’s breathing was inaudible, if it existed at the moment.
“You’re right to contact me,” said Duane. “I appreciate the respect. I mean that.”
“You bet.”
“Who is this, again?”
“I never said.”
“You never said. Okay, Never Said. Four times the agreed amount?” he asked.
“That’s right.”
“We don’t kidnap little girls and extort the parents.”
“I figured,” I said.
“You figured.”
“Now we’re worried about the coyote being, ahhh, criminally corrupt. We’re worried he might kill the girl after getting the money,” I said. “Which is why we brought guns.”
“We don’t kill little girls.”
“A rogue coyote might.”
“Yeah. You and John Wick, you brought guns. You don’t make a move yet. I’ll contact you again at this number,” he said. “You understand?”
“Your instructions are limpid. We can wait a little while.”
“Limpid,” he said and he hung up.
I lowered the phone.
Carlos released a big blast of air.
Manny said, “You got that smooth way of talking, Mack. I was a criminal boss? I be terrified of you.”
“But,” I said. “Do you think limpid was over the top?”
“Dunno. What’s it mean?”
“I forget.” I looked at my steaming styrofoam cup. “Did you put your fancy milk in my coffee?”
“No.”
“Manny.”
“I put only heavy cream and stevia and some keto powder. I keep packets in my pocket,” he said. “Makes it healthy.”
In the back, Carlos sipped his. Made a happy noise. “Manuel, café blanco, it’s good, migo, gracias.”
I said, “I was a crime boss, I’d pour this witches brew in both your laps. Do you know how many carbs are in your red Slurpee?
“Don’t judge. I having a cheat meal.”
6
Duane called back after midnight.
I answered and he said, “Coyote you’re after is named Angelo. Works with Tito out of Norfolk.”
“We know Tito.”
“You know Tito,” he said. “You leave him out of this. You understand? This isn’t because of Tito.”
“I will cross him off my list. With red ink.”
“Off your list,” he said. “Good. Angelo is your guy. He’s running a racket behind my back.”
“I knew it. Criminally corrupt. The outrage,” I said.
“You’re a smart ass. I know you. You’re the dick out of Roanoke.”
“Nope,” I said.
“Yes you are. I met you. Friends with Marcus Morgan.”
“Nope,” I said again. “Though that guy sounds swell and handsome. I am someone less witty, however.”
“Whatever. Angelo operates out of Norfolk.” He gave me an address. I repeated it and Manny wrote it down.
“You got a picture of Angelo you can text me?”
“No I don’t got a fucking picture of Angelo I can text you,” he said.
“Okay grumpy.”
“You have help?”
“I have help.”
“Go get John Wick’s little girl. Angelo doesn’t know you’re coming. Do me a favor. You find Angelo, you put a hole in his head.”
I scratched at my chin and whispered, “I will do you this favor.”
“Godfather? You doing the godfather at me?”
“Heavens no. Thanks Duane. We’re gonna go kill many of your underlings,” I said.
“Only Angelo. You hear me?”
I said, “I don’t know what he looks like, so we’re just shoot everyone,” and I hung up.
Carlos smacked his hands together hard in the backseat. “Vamanos! Let’s go, señor Mack! You got Isabella. She is there. It is time for my shotgun.”
One in the morning.
We parked at an Asian massage parlor in Portsmouth, just across the Elizabeth River. The economy of Portsmouth was propped up on freight shipping, mountains of it. There was no new construction but this part of town looked heathy. Like, we have enough money but we don’t want nice things because sailors might break them.
The parlor was sandwiched between a tattoo place and a sub shop. The three storefronts shared a damp parking lot in need of paving. The massage parlor was fronted with big windows, through which we could see those sit-down massage chairs with faded white padding. The lights were off but there was a glow in the rear, beyond a partition.
“Isabella, she is in there?”
“Maybe. In the basement,” I said. “My guess, it’s a massage parlor with a sex shop below.”
Manny flashed his marshal badge. “We do this legal? Shoot some traffickers in the name of America?”
“Let’s see how it goes. You make the call afterwards. Carlos and I were never here.”
In the back, Carlos rocked back and forth, swaying the Honda.
I said, “I hope they don’t shoot my car. I only got the windows replaced two months ago.”
“If we gotta run outside and hide behind your car, our troubles be bigger than your windows,” Manny said.
“There are not many cars here,” noted Carlos.
“Most in the back. But I’d prefer not to use that ingress. I wanna surprise the guard.”
Manny checked his pistol.
Carlos hoisted his twelve-gauge.
I got out of the Accord. The night was chilly and wet. Recently fried food was carried on the breeze. I carried the 1911 in my right hand, and I tucked a .38 special at the small of my back.
I saw myself in the reflection of the massage parlor windows. Of the three of us, I looked least impressive. Which, I thought, was a shame.
An unexpected gift—the front door was unlocked.
“Don’t shoot anyone unless you have to. Let’s go,” I said.
The glass door opened smoothly. The front room was clean and warm and smelled like perfumed lotion. We moved quickly and without sound. Beyond the first partition we found curtained rooms with massage tables. Rows of neatly folded white towels. Oriental pictures and incense sticks. We kept moving towards the far glow.
At the rear exit, there was a stairwell leading below. A giant stood there. A giant in khakis and a dark blue sports jacket. He was bigger than me, which is hard. He didn’t hear our approach.
Carlos fired his twelve-gauge, an explosion of sound. Like the world blew up. The giant was caught in the chest and knocked backwards into the wall.
“Jesú, Carlos, my ears,” said Manny. It was hard to hear over the ringing in my head.
“There goes our surprise.”
“What?”
Despite my tinnitus, I became aware of screaming below. The noise came up the stairwell.
I knelt beside the giant, who was coughing. I fumbled in his jacket for his gun: a black 9. I stuffed it in my pocket.
His stomach was rock hard. I smacked it.
; “You wear a flack vest? Smart giant,” I said, possibly too loud.
He coughed some more, fumbling where the shot had nearly broken the vest.
“Dammit,” he groaned.
“Stay put and you get to live,” I told him.
Carlos leapt down the stairs.
He shouted, “Isabella! Dónde estás, bebé? Soy aquí!”
The basement walls were painted cinderblock and the floor was a hard flecked vinyl. The ceiling was low, nearly touching my head. I had to duck under the fluorescent housings. The space felt small, most of it dedicated to little rooms created by temporary curtain dividers.
The guilty parties were hiding from Carlos’s bazooka behind the curtains, the scene momentarily frozen and silent.
“Everyone out,” I said. “You gotta run. Police will be here soon.”
Half-naked women ran out from the curtained partitions, crying. They ran deeper into the basement. Half-naked men emerged, hopping into their pants and bolting up the stairs. The women were Caucasian and Hispanic and Asian. The men were all fat white guys.
“Angelo?” I asked. “Where is Angelo?”
A guard, a wiry Latino, got the drop behind us but he hesitated. Manny threw a left into his stomach and then crisply clipped him in the skull with his pistol. The kid folded and didn’t get up.
I turned off the mp3 player, which had been pumping oriental meditation music through speakers on the wall.
Carlos raged. He called, “Isabella!” again and stalked deeper into the basement. Men and women alike went wide-eyed at his shotgun. He had lost the ability to reason.
There was a second guard, another thin Hispanic guy, hiding behind a support column. He desperately wanted to be elsewhere. He had a gun but didn’t know what to do with it. I raised my pistol at him.
He dropped his and went onto his knees, eyes closed.
“No no! No dispares! Por favor!”
“Dónde está Angelo?” I said.
Where’s Angelo?
Without opening his eyes he pointed farther in, towards the back corner where the women ran. There was a second half to the basement, hidden by a flimsy wooden paneling with a single door.
I called, “Angelo. Got a message from Duane. Come out and you can live.”
From behind the door came a voice. “My friends! I come out, you don’t shoot?”
Carlos took a step towards it. I held up my hand—wait.
“Come out, Angelo, and I won’t shoot you,” I said. “Duane sent us.”
“What for?”
“Come out or we come in.”
A man hesitantly slid into view. Good looking guy, curly thick black hair. He wore chinos and a white linen shirt, unbuttoned. No shoes.
“My friends!” he said, forcing a smile. “This can all be cleared up.”
Carlos shouted, “Dondé está Isabella?”
Angelo shot him a second look. “Carlos?”
“And company,” said Manny.
“You came all the way here, Carlos? I have her! No harm is done!” cried Angelo.
“She is here?”
“Yes! She is here! All is well, Carlos. Take her.”
“Don’t shoot him,” I said.
From his hip, Carlos fired his twelve-gauge. Unlike the giant, who had rocked backwards, Angelo lost a chunk of his midsection. He spun and landed wetly.
Women screamed again. I considered doing the same.
“Isabella!” Carlos shouted and he barged through the door into the rooms beyond.
Manny and I stood over Angelo, whose fate was sealed but would suffer a few more minutes. Manny shot him neatly in the head to end it.
“I think maybe America and the marshal don’t take credit for this one,” he said.
7
Isabella was unharmed, though she looked like she’d had a miserable week. She slept with her head on her father’s lap across the back seat. Carlos smiled at her for hours, stroking her brown hair. Eventually he also drifted off, surrendering to the Accord’s faint drone.
Manny yawned. “What time Carlos hire you?”
“Three, maybe,” I said, eating a doughnut procured from a Dunkin drive-thru. Chocolate glazed with sprinkles. “Three-thirty.”
“You find the girl ten hours later. Now they safe and asleep and almost home. You be a wizard.”
“Like Gandalf, I am.”
“Who?”
“You need to read more high fantasy,” I said. “We got lucky tonight. It could have been difficult.”
“You’ll call social services tomorrow? About the prostitutes?”
“Yeah. Might not do much good. You know what the state does with at-risk girls like that? Sends them to youth detention centers. Throws them in with horny boys.”
Manny said, “That’s not true. Can’t be true.”
“But it is.” I glanced at his speedometer—he was doing ninety-four. Were we racing someone?
“Maybe me and you, Mack, we start an orphanage. M&M Orphanage, we call it.”
“An orphanage run by two single men catering exclusively to young prostitutes?”
“Ah. I see the problem. This is why you are the brains of our orphanage, migo.
We pulled into our driveway at 5:30am, still an hour before the sky turned a weak and watery blue. Manny and I helped haul Carlos’s stuff to his old gray pickup. He carried Isabella, who might not wake for a week.
I removed the envelope of cash from my pocket. Counted out a few bills and held the rest out for him.
“Pleasure doing business with you, Carlos. Keep me in mind for all your abduction needs,” I said.
He held up his brawny hands.
“No, señor August. I paid you. That is yours. Fair and fair.”
“Carlos, I don’t charge exorbitant flat fees. I charge by the day. We worked for one day and that’s what you paid me. The amount of money in this envelope is lunacy.”
“I get you a diamond?”
“I don’t know what that means,” I said. “And I don’t need one.”
“But we got Isabella and I am very happy.”
“As are all my clients.”
He said, “It was dangerous. You could have died.”
“Okay, good point.” I slid out one more big bill. “Happy now? Take the rest.”
Which he did. And then nearly killed Manny and me. Death by fierce embrace.
The house was silent in the way that well-made homes were at 5am.
Manny went to go sleep a few hours in the guest room. Bunk with Fat Susie, maybe.
I laid down on the leather couch in the living room. Got under a blanket. Propped my head on a throw pillow.
There was a gorgeous blonde in my bedroom. And I was lonely. If I went in, I would start undressing her and she would let me.
But she wasn’t mine and I wasn’t hers. She was a prostitute. Still untangling herself as best she knew how.
People had to do these things themselves, in my opinion.
So.
I could wait.
8
Ronnie woke me two hours later. Fully clothed, the prude. She was on her knees by the couch and she stroked my hair. “Hello Mackenzie.”
“Hello Ronnie,” I said. As I did, she popped a breath mint into my mouth.
She said, “Don’t get up. Was last night’s excursion successful?”
“Twas.”
“Carlos’s daughter is home? You and the luscious Manny are unharmed?” she asked.
“We are great American heroes, yes.”
“I knew you’d do it. My confidence in you borders on worship.” She kissed my forehead. “Kix was a delight. We partied late into the eight o’clock hour. Your father and the Sheriff came home, so I released Reginald. Stackhouse was eyeballing him suspiciously, anyway.”
“You mean Fat Susie.”
“A very unflattering moniker."
“Thank you for watching Kix.”
She smiled and kissed me again. On the nose.
“You owe me.
But now I need to dash. The daughter of a local wealthy family snorted several lines of coke and crashed her BMW an hour ago. I’m off to see that justice isn’t served. Aren’t I the worst?”
“I like you anyway.”
“You love me, you mean. Though it’s complex as fuck. But one day, Mackenzie, one day it won’t be. I’ll be free and clean and all yours,” she said. She had lowered her mouth until her lips brushed mine with each plosive syllable. “And I will grant you your every wish.”
“You’re awfully suggestive for a babysitter. You weren’t even my first choice.”
“Ask me out soon, please,” she said.
“Once you’re single.”
“I will be.”
“Ronnie,” I said.
“Yes Mackenzie.”
“I’m going back to sleep. My son gets up in an hour.”
“Yes Mackenzie. I’ll be waiting by the phone.”
Kix did me a solid, slept in thirty minutes later than usual. He was clearly not pleased that it was I greeting him instead of Ronnie. I brought him to the kitchen, eased him into his high chair, and gave him a bottle of milk.
He casually backhanded the bottle off the tray and arched an eyebrow at me.
I shrugged. “Your loss.”
Fetch me the milk.
“You knocked the milk off. Purposefully.”
Fetch me the milk, please.
“This is called natural consequences, son. Pain is good for you.”
Fetch the milk, now.
I chopped up slices of banana and apple and set them on the tray. He pointed at the bottle and expressed his dismay. Then he flung the bits of fruit.
I sat on the chair across from him. Sipped my coffee and rubbed my grainy eyes. “Your aim is terrible, kid. You didn’t hit me once.”
What a nasty thing to say. I can barely operate my fingers independently.
“You’re in no position to be flippantly flinging your food. Not only is it unkind, it’s unwise.”
Dad. Stop being heinous. Fetch the bottle. And I will throw it farther this time.
“Last night I bravely stormed the sinister gates of an immoral massage parlor and rescued a kidnaped little girl. Today, a one-year-old throws food at me and makes narcissistic demands.”