21 Tales (12 page)

Lisa grabbed my arm. “Let’s take the money, Nicky. We’ll get on a plane and go somewhere where they’ll never find us. We can do it right now.”

I laughed. “Yeah, just the three of us. Just you, me and five million dollars. When were you planning on cutting my throat, the first night I’m asleep?”

She took a step away from me, her face hardening. “That’s right, the first chance I get I’m going to cut your throat. And while I’m at it, I’m going to cut out your dirty, stinking heart. You dirty bastard, you dirty…” And she started sobbing. I grabbed her wrist and jerked, almost pulling her off the ground. All the way to the car it was like that, me dragging her as if she were a rag doll. Inside the car she started laughing, a weird hysterical laugh, kind of like nails on a blackboard, except much worse.

“You’re dumber than I ever gave you credit for,” she swore at me. “You’re a bright light, alright. A big twenty watt bulb.”

It went on and on like that, but I ignored her. I could understand how she was feeling. I drove to Brendan’s house. Marge and the kids were out, and I was thankful for it. I left the half million in one of her dresser drawers. Brendan probably had life insurance, but I had to make sure Marge and the kids would be taken care of. I left a note and signed Brendan’s name. I found the suitcases hidden in Brendan’s workroom. I brought them back out to the car. Lisa was sitting there with hate in her eyes. I put the suitcases in the trunk and got back behind the wheel. “You and Brendan were planning on taking a trip?”

“You were able to figure that out all on your own? You better give it a rest before something inside pops.”

She stopped talking. She looked so white, so pale, as if all the blood had drained from her body. After a while she asked where I was going.

“We’re going to your place.” I could feel her body cringe. “You got bags to pick up, don’t you?”

“We don’t have to, Nicky.” She waited for me to say something, but I didn’t. “Please, Nicky. Let’s go back to the airport?” There was a pleading in her voice. I didn’t want to look at her. I knew I’d change my mind if I did.

“Who says,” I sneered, my throat beginning to tighten. “That I want to go anyplace with you? Maybe I only want to get you alone. Maybe I want to take my knife and carve you up a little. I had practice with that in Nam, and maybe I miss it.”

“If that’s what you want, go right ahead. You got all the answers, don’t you?” She hesitated. Then in a soft voice. “So I’m just a dirty whore? Nothing but a dirty, lousy, heartless…” and she let it die in her throat.

We drove in silence the rest of the way. A cold, harsh silence. It was something like death. I knew what was waiting for us at her apartment. Brendan should’ve known too, but I guess he just didn’t look hard enough. I guess he was too busy being a wise guy.

He should’ve known the whole thing was too easy, almost like Dreason opened the safe and handed the money right to him. It should’ve sounded funny to him. And Lisa. He should’ve known she wouldn’t want anything to do with someone like him. He should’ve known Dreason would be waiting for the two of them to go back to Lisa’s apartment. Waiting for them to pick up her bags.

Dreason was only a cog in the drug industry. Someone to hold the money and watch it pass from big shot to big shot. But he saw his chance to walk away with five million dollars.

Brendan would walk through Lisa’s door and get his face blown off. I guess Dreason’s wallet would be planted on Brendan’s body, and he and Lisa would walk away free and clear. He’d have enough connections to make sure Brendan’s body would be identified as his. No reason for the mob to ever look for him, not if they thought the five million dollars was blown up and Dreason shot dead. And … and a thought startled me. Maybe Lisa never had any choice. Maybe she had to do what she did. She wanted us to go away together, but she must’ve known that Dreason would know she double-crossed him. She must’ve known he’d never give up looking for her. She’d always have to …

We got to the building. Doubt was working its way into my stomach. I tried looking into her face. It was hard, as if it were chiseled out of marble.

“What are you waiting for?” she asked, her voice defiant, challenging.

“Nothing.” I grabbed her and pulled her out of the car. She jerked herself free and walked in front of me, leading the way to her door.

She stared straight through me. “Okay, bright boy. You want the key?” And she held it out in front of me. I reached for it and she pulled it back. Then, she told me everything. She told me about Dreason waiting behind the door, how Dreason promised to kill her if she didn’t do what he wanted, how sick inside she’s been feeling. As the words rushed out of her, I realized she wouldn’t’ve let me walk into the warehouse. She would’ve stopped me.

She gave me an uneasy smile. “Please, Nick,” she almost begged. “Don’t go in there.” Her face was struggling to keep its composure, to hold back a flood of tears. Trying desperately to stay tough, but it wasn’t working.

“We can’t leave like this.” I smiled at her. “He’ll always be after us. It has to be taken care of now. Don’t worry, it will be alright.”

I took out the locker key and folded it in her hand. I still had Big Mike’s gun. It was a magnum forty-four. Holding it made me feel like I was back in the jungle. I could feel my smile stretching, freezing into the same mask I used to wear over there.

She tried to reach for me, but her arms fell slack to her side. I took a deep breath and kicked the door open, rolling forwards as the door broke apart. I ended up on my knees with the magnum stretched out in front of me. Dreason was standing there, a shocked expression on his face. I waited just long enough to let him get a shot off before I pulled the trigger. The last thing I saw before the darkness was a piece of his brain splatter across the living room wall. The last thing I heard was Lisa screaming, and then her footsteps running towards me.

I read somewhere that the brain can keep functioning minutes after the heart has stopped. Dreason’s bullet had cut my heart in half, so I guess that’s true. It’s funny though, my thinking now is crisp and clear, not scattered with random images and impulses like I would’ve thought. It had to be this way. Lisa needed some sort of chance. She didn’t need to be saddled with a dead man, and that’s all I’ve ever been since Nam. That’s all I’d ever be, and now it’s just complete. The body has caught up with the soul.

I know Lisa is no angel. I know she was going to double-cross my brother. But he would’ve deserved it, so I can’t blame her much for that.

No, she’s no angel, but she deserves a chance. She did what she could to let me walk free. She tried her best. With the four and a half million that’s left she can start over. It’s all up to her now.

There is nothing left of me but a few thoughts. And these probably won’t last more than a minute. Even though I can’t feel anything, I know Lisa is holding me. I know her tears are warming my face. Just for a minute it would’ve been nice to feel something.

Money Run

This is my first story to appear in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Money Run is a fun, light con man story and  gives a slight tip of the cap to Jim Thompson’s great Mitch Allison stories. It also pulls off not a double— or triple cross, but a quadruple cross

Pete Mitchel sat at the bar feeling sorry for himself. Things hadn't gone as planned. Instead of raising enough money to bankroll his Hollywood scam, he had just enough left to get drunk on. Maybe, he grinned to himself sourly, enough to pass out on. He placed five dollars on the bar and nodded to the bartender, who responded in kind by collecting the money and refilling his empty glass. As Pete nursed his gin, he spotted Warren Langely.

Langely, a thin wiry sort with a deep friendly smile, slid onto the barstool next to him and coughed. “How's it going, Pete?” he asked, clearing his throat. “The baking soda business making any money?”

“Well, you know how it is.” Pete could feel his cheeks reddening. “A couple of things crapped out on me and …” He let the sentence die in his throat.

“Yeah, I know how it is.” Langely ordered a beer and sipped it before shaking his head, his smile growing friendlier. “Man,” he said, his eyes slightly amused, “you were supposed to be a bright guy from New York. You're here in Boston less than a month and you're peddling baking soda as coke. Not a very smart thing to do if you ask me.”

“I appreciate your concern,” Pete murmured. Warren Langely had befriended him when he had come to Boston, setting him on to a couple of ventures that had unfortunately busted out. While Pete liked the small, affable man, he wished Langely would leave so he could suffer his misery in peace.

“Don't you think you're acting stupid? The cops could pick you up for selling narcotics near a public school.”

“I'm not selling narcotics, am I? Just a common household product. As best I can see I'm saving these school kids a trip to the market.”

Langely gave the matter some thought and then slowly shook his head and chuckled softly. As he studied the foam fading from his beer his smile became somber. “I gotta tell you, buddy,” he said, “I feel bad for hooking you up with those busted jobs. I got a chance to make it up to you. Two grand worth.”

Pete turned to his companion, raising an eyebrow. “And how's that?”

“Nothing dangerous or anything. Nothing more than delivering a package to Las Vegas, but it's serious stuff. And serious people. You can't afford any kind of screw up. None whatsoever.”

Pete studied Langely through a gin-induced haze; the type a half dozen shots of cheap eighty-six proof rotgut would naturally produce. He could see apprehension in the small man's eyes. Obviously Langely had some doubts whether he could do a simple delivery job. He felt insulted, but the alcohol dulled his outrage. Slowly, he let a smile spread on his face from ear to ear. “You're talking to the right man,” he said at last.

The next day Langely brought Pete to a small Italian restaurant in Boston's North End. Pete felt dehydrated from his previous night's drinking. A hard, painful thumping knocked in his head and his tongue felt like a wool sock had been wrapped around it. From his outward appearance, though, it would've been impossible to tell he was suffering. His gray eyes were clear, his rough good-looking features appeared at ease. As usual, his grooming was impeccable.

A nod sent the two men to a private room in back. Sitting alone behind a table for eight was a large man with a severely receding hairline and tiny, dull eyes. Langely quickly ran to the man, dropped to one knee, grabbed the hand the large man waved to him, and pressed his lips against the heavy knuckles.

“Thank you, Mr. Carbone,” he said in a hushed, gravely serious tone. “We are deeply grateful for your audience. I would like to introduce you to my friend, Pete Mitchel.”

Langely released the man's hand, and Carbone again casually waved his hand, this time signaling for the two men to sit.

“Does your friend understand how important this is?” the large man demanded.

“Yes, Mr. Carbone.” Langely's head was bowed in reverence.

“You,” Carbone pointed a large sausage finger at Pete. “Do you consider yourself a bright man?”

“Yes, sir.”

Carbone sat motionless, staring at Pete, his small black eyes glazing over. Finally, satisfied, his eyes came to life. With a grunt, he lifted a briefcase onto the table and then pulled two envelopes from his inside jacket pocket – one he handed to Langely, the other to Pete.

“There are instructions inside,” he said to Pete, his eyes unblinking. “And a bus ticket to Las Vegas. You will deliver that briefcase to the address specified. There will be no mistakes. Swear your life to that.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, swear your life to that.”

Pete shrugged. “I swear,” he said.

“No,” the large man shook his head. “Your life.”

“I swear my life.”

“Good.” A heavy weariness seemed to fall over Carbone’s face. “I take your pledge to heart,” he said. And with that, he picked up an Italian newspaper and ignored Pete and Langely.

The abruptness of the large man took Pete by surprise, but Langely was on his feet, profusely thanking Carbone for his generosity. He gave Pete an impatient signal to grab the briefcase and the two of them hurried out of the backroom. When they got to the street, Pete looked inside his envelope and saw that along with the bus ticket and instructions, there were twenty crisp hundred dollar bills. Langely let loose with a short whoop of relief and took a thousand dollars from his envelope. “My commission,” he said, a big smile stretched across his face.

Pete laughed. “Not bad for an hours work.”

“No, not bad.” Langely flashed Pete a sheepish look. “Not bad at all. I hope you keep in mind the promise you made.”

“What about it?”

“Well,” Langely hesitated. “You can’t make any mistakes with this, kid. He’s dead serious about that promise.”

The muscles around Pete’s mouth tightened, drawing his lips into a slight smile. He didn’t like what he perceived as Langely’s condescending attitude. After all this was only a delivery job. Any monkey in a suit could do it. “I could end up on the wrong bus and get lost, huh?” he asked.

Langely took a step back and raised both hands in a mock defensive posture. “Hey, don’t get mad at me. I’m just pointing out what has to be pointed out. This is serious business. I’m involved too, you know. If anything happens, they’re going to be coming after me also.”

“Sure.” A muscle in Pete’s jaw was pulsing like a rabbit’s heart. “You’re just being helpful.”

“Look, if you have any problems give me a call.” Langely slowly recited his phone number. “You want me to write it down?” he asked.

“That’s okay,” Pete said. “I’ve got it.”

“Well, enjoy the sun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” As Langely moved away, he brought a hand up as a kind of salute. Pete stood silently until the small man faded from sight, and then crossed the street and entered yet another small Italian restaurant, heading straight towards the bathroom.

He quickly went to work on the briefcase lock. It was easy. Within two minutes he had the case opened and its contents forced a genuine smile. In one corner of the case was a Browning .25 caliber automatic and a silencer. The rest of the case, though, was filled with tens, twenties, and hundreds. Pete thumbed through the stacks of bills and counted thirty thousand dollars. He took a deep breath and closed the case.