Rubbed Out (29 page)

T
o get to the building, I had to take a left onto a small, badly plowed road called Cumberland Avenue. I'd driven about twenty feet when I saw the place I was searching for. A flat-roofed, one-story affair made out of corrugated sheets of metal, it looked like a warehouse. There was nothing in any way remarkable about it. You could drive by it every day for ten years and never notice it.

A small sign on the left-hand side read, P
LASTICS,
I
NC.
Somehow that kind of enterprise didn't seem to fit in with the Russians I'd come to know and love. But what the hell, maybe they were diversifying. From what I could see, there were two entrances into the place. A door in the front and a loading dock in the back.

A large parking lot set off the building from the main road. The tarmac of the parking lot in back of the place gave way to scrub. There was one other building all the way down on the opposite side of the street, but aside from a
WILL BUILD TO SUIT
sign the road was empty. I wouldn't be surprised if there were deer, quail, rabbit, and pheasant here in the summer.

I studied the parking lot. The snow was deep. It hadn't been plowed for a while. Which, for my purposes, was a bad sign. I drove in a little way, stopped the car, and got out to take a better look.

Now that I was studying the snow more closely, I saw tire marks that led from the road to the warehouse and back again. Although the tracks were partially filled in with the day's accumulations, they were still visible. By tomorrow they'd be gone. But someone had been here recently.

I got out my phone and called Phil. I got his machine. Which didn't surprise me. Now that I thought about it, he was either still processing paperwork—corpses make lots of paperwork—or he was at the bar drinking with his cronies. And he probably wouldn't come even if I could reach him. Especially after this afternoon out on the ice. As far as Phil and his merry band of men were concerned, the show was over, the bad guys were dead, and Manuel was a regrettable casualty. Sad, but that's the way it went. So sorry.

And if I wanted to go around with a bug up my ass because I couldn't accept reality—well, that was my problem. Maybe Phil would come out now to humor me, just as a favor to George. But that was doubtful. The day had been too long. Maybe he'd come out tomorrow. Or maybe he wouldn't come at all. Whaddayathink? I mean, why should he, really? On my say-so? Not bloody likely.

I left Phil a message anyway and tried George's cell. The phone rang until his voice mail came on. I left a message filling him in on what was happening.

“Call me,” I said.

Then I tried his house. His bride-to-be answered. Was I having a good day or what?

“Who is this?” she asked.

I told her. She wasn't pleased.

“You know,” she told me, her voice getting snippy, “he has better things to do than run around looking for you.”

It's nice to know she was one of those women who kept her opinions to herself.

“Is that what he's doing?”

She let out a noise that was something between a snort and a whinny.

“Just stay out of our lives.”

“A little possessive, aren't we?”

“I'm going to be his wife.”

“So he said.”

“Good. Because he has a family now. Which means he won't have time for you or your problems.” And she hung up.

Charming. I almost, the operative word here is almost, felt sorry for George. Too bad for him. Date someone because she has boobs the size of Kansas, and you get what you deserve.

I sat in the car pondering whether or not I should call Natalie back and decided against it. I had a feeling Natalie wasn't going to be into delivering a message from me no matter what it was. Hopefully, George would check his voice mail at some point and get back to me.

I got out, took the pry bar that I'd spotted on the backseat of the car, and tramped through the snow up to the front door. The lock was cheap and it didn't take much for me to jimmy it open. I pulled the door open and stepped inside

It was as cold on the inside as it was outside. Not to mention dark. I couldn't see anything. Not even my own hands. The phrase “pitch black” flashed through my mind. I felt around the wall for the light switches, found and flicked all of them on. The place lit up. It was as big as a football field. And just as empty. I wanted to cry. I don't know what I'd been expecting. Maybe Manuel sitting trussed up in a chair in the middle of the room. But he wasn't there.

I walked in a little farther. It was clear the place was a warehouse. There was a forklift parked over by the far wall, and the walls on either side of me were lined with rows of industrial shelving that were stacked with white bins and cartons. Wooden pallets were stacked underneath some of the shelving as well as piled near the center of the room.

A card table was set up by the loading bay. I headed toward it. Maybe there was something there. A stack of invoices was lying in the center of the table. I gave them a quick look through. They all had to do with the shipping and receiving of various kinds of polymers. Whatever else the Russians were doing, they were running a legitimate business.

Next to the invoices was an empty bag of Oreo cookies and an almost empty carton of milk and a couple of pens, a pad of yellow lined paper, and a new deck of cards, none of which told me anything I didn't already know, except that someone had had some time on their hands.

I walked over to the shelving, took down one of the white containers and pried the top open. Inside was a sealed plastic bag full of red powder. I put the top back on the container, replaced it, and went on to the next. It had a different color powder. The one next to that had the same color powder as the first one.

Boy, I was really getting someplace. I tried the boxes next. Some of them contained molds. Others had dyes. Others had things I couldn't identify. I walked back to the middle of the room and looked around again. There was nothing here that wasn't supposed to be. Or at least if there was, I couldn't see it.

I took my gloves off and stuffed them in my jacket pocket. Then I fished around in my backpack for my cigarettes. A belt of Scotch wouldn't have hurt either. Maybe I should start carrying a flask. No. That would be the beginning of the end.

As I lit a cigarette, I wondered how I was going to tell Manuel's mother that not only was her son dead, but that she didn't even have a body to bury. And Bethany. God, Bethany. I could see the look in her eyes when I walked through the door. It made me want to get back in George's car and keep going.

Maybe that was why I couldn't make myself leave the warehouse yet.

“Just because you want it to be one way, doesn't mean it is,” I heard my mother whispering in my ear.

“Yes, it does,” I'd always reply.

Maybe that was why she'd called me stubborn. Actually she'd used the word “incorrigible,” if we're being accurate. I prefer to think of myself as tenacious.

I smoked my cigarette halfway down, and flicked it away. It landed on the cement floor, smoldered for a few moments, and went out. I started walking around again aimlessly, not sure what I was looking for, but unable to abandon the search.

In the next hour or so I reread the invoices on the card table. I checked out the forklift. I opened more boxes and pried the covers off of more white plastic containers. I read the labels on them. None of it told me where Manuel was. In disgust, I kicked at a paper cup lying on the floor.

It rolled toward the shelving and stopped next to something that looked like a small, crumpled-up piece of paper. I walked over, squatted down, and picked it up. Only it wasn't paper. It was a small, white, dice-like cube. Except instead of having dots on it, it had a capital “B” on its six sides.

About a month ago Bethany had showed me a bracelet she'd bought for Manuel. It had consisted of seven white cubes, each with a letter that spelled out her name. They'd been strung together on a leather thong.

“You think he'll wear it?” I asked.

Bethany had looked at me as if I was crazy.

“Of course he will,” she'd said. “I'm giving it to him.”

And he had. Even though he'd told me it made him feel silly.

I got down on my hands and knees and looked around. The cold from the concrete floor seeped through my jeans as I spotted another cube under the shadow of a wooden pallet. I reached over and grabbed it. This one was a lower-case “y.” I scanned the floor. All I saw was gray concrete with hairline fractures. The rest of the letters had probably rolled under the wooden pallets.

I tightened my fingers around the dice until they bit into the palm of my hand. I felt dizzy. Manuel had been here and I'd missed him. Now it was too late. If only I'd thought of going to Wilcox's office sooner, I could have gotten here in time. Suddenly it seemed terribly important to retrieve the rest of the letters. It was the least I could do for Bethany.

I carefully put the dice in my jacket pocket, got up, and started pulling at the top pallet, but it was wedged in tightly under the bottom of the shelf. After a few minutes of tugging it became apparent to me that I couldn't move it. I'd have to take the shelf off first. Not a big job because the shelves were attached to the main poles by a slot-and-groove mechanism. They would be easy to dismantle once I had the boxes off.

It took me five minutes to off-load the shelf and another five minutes to work the shelf loose. It had gotten jammed in, and I had to wiggle it back and forth before I could ease it out. Then I started moving the pallets. They were heavy and awkward. My back was hurting as I dragged the last one out onto the floor.

Then I walked back over and saw what was under it.

F
or a second I just stared, the way you do when you see something you don't expect to. Then I realized what I was looking at: a hole next to the wall that was maybe three feet by four feet wide and three feet deep that had been dug out of the concrete and earth.

My heart started beating faster as I made out the outline of Manuel. He was lying on his side. He'd been hog-tied with his hands and feet lashed together. I jumped down into the hole and touched his neck. His skin was cold, but I could detect a faint pulse. I lifted his head. His mouth was covered with duct tape. I removed it. He didn't even flinch.

“Manuel,” I said.

Nothing.

I took my knife out of my boot and cut Manuel's bonds and straightened out his arms and legs and rubbed them to get the circulation going. The rope had dug into his wrists almost to the bone.

“Jesus.” I wanted to cry.

I put the knife down beside Manuel, took off my jacket, and covered him with it. I stroked his hair. It was matted with dirt.

“Okay, kid,” I told him. “Come on. We're going home.”

I'd just put my hands under his arms to pull him out when a voice coming from somewhere above me said, “No. You're not.”

I looked up to see Dirk Junior grinning down at me. He was wearing a big goose-down parka and pac boots and a watch cap pulled over his ears. More importantly, he was pointing a Glock at my head. Why is it that everyone seems to have a 9mm these days?

“You should get your hearing checked,” he told me.

“I can do that right now if you'd like.”

He snorted.

“I'll take that as a no.”

“Very good.”

I tried smiling at him while I stretched my fingers out and worked the knife I'd laid by Manuel's side toward me. It seemed to be taking forever. It was dark down in the hole and I hoped Dirk Junior couldn't see what I was trying to do, but it wasn't dark enough because the next thing he said was, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Nothing.” My hand closed around my knife.

“Right. Bring your hands up slowly. Both of them,” he said when I showed him my left one.

I brought up the hand with the knife.

“Very good.” He nodded toward a spot on the cement floor. “Put it there. Now,” he yelled when I didn't move fast enough.

I did what he asked. He stuck out his foot and worked the knife toward him with the toe of his boot. Then, without taking his eyes off me, he bent over, picked it up, and put it in his jacket pocket.

“Thanks,” he said. “I can always use one of these and you won't have any use for it soon.”

“How sweet. Can I at least have a cigarette?” I asked.

“I don't think so. How'd you figure out Manuel was here?” and he gestured around the warehouse with his free hand.

“Wilcox's records. I don't understand. Why the Russians? Why this?” I asked.

Dirk Junior shrugged. The hat gave his face a thuggish quality.

“What's to understand? I needed some money. The Ruskies needed a little help. I gave it to them.”

“How much of the $250,000 were you going to get?”

“They were giving me a thousand dollars finder's fee for telling them about Manuel.”

“That's not a lot considering the charges you're going to be facing.”

“Plus I got to do one of their ‘E' and ‘Special K' routes,” Dirk Junior said, as if I hadn't spoken.

Special K is one of the names the kids give an animal tranquilizer that's all the rage these days.

“Nice to have a career.”

“Hey, I need the money. Somebody like me—you gotta get it any way you can.”

“Because you just have to have that new car.”

“Because I got my old lady to support. No one else is, that's for sure. Hey. Stay where you are,” Dirk Junior ordered as I started to straighten up.

I did what he told me to. I didn't have much of a choice.

“Tell me,” I asked. “Did the Russians ever plan to let Manuel go or were they just going to put him in this hole and leave him to die?”

Dirk Junior didn't answer.

“Were they?” I repeated.

“What difference does it make?”

“I want to know for my own sake. That's all.”

“Yeah,” Dirk Junior answered. “They were.”

“Did you know that they were going to kill him when you gave them Manuel's name?”

“Naw.” Dirk Junior wiped his nose with the back of his free hand. “I wouldn't have given it to them if I had.”

“So why didn't you do something when you found out?”

“You mean like go to the police?”

“Yeah. You could have made an anonymous call.”

He laughed. “What world are you living in? I was in it already. It was too late. Shit happens. You got to roll with it. That's how all the big-shot CEOs get ahead.”

Wonderful. The final flowering of capitalism.

I nodded in Manuel's direction. “You know, if he dies you're implicated in a homicide.”

“They have to find the body to charge me.”

“Not necessarily.”

“Hey. Don't try and fuck me over. I read the law. I know what's what.”

“Is that why you're here? To get rid of Manuel?”

“I got responsibilities.”

“Not to the Russians. They're dead.”

“I know. That's what my old man's bitch said.”

“Are you referring to Calli?”

“Does he have another one?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You don't know much, do you?”

“Evidently not.”

Dirk Junior rubbed his cheek with his free hand. “Well, I figure someone else will be buying this property or renting it out. Having a corpse here . . .”

“Manuel's not dead.”

He shrugged again. “Whatever. Anyway. It's messy. You never know where things like that will lead.”

“You're a prudent guy.”

Dirk Junior didn't answer. I don't think he knew what prudent meant. His eyes strayed to Manuel. “He don't look so good.”

“Being buried alive usually isn't good for the constitution.”

“That's a fact.” Dirk Junior scratched under his hat. “By the way. Just in case you're interested, I was the one that took Tiger Lily.”

“I kinda thought you had.”

He smirked. “No, you didn't. You believed what I told you.”

“No. I wanted to believe what you were telling me. That's different. Maybe that's because I wanted to believe something good about you.”

“Good?” He sniggered. “You sound like your friend. ‘Dear, it's not too late to make something of yourself.' ” He mimicked Calli's voice. “‘We just want the best for you.' Fuck her! She wants the best for me, what the hell she doin' hangin' around with my old man? He should be takin' care of my old lady. If he did what he was supposed to, I wouldn't be doin' this.”

“Is that what this is about? You're pissed at your old man?”

“No. It's about money.”

“That's what Marx said.”

“Who cares about Marx? Fuck him. Fuck you. Fuck everyone.” And he began pulling back on the Glock's trigger.

“Hey,” I cried, “don't you want to know how I knew that Manuel was here?”

“You already told me.”

“Did I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

I shrugged.

“Didn't you? Didn't you?”

“If you say so.”

Dirk Junior licked his lips. “You said you found out through Wilcox's records. Where are they?”

“His records? In his office.”

“Where is it?”

“You expect me to tell you?”

“Damned right I do.” From where I was standing I could see his Adam's apple bob up and down. “I'll shoot your fuckin' arm off first if you don't.”

“Well, as long as you put it that way.” And I gave him the address.

“How'd you get in.”

“I had a key,” I lied.

Dirk Junior held out his hand. “Give it to me.”

I turned toward Manuel.

“Don't move,” Dirk Junior ordered.

“It's in my jacket pocket.”

“I'll get it. Get back,” he ordered.

I moved off a little bit.

“Further.”

I took another step back. “This is as far as I can go.”

Dirk Junior had his gun on me as he jumped down into the hole. He pointed the Glock at me as he rummaged through my jacket pockets with his free hand.

“You're jerking me around. There's nothing here,” he said after a couple of moments had gone by.

“Sure there is. You're just not looking hard enough.”

He nodded toward Manuel. “You come look.”

“Whatever you want.”

“And keep your hands up.”

I raised them slightly. As I moved toward Dirk Junior, I thought about Manuel and Bethany and Zsa Zsa. What would happen to her if I died? And Bethany. Where would she go? Not to mention the animals in the store. God, I didn't even have a will.

“Hurry up,” Dirk Junior said. “I want to get going.”

I hoped he was a good shot. I hope he didn't leave me to bleed to death. I wondered where he'd bury Manuel and me. Probably in a dump somewhere. And no one would ever know where we were. I was about six inches away from Dirk Junior now, close enough to see his eyes shifting this way and that and his gun hand shaking. Before I had time to think about what I was doing, I'd brought my hand up and chopped at his wrist. His hand went down. The gun discharged. He screamed, took a couple of steps backward, and toppled onto Manuel.

“You shot my foot off,” he said as the gun fell out of his hand.

I reached over and took it.

“Just be happy I'm not shooting you in the head,” I said while I dialed 911.