The Rented Mule (4 page)

He lit a fourth match and held it up. And so it went.

While holding up the seventh and continuing to keep an eye on the blonde, the biker came back and laid a note in front of him.

“Read it and burn it,” he mumbled as he leaned over the bar and grabbed a brown bottle from the beer box. “Put it on his tab,” he instructed the bartender pointing a massive finger at the nervous guy lighting matches and then disappeared into the crowd.

Excited that he made contact, he turned over the napkin and read the scribbled instructions.

The person he was supposed to meet was across the street at Zeke’s Marina on the boat
Mo’ Money
. He reread the instructions before laying the crumpled note in the ashtray. He dropped a burning match on top, watching it slowly incinerate. Never thinking about his tab, he stood to leave and then with a sudden rush of paranoia quickly started pushing his way toward the exit. He glanced at the energetic blonde dancing alone and wondered if she was undercover. Innate cockiness overrode suspicion, so he determined that she had just found him attractive. He winked.

“Happy Birthday!” she yelled loud enough to be heard over everyone in the bar, singing along to Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Sweet Home Alabama.”

He mouthed, “I’ll be back,” holding up one finger, signaling that he wouldn’t be gone too long.

He was excited, and this was just as he expected. A professional criminal wouldn’t talk shop in a crowded bar where someone could hear his conversation.
Nice form
, he thought.

He pulled his BMW into the marina’s parking lot, and as he walked away, he locked the doors with his key fob. He heard the
chirp, chirp
. Heading toward the large fishing boats, he checked his pockets for his necessities.

The piers were long deserted. All the boats were washed down and ready for the next day’s activities. The crews were most likely drinking at the Flora-Bama or at some less touristy watering hole. At the end of the longest pier, he saw a gaudy yellow cigarette-type boat. Almost halfway down the pier, he could see the name
Mo’ Money
painted on its transom. He slowly walked to where she was moored. Looking around carefully, he didn’t see anyone on board. He despised boats unless someone else owned them. They were black holes that floated on water rather than in space.

“Hello… I’m the Client,” he called toward the boat.

“Yo, man, shut the hell up with that ‘Client’ shit!”

The voice came from behind him. He jumped and then wheeled around to see the silhouette of a huge man standing on the back of another large boat.

“I got the note,” he volunteered, not really knowing what to say but compelled to fill the silence.

After a long moment, “Pat him down,” came from the big shadow of a man.

Another much smaller guy appeared and searched the Client with an electronic wand, after frisking him. He found the revolver and took it, but failed to find any form of active or passive surveillance.

“He’s clean now, Dog,” the small man said as he stepped back onto the boat. He emptied the cartridges into the water and tossed the gun back to its owner.

“What the hell did ya think you was gonna do with that piece?” the big man asked.

“It’s for protection,” the Client sheepishly replied as he slid the gun into his pocket.

“Bring another gun to a meet and you’ll need a proctologist to find it! You feel me?”

“Yeah, uh… uh… I… I hear… I mean, yeah, I feel ya,” the Client stammered.

“Good. Now where’s my down payment?”

“Right here. I got it right here. See?” he said, nervously pulling it out of his pocket.

The big man stepped off the boat onto the pier; it creaked under his weight. “Good. What’s the job? Give me the details.”

Pausing to gather his thoughts, the Client glanced around and said, “I wanna have a woman kidnapped and held for a week or so. It’s simple. I can tell you
all
about her, when would be a good time to grab her, and I even got ya a place to hide
her. It’ll be more like babysittin’. It’ll be the easiest money you ever made… much easier than your normal business.”

Before the Client realized it, the big man snatched him off the dock by his shirt collar. Holding him in the air, at his eye level, the big guy said through gritted teeth, “Get this straight, you don’t know shit about my bidness or me… and if I
ever
hear of you sayin’ otherwise, I’m gonna hunt you down and you ain’t gonna like what I do to you. You hear me?!”

Consumed with fear, the Client couldn’t speak. He just nodded several times.

The big man dropped him. “Now, gimme the rest.”

“Yeah… ah… well, it’s like this, it’s… I wanna frame her husband for it, plant some evidence that makes it look like… you know… like that he’s behind it. Basically, I wanna ruin him… and I… I want that son of a bitch to suffer. That’s really the most important part of this deal. I want him in a
world
of hurt.”

“That’s cool, but my fee don’t include poppin’ nobody. We straight on that?”

The Client nodded, knowing that he, personally, would do any of the heavy lifting. “You don’t hafta. That’s not your job,” he said with a malevolent smile.

“So, Homey, what’s this dude done to deserve my attention?” The huge man asked, sitting down on a dock box.

“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” the Client asked, regaining some of his arrogance. He sat down, across from the big man, on another fiberglass dock box.

The big guy paused as he took a hard, thorough look at the Client and then said, “Not as long as you got the cash, and don’t even think about playin’ me.” He grinned, exposing a shiny gold tooth.

“Not a problem,” the Client said confidently.

The Client stood and raised the envelope filled with cash, waving it, “I only deal in green!” He was again enjoying being who he thought he was.

“Lower your voice and sit your ass down,” the big man hissed.

The Client quickly dropped back down, his head hanging. He mumbled, “Okay. I’m sorry. Well, uh… well… then. What should I do with this?”

“Give it to him,” the big man said, motioning to his smaller companion.

After inspecting the envelope’s contents, the small guy said, “It’s good, Dog.”

The big man then tossed the Client a small cell phone and said, “Keep it
on
and with you all the time. Don’t lose it. My number’s programmed as speed dial number one. Only call me from that phone.”

“What’s your name?” the Client asked excitedly.

“Mad Dog.”

After a moment, Mad Dog continued, “Let’s get this straight. I call the shots. I’m in charge.
Me!
Ya, feel me?”

“No problem, Mister Mad Dog. I’m only interested in results, and you come highly recommended, so I’m good with it.”

“One last thing. You can’t back out. There ain’t no refunds. I get all my fee once this gets started. Am I clear?”

“Absolutely. You da man!”

Quivering with excitement, the Client went on to carefully explain the details of the job and the players involved. Then they negotiated the remaining balance of the fee, which the Client had no intention of paying.

The Client left the meeting exhilarated, feeling powerful.
He started his car and turned up the radio. Shifting into drive, his mind drifted to the drunken blonde at the bar.
Ya know… I think I just will let her give me a birthday present.

C
ooper completed the honey-do list with little enthusiasm and then headed home. He had purchased wine—although it wasn’t too expensive—clear plastic tableware, the party trays from the country club, and then he’d picked up the dry cleaning but had forgotten to count the shirts.

When he rolled into his driveway in his dark green four-wheel-drive Ram pickup truck, he could see Kelly giving instructions to a landscaper. As the huge garage door opened, he could see that Kelly’s red Volvo was parked in the center, taking up both parking slots. He parked and quickly carried everything inside. He knew that he should be involved in whatever discussion was occurring outside in what he knew deep down would be a vain attempt at damage control. Landscaping was outrageously expensive. As he walked past the den, he noticed that something was different. Stopping to look back, he realized that his two prized deer-head mounts were gone and had been replaced with gold-framed floral prints. He groaned and then headed outside.

Kelly was rapidly explaining how she wanted the yard to be transformed: azaleas here, crape myrtles there, and a brick sitting area with a fountain in the corner. The landscaper frantically made notes on an iPad.

“Kelly? Kelly? I need to speak to you. It’s important,” Cooper implored as he walked hurriedly across the manicured lawn.

Kelly was infuriated that Cooper had interrupted her, but nonetheless excused herself from the landscaper and walked toward her husband. “Dammit, Cooper, I don’t have time for your crap right now.”

“What are you doing? We haven’t discussed additional landscapin’. The yard looks fine! It was professionally landscaped just three years ago, when we bought this house,” Cooper exclaimed in frustration.

“Look, you don’t want me to be embarrassed. I have everybody that’s anybody coming here for this tea, and I
will
make a good impression.”

Cooper let out a deep breath, trying to keep his composure. The landscaper busied himself placing orange flagging on the shrubs he planned to remove.

“What you wanna do will cost several thousands of dollars. Just how do you expect that we pay for it?”

“When we sell the agency, we’ll have plenty of money,” she answered as if he had just asked the most idiotic question she had ever heard.

“That’s crazy! We may not even get to sell it. The wheels may run off at any point,” he answered, hoping that he could get through to her, but knowing it was futile.

“Gates says it’s a done deal,” she replied, looking around the yard, not really paying attention to Cooper.

Ben rode up on his bicycle. Cooper didn’t want him to hear them arguing tonight since in the past year or so the kids
had witnessed frequent disagreements between them and had sensed the strain in their relationship. The small blond-headed youngster was excited to see his dad and ran over, attacking Cooper’s right leg.

“What happened to my deer heads?” Cooper asked as nonchalantly as possible; then he grabbed Ben, tossing him over his shoulder and then sitting him down on the grass.

“I told Mom you’d be mad,” Ben quickly interjected.

“He gets mad anytime I wanna spend money,” Kelly spouted harshly and gave Cooper the eye.

“I guess Mrs. Von Wyle doesn’t approve of deer mounts?”

“She sure doesn’t have any in her home,” Kelly replied, folding her arms across her chest.

“That’s her place. This is ours. And it oughta reflect who we are. Us. I live here, too, by the way.” Cooper extended his arms to accentuate his point. “In case you didn’t know, they got a huntin’ camp, and it’s full of mounts. Mr. Von Wyle hunts all over the world.”

“Cooper hunny… it’s just till this tea’s over.” Kelly laid it on thick, smiling, knowing that the changes would be permanent.

Cooper shook his head. “I suppose you’ll want to do some remodelin’, too, if we can get it done in time?”

“No. Just a little redecoratin’. Cooper, I swear you’re gonna embarrass me,” she said, looking around for any neighbors watching. “This discussion’s over.”

“This is unbelievable… you’re… you are just unfreakin’ believable!”

Cooper picked up Ben again and then noticed the next-door neighbor on the other side of the hedge a few yards away. Cooper shook his head and plodded toward the house carrying Ben on his shoulders.

Let her have her little party. Hell, she can fix up the house too. Whadda I care? I’ll have my Promised Land… I hope.

1
^ST
SUNDAY

C
larence Armstrong, also known as Mad Dog, called a meeting at the Pink Pony Pub on the beach in Gulf Shores, Alabama, to discuss the plan with his eclectic criminal team.

They all arrived before the lunch crowd and had the place basically to themselves. It was a lazy Sunday late morning and, typically, no one seemed in a rush to do much of anything. Clarence ordered two plates of steamed shrimp with twin baked potatoes.

Weighing in at a muscular 260 pounds, it was obvious that Clarence didn’t miss many meals. He was unbelievably strong and had played two seasons for Mississippi State as outside linebacker.

Clarence, clearly physically talented, with one of the highest GPAs on the football team, knew how to use his head and his muscles. He made significant cash writing term papers for other athletes and students. However, he had been devastated to learn that he was too slow physically to play pro ball and thereby wouldn’t collect a big paycheck.

His Fifteen Minutes of Fame came during an ESPN Thursday night football game. After making a bone-crushing tackle on a quarterback—that could be heard in the cheap seats—he was picked up by a television camera microphone asking the dazed opponent about his grade point average. The announcers joked about it the rest of the night.

After graduating college and moving back home to the Gulf Coast, Clarence knew that he couldn’t tolerate a standard eight-to-five job. He eventually met several members of the biggest local drug network, which exposed him to outstanding opportunities for making large sums of cash, fast.

Clarence quickly evolved from a drug runner to a criminal mastermind. He was well suited for intimidating people and had developed a reputation for productivity and creative crimes. He understood global economics, the Dow Jones, market trends, as well as how to thoroughly plan crimes. His attention to detail amazed everyone. Clarence successfully collected debts, hauled drugs, and brazenly robbed high-end jewelers, targeting gemstones, expensive watches, and precious metals. He became more cunning and daring as each job’s take got richer. As soon as he experienced steady financial success, he recruited two team members with varying talents. At thirty-one, Clarence was doing very well. He worked hard and smart.