Once Upon A Poet

by H S Peer

  “You’re back,” I said, trying my best to look bored.

  “Yes,” said Farrell. The gunny remained silent.

  “Are you a little more civil tonight?”

  She smiled, all milk and honey. When I saw her teeth I knew again she was a predator. “I’ve always been civil,” she said.

  That accent, I could listen to it forever. It was hard to believe that the woman behind it was a gun-packing car thief.

  “What do you want,” I asked, getting cool.

  I saw the gunny’s hand twitch. When he spoke, his voice was strangely high pitched. “Show some respect,” he said.

  I wondered how fast he was. Who was faster, him or me? I had a pistol stuck in my waistband at the small of my back. If he pulled his, I had a hundred "friends" to back my play. He could maybe beat me in the draw, but he’d die with the pistol in his hand.

  “Put your hand in your pocket, or I’ll take you outside and tan your bottom, boyo,” I ventured.

  He reached inside his coat and smoothly pulled out a large .45. I wondered how someone his size could possibly fire it. When he pointed it at my head his hand was rock-steady.

  “I ought to air you out right here,” he said. Standing with the pistol like he was he sounded ominous.

  I heard the sound of the riot gun being pumped. From the corner of my eye, I could see biscuit pointing it at the gunny’s head. The bar had gone quiet. Other than the jukebox there was no sound. Several guns were in view. I held my hand out for the pistol. The gunny looked disgusted. He looked at Biscuit, looked around the room and then looked at me before handing over the piece. I dropped it on the bar and said thank you to Biscuit. He nodded and replaced the riot gun in its resting place.

  “Are we done with the theatrics?” I asked. “This is my place, little stunts like that won’t win you any friends . . .”

  “Max,” said Farrell.

  “Max,” I said, “What do you need a thug for, Farrell?”

  “I have a job, and I need your help.”

  “You have a hell of a way of showing it. Last night you insulted me. Tonight your little thug pulls a piece in my place. And you have the nerve to ask for my help?”

  “Poet,” she said, “That’s all in the past.” Her smile was that of an evil and conniving child.

  “Past? He pulled the gun five minutes ago.”

  “That is the past.”

  I shook my head. I hate amateurs. But, I would hear them out and said, “In my office.” I tucked the .45 in my pants. Inside the office, I sat down and propped my feet up on the corner of the desk. Farrell took the only chair. Max stood by the door looking sullen.

  “What’s the job?” I asked.

  “You’re right to business, aren’t you?” asked Farrell.

  “Listen, were not friends. You said you have a job and I’ll listen to your pitch.”

  “But. . . “

  “No buts. Give me your pitch. And don’t mention any place names, someone could be listening.”

  “Ten grand for you,” started Farrell.

  “Wow,” I said. She didn’t know I had ten grand in my pocket.

  “You don’t sound overly impressed.”

  “I’m not," I said. “Keep going.”

  “Five cars. From a showroom here in town. Couple of hours work. Easy,” she said.

  “Cars? How did I know? What do you need me for? I don’t do cars.”

  “You did the hearse.”

  “An exception.”

  “What do you need me for?” I asked again.

  “The alarms,” she said. “I asked around, and you’re a real pro. That’s what I need. You get us in, and you get ten grand.”

  “That’s it? Just the alarms?”

  “Yes.”

  “Car alarms?”

  “No, just the building.”

  “What kind of alarm is it? What are the triggers? Heat, motion sensors?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What brand of deadbolt do they use on the doors?”

  “Doesn’t matter, we have keys.”

  She was talking more than she should. If the office was bugged, all this information was being collected by the feds, NYPD or other agency. I let her go on without a caution because I didn’t think I would get involved with this little caper. If I was serious about talking business, I did it at the bar with all the background noise or in a random car.

  “No,” I said.

  “No?”

  “You heard me,” I said.

  “Why, don’t you want the money?”

  “No,” I said, “It’s not enough.”

  “Not enough? All you have to do it the alarm.”

  I put my feet down on the floor and rested my forearms on my thighs. “Listen Farrell, and please take no offense, but I work with professionals. If that’s what you are you would know what kind of alarm this company has, what are the triggers, what software and version the consoles have. Is there cellular backup to the alarm? Is there a klaxon or is it silent? What’s the police response time? You have to know all this stuff. If you want me to find out, it’s worth more than ten grand. I don’t expose myself like that for ten lousy grand.”

  “How much would it take?” asked Farrell.

  “How much are you going to make?”

  She looked at her partner, then me, and then shook her head.

  “Let’s break it down,” I said. “Five cars. What are you getting? Five grand each?”

  “Ten,” said Farrell.

  “Generous. Okay, fifty grand. Less what you pay your drivers, including the two of you. Say five hundred each. That’s fifty minus $1500. So you have 48.5. Your inside man will want a little something so 10 grand to him. 38.5. Less the ten grand you were going to pay me. 28.5. Not a bad little score.”

  “You’re pretty good with maths,” said Farrell.

  “Years of experience,” I said.

  “Now that you think you know everything, tell me what you want,” she said.

  “25.”

  She laughed, a high sound from the back of her throat.

  “You want me in on your caper you pay my price.”

  “What are you? Some kind of joker? That leaves us with 13.5,” said Max.

  “That’s 13.5 you didn’t have before. Call it the cost of experience,” I said.

  “I don’t think we can do any business,” said Farrell.

  I shrugged. Easy come, easy go.

  Farrell stood and turned to the door. Max stood in front of me. “My piece?” he asked.

  “I forgot,” I said. I stood, pulled the pistol from my belt and dropped the magazine. I worked the action and popped the live round from the chamber. I passed the empty gun to Max, butt first.

  “This is no good to me,” he protested.

  “You’re lucky you’re not bleeding in the alley right now,” I said. “If you come back again try to act like a gentleman.”

  He huffed once or twice and followed Farrell through the door.

  I pulled a cigarette from inside my jacket and lit up. Leaning back in the chair I wondered how I got involved with such losers. Getting hooked up with a bunch of first timers on their first big score was nothing I wanted to get involved in.

  I went back to the bar and sat at my stool. The place was starting to empty out. I was hungry, but there was no chance of any food this late. I got a bag of chips from Biscuit and ate them with my Scotch. Not a great combo, but beggars can’t be choosers.

  I sat for a couple of hours until the place emptied. Biscuit took the money from the waitresses and counted what was in the till. I waited, knowing I would be making the bank deposit. It was a pretty good haul for the night. The darker side of society was nothing if not predictable. No one, except me maybe, saved for a rainy day. They scored, they partied until it was gone or spent their loot on expensive items like designer clothes or jewelry. When all was said and done, they went out and scored again, and the whole cycle started over. Me, on the other hand, had a tidy
nest egg in a Caymans Island bank, not to mention the hundred grand I kept around the house for eventualities.

  I took the envelope Biscuit passed me, finished my drink and headed for the bank branch. It was getting colder out, and I turned up my collar against the weather. I was hoping no junkie would jump me tonight. My earlier efforts had drained me. There was no fight left in me. They could take the bank deposit, that was insured, but my ten grand was another story. For that, I might summon some strength and raise a little fuss.

  With the deposit safely somewhere in the bowels of the bank, I headed home. What I wanted was a cab, but the street was deserted. I walked the seven blocks back to my house. Once there I locked up for the night and went upstairs. I debated a fire in the fireplace but decided against it. That would only remind me I had no one to share it with. If Farrell was here . . .

  No. That one was trouble. A car thief that packed heat? What would she do if she were pulled over? Run of course, but if she was caught. Shoot it out with the cops over a $500 boosted car? Nothing but trouble. Not to mention her little friend Max carrying that big .45 like he knew how to use it. No, best to steer clear. There would be time for women in the islands. Tanned ladies in skimpy bathing suits drinking too much rum punch. I focused my attention on that visual and tried to burn out the rest.

  I stared at the blank TV screen and thought about turning it on. I didn’t know what I wanted other than out of the city for a while. The brandy decanter looked promising. Maybe a small one just to take the pain out of my arm.

  I drank more than one. That’s a hazard when you buy expensive booze, it tastes too good. I fell asleep on the couch with the lights on.

  Chapter 21

  I awoke to a ringing phone. It was time to have my cell number changed again, too many people had it. It was Gael, and she wanted to meet. I looked at my Rolex; it was just past two in the pm. She suggested Rosie’s Coffee Shop.

  Rosie’s had been started by a hippie years and years ago. The regalia of that bygone era still covered the walls. Psychedelic posters, bent and frayed at the edges, covered the walls. If you could ignore the beaded curtains, the smell of coffee was a good one.

  As per her routine Gael was waiting for me at a table, a cup of Java in front of her. I sat down and waved at the waitress, a girl with pink and purple hair with more earrings in her ears than I could count. I ordered a cup, and the punker girl disappeared.

  “And I have this distinct pleasure because?” I asked.

  “We have your pair in custody but can’t hold them for long.”

  “Have they made phone calls?”

  “To lawyers. With what we have, suspicion of murder, the lawyers will spring them before long.”

  “I need a day, can you hold them that long?”

  “A day?”

  “Yes, my dear, a day. Longer if you can arrange it.”

  “If you wanted to make a statement, Poet, saying they confessed or something, that would be something.”

  “Not going to happen Gael.”

  “Dammit, we have nothing to hold them on. You know about forensics and shotguns. We have nothing.” said Gael.

  “Gael, these guys were hired out of Atlanta, and that’s where I’m headed. I don’t need these guys calling their boss and ratting me out while I’m there,” I said.

  Gael stirred her coffee and took a sip. She liked it nearly white and very sweet. I, on the other hand, was trying to like it just the way it was.

  “There’s no way these guys didn’t leave any fibers in that stolen car,” I said, “They’re not brain surgeons.”

  “True.”

  “See if the techs can find anything,’ I offered. It was a long-shot.

  Gael agreed.

  We both drank our coffee.

  I didn’t tell Gael that our pair of murders wouldn’t get more than a block from the station before they disappeared, forever. I’d have to make a phone call when I was done here.

  “I’ll do the best I can do, okay? Wait a minute. What’s that look in your eye? Why are you smiling?” she asked.

  I always thought Gael was psychic. Precognition and police work are often hand-in-hand.

  She’d given me the bad news, and there was little left to say. We didn’t talk about our families or lack thereof. There wasn’t much time for small talk. Our business was concluded, and so was the conversation. I signaled the waitress and paid the check. In parting, Gael promised to do what she could. I got ready to go to Atlanta.

  Chapter 22

  Just before three o’clock, I climbed into my Jeep Cherokee with change for the tollbooths, hot coffee and a sawed-off shotgun. I was thirty-something, white, reasonably sober and in no mood to be trifled with. The computer had told me the trip would take 14.5 odd hours; I hoped to beat that just for the sake of it.

  I gassed up and remembered how much I hated trying to get out of the city in an auto. It was a pain in the ass. Sometimes I thought about leaving a car parked in Jersey just to avoid the tunnels and bridges. I found the Holland Tunnel and started my journey.

  Before I left, I made two phone calls. One to Harry, my man on the street. He would get word to Bill Jenkins inside Rikers that I wouldn’t appear until Wednesday. Whatever hold Bill thought he had over me I didn’t want him to try to use it. The other call was to Carmine Lagusa. He wasn’t especially happy to hear from me and showed it. I tossed some business his way, Pete and Al, the pair that had shot up my arm. He seemed happy to comply. For what I wanted it would cost, he told me. Five grand each. I thought of the ten grand I just put in my vault. Easy come, easy go.

  Carmine was also able to give me a number for the mysterious Gimble in Atlanta. I guess thugs keep a Rolodex too because after keeping me on hold for a minute or two he gave me a phone number. He promised my two problems would disappear down a hole. I was pleased.

  I stopped near Baltimore to heed the call of nature and buy more coffee. What I wanted was a beer, cold and sweet, to take the edge off my anxiety. I hadn’t decided how to handle Gimble. I could pose as a potential client and arrange a meeting. That seemed most likely. Or, I could bust into his place, facing God knows what, and try to be the tough guy. I didn’t have a gang with me, so that seemed out.

  After apiece I found myself on I-85 south and let the rolling blacktop soothe me into a near trance. The coffee was gone, and I was keyed up and didn’t feel like another. I sipped on a bottle of water and cursed Bill Jenkins. If I was a PI, I could be billing him $200 an hour plus expenses for this little adventure. Maybe I could consider a career change? No. I liked the money rolling in, not in dribs and drabs.

  I found Atlanta’s airport and the local Hilton. I took a suite and went up. I clocked fifteen hours behind the wheel. It was just past 6 a.m. I showered, ordered a room service breakfast and relaxed. I doused the coffee from my flask and savored it. It was hotel coffee, but I couldn’t be choosy. I finished the eggs and bacon and put the tray in the hall. I hung out the do not disturb sign and left a wake-up call for 8 pm.

  I hit the sheets and dreamed of Amber the moment she was deflated by the shotgun blast. It played back and forth in slow motion again and again. I woke up in a cold sweat. I had done all I could for Amber: Her killers would be punished. But in this, she was only a piece in the puzzle. The phone next to the bed buzzed, and I grabbed it up, my wake up call. I ordered another pot of coffee from room service and showered again. I drank the coffee sans brandy and got ready for the night ahead. I pulled the Browning from under my pillow and checked it. I remembered the phone number Carmine had given me and called it.

  It seemed to ring forever. After fifteen rings a bored voice answered. “Yes?”

  “I’m looking for Gimble,” I said.

  “You found him. What you want?” he asked. The voice was raw, like gravel.

  “I need some out of town talent for a job in Jersey City,” I lied.

  “And how do I know you?”

  “Pete mentioned you to me. He was in NYC on a job.”
>
  There was silence for a moment. I could hear heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. The voice finally spoke again, “Meet me later tonight.”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “You heard me. Long-term parking, top level at the airport. Midnight,” I said.

  Again, heavy breathing.

  “Listen,” I said, “I can take my business to another contractor. It’s my way or the highway.”

  “It goes against my better judgment, but I’ll meet with you. This better be a sweet deal.”

  “I’m looking for a long-term relationship. If this works out - who knows,” I said.

  We both hung up, and I drank some more coffee. I flipped on the TV and lost myself for a couple of hours before it was time to go. I dressed in my usual black and looked over the rooms. They were in good shape. I paid my bill and left.

  I was still a wanted man in Atlanta thanks to a job involving a Brinks truck and some bearer bonds. I felt a little vulnerable. That had been eight months ago, and unless the composite of me was featured on America’s Most Wanted, I was pretty safe. For that job I had gained forty pounds, had a beard and mustache and walked with a limp. I wasn’t the same person now, but that didn’t matter if you have some overzealous cop or citizen who could see through disguises.

  I went to the long-term parking lot and parked in the first spot I found. I walked the remainder of the way to the top level. There were no cameras, which was good. I didn’t want some rent-a-cop to come running when he saw what was happening. I found a Nissan coupe, popped the lock and settled into the driver's seat. It was 12:35 by the dashboard clock when the green Ford Explorer rolled in. It stopped in the center of the main laneway. I got out of the car and stood in the Ford’s headlights. I couldn’t make out how many people were in the car; I was blinded by the high beams. The passenger door opened and someone climbed out. The shape crossed one of the headlights and stood in the center of the truck. It lit a cigarette. I walked forward.