Last Call

by Matthew Nunes

***

  “I don’t like it,” said Larry, when I finished.

  “I’m not going to hang around, waiting for him to have his shot at my daughter.” We were sitting in my kitchen, drinking coffee and eating brownies, and speaking softly. Phil was only picking at his.

  “Could be entrapment,” he said.

  “Nope. We’re not trying to get him to do anything criminal. I’m trying to give him something, and get him to stop harassing me. I just want to talk to him. I’ll sign an affidavit to that effect.”

  “Just setting up a meeting?”

  “Right.”

  “And we’ll be there just to provide any protection that might be required,” said Phil. “Does it matter that I really like them for the Congressman’s murder?”

  “No, it doesn’t. They’re suspects, because they stand to gain, I guess. I don’t think they did it, but if you do, I trust your instincts.”

  “So why the news guy?” asked Larry.

  “So that little prick doesn’t make it to Congress. You saw those tapes.”

  “Smells like a set up to me,” said Larry.

  “And that’s a problem? I fill out a report about the harassment; I set up the meeting with Jason and request police protection. The media happens to be there. “

  “And then what happens?”

  “I can’t predict it. I can only provide the situation, and let it play out.”

  “Still smells, Paul.”

  “So you won’t do it?”

  He leaned over and whispered to Lacombe. It went back and forth a couple of times. “We’ll do it. If nothing else, we get leverage.”

  I drafted the affidavit, laying out the plan, the need for police protection and read it before I typed it out, printing it from my computer. We all signed it, me as the party, and them as witnesses. There were three copies, all signed as originals, and they each slipped one into their pockets. “By the way, Larry, who rented the car that was following me?”

  “Oh, yeah, I knew I forgot something.”

  “So, who was it?”

  “The Morley’s go-fer, Adam Birch.”

  “Still think I should let it go?”

  “Yup.”

  “Would you?”

  He ignored the question. Phil handed me a cell phone. “It’s programmed to page both Larry and me. Set the meeting as we agreed, and page us with the time. If it has to change, call and let us know where and when. It’ll get either of us or both anytime.”

  “See you around, Phil.”

  They left, driving their crappy looking Ford. It was late, so I decided not to bother with trying for some sleep until after Marisol left for school. I didn’t want to miss her leaving. I sat down in front of the TV and pushed an old video in. When Marisol was three, her mother and I had taken her to Disney World. I’d rented a huge video camera, and Isabel had laughed at me dragging it around with us.

  My wife’s face and voice poured off the screen and my little girl smiled out at me. She stared in wonder at the characters and the rides. The tape ended with Marisol asleep on my chest while I snored, to Isabel’s soft narration. The screen went blue and I turned it off.

  I went to the kitchen table, and got out my cleaning kit. I cleaned and tested my Beretta, all of the magazines and checked each cartridge. I polished the loading ramp, to make sure it had no nicks to catch and jam. I took it all to my room and changed into a pair of jeans, deck shoes without socks and a tee shirt. I pulled a windbreaker from the closet, to cover the gun.

  When Marisol got up, I told her about her visit to Mrs. Pina’s sister-in-law. I’d expected lots of questions and arguments. She didn’t disappoint me, but gave in. I packed her an overnight bag, and gave her a note, excusing her from school until Thursday. Mrs. Pina would pick up the bag right after ‘Sol left for school. Our hugs and kisses were longer than usual, and she didn’t complain. When her bus left, I followed it to school, dropping back, and pulling up close at times.

  Chapter 22

  The message light was blinking. One message. It started with a phone number, and the two-word message, “Call back.” It was Jason Morley’s voice. I hoped that my phone was still tapped.

  “Okay, smart guy, I guess you didn’t get the message.”

  “Hello, there Jason, nice to talk to you again.”

  “I figured you’d back the fuck off.”

  “Thank you for your concern, but I assume that there’s something you want?”

  “I want all of the tapes and any other recordings you have. I want you to shut the fuck up. I want you to leave me and my family the fuck alone.”

  “It’s good to hear your lyrical wit, I can understand why politics is your calling. If you want the tapes, you’re going to have to give me some sort of guarantee that you’ll be out of my life, my family’s life, and the lives of anyone I care about. It has to be a guarantee that I’ll believe, and it has to be one that will screw you up if you break it.”

  “I know where your daughter is.”

  Oh, no you don’t, asshole.

  “Here’s what I know, Jason. I know you had Adam tail me from work; he really needs to work on his skills. I know that you need the tapes back. I know that you want to follow in Daddy’s footsteps, and you have to have all of your little piles of shit cleaned up before Petersen pukes up everything he knows. I want peace of mind; you want peace of mind. I don’t give a shit if you run for Congress. I don’t give a shit if you win. I just want you off of my radar screen and you want me off of yours. See that, Jason? We have a commonality of interest here. A confluence of needs, if you will.”

  “So how do we make the deal?”

  “We meet. I give you a video, and you give me your guarantee. Think hard about that guarantee, Jason. If I believe it, I’ll send you the originals of the recordings from Daddy’s little treasure trove. One for each month I’m left alone. At some point, you and I will have developed a level of trust. I’ll send you proof that all of crap has been destroyed, or I will send them to you for destruction. Unless you didn’t learn a lesson from the old man.”

  “No fucking way.”

  “Then I send the tape I have to a certain TV personality, and you get to answer some hard questions. Then you get to answer even harder ones. After that, it’ll get worse. I take my chances with you and your little organ grinder’s monkey, or whomever you hired to do your daddy in.”

  “Fuck you! I didn’t kill my father, asshole. You’re all fucked up. You come after me for that and your head will be so far up your ass, you’ll never see daylight. I’m thinking that if you want to play rough though, your little girl is sweet and might be fun, if you know what I mean.”

  “Then all bets are off.” I was straining to keep my voice level. “You have a perfectly reasonable offer on the table. If you didn’t kill your father, fine. Whoever did will either get caught or won’t. Personally, that isn’t important to me, since the cops know I didn’t do it.”

  “What about that bitch down in DC, the TV slut?”

  “Can’t solve that one for you. You need to fix your problems one at a time.”

  “She gave you some information.”

  “Right now, I’m your problem.”

  “Where and when?”

  “You, alone, at Quonset Point. Park at the Seabee movie theater at nine o’clock, tonight. Wait for me there.”

  “I don’t like what that does for my security.”

  “It won’t be full dark, and I really don’t give much of a rat’s ass what you like, since we’re being so frank.”

  “Bring the flashdrive, asshole.”

  “Bring your guarantee, Jason.”

  He won the race to hang up first. I pulled the cell phone from my pocket and hit the keys to page Lacombe and DaSilva.

  I made a call to Bill Latronica. He agreed to show up with a camera, some night vision equipment and a nondescript vehicle instead of the usual van. I told him where to set up, and how far away it would be.

  “This had better be
good, Paul.”

  “I can’t tell you what’s going to happen, for sure, but I think there’ll be something interesting, and if you bring the mike that you use for football games, you should hear a few things. Be there by seven, and make sure you’re well undercover. I’d suggest a truck that looks like a freight delivery. The loading dock faces the theater and should give a pretty good view.”

  “See you, there, Paul.” I hung up and the phone rang almost immediately. I hadn’t taken more than a step when I turned and picked it up.

  “Paul? Larry. We’ll be there early, just Phil and me. No one else knows, no leaks, it’s set.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t look for us, okay?”

  “I’m not the Newport village idiot, either.”

  “No, but it’s been awhile for you.”

  “It’s like riding a bike, they say.”

  “Yeah. Listen, just like we talked about, okay? Don’t push him, just let it flow as if it’s a real deal.”

  “Larry, if it looks like he really wants to deal, I go through with it. You’ll be on your own for any criminal stuff that you want to make stick to him.”

  “All kinds of stuff I can do there, but it would be nice to catch him trying to tamper with evidence and show that ‘Consciousness of guilt’ you shysters love to throw around at the end of a trial. It gets him into a cell, and off the ballot, too. Sure you want to do it?”

  “I’m sure I don’t. I have to, though.”

  “Phil has a saying when we have to go through a door. He says, ‘Let’s just fuck ‘em where they breathe.’”

  “He’s a poet.”

  “Just keep your head and do what we talked about, and we’ll fuck ‘em where they breathe.”

  “I’m on my way,” I said, as if I was eager.

  “So are we.”

  We hung up and I got into my car. I paused to look back at my house. The lawn did need to be mowed, and the trim needed paint. I wanted nothing more than to get to work on it. Instead, I pulled out and headed north, then east.

  ***

  In its day, Quonset Point had been a sizable base, with Seabees and a naval air contingent. They could dock an aircraft carrier. It had been converted to civilian occupations. The airfield was part public and part Air Guard. Most of the existing buildings housed small to medium businesses except for a submarine builder, a company that built oil barges and a few others.

  I parked at a daycare center, looking out at a sculpture of a huge Seabee, the tommy-gun-toting bumblebee with tools held in the other four legs and a sailor’s hat on a ferocious but cute head. I opened a thermos of coffee, and looked at my watch. It was eight o’clock and my car was in deep shadow. The cell phone played a merry little tune I couldn’t name, and I fumbled for the right little button to push so I could talk. “Yes?”

  “Lacombe. We’re in position. Where are you?”

  I told him.

  “Okay, we got it. You okay on the play?”

  “It’s fine. I got nice hot coffee, a comfy seat and a videocassette on the passenger seat. I have a nice view of the road.”

  “Betcha got a gun, too,” said Phil.

  “Did I forget to mention that?”

  He chuckled.

  “We’re gonna fuck ‘em where they breathe, Paul.” He hung up. Or clicked off, or whatever you do with a cell phone.

  I was scribbling on my legal pad, when I saw a car go by, moving slowly. I pushed the buttons on my cell phone and Larry answered, “Yeah?”

  “Light blue or maybe gray, medium sized sedan, Rhode Island plates, I think.”

  “Wait one.” There was silence for an eternity, probably less than three minutes in the real world.

  “Yup, got ‘em. He pulled into the theater lot, facing out. Lights are on, but it looks like two heads in the car.”

  “Adam?”

  “I’m guessing that it is.”

  “I’m moving, now, Larry.”

  “Hang up, we’ll be watching you. We’re close by.” I could feel my pulse coming up, and my toes bunching inside of my shoes. I had to force myself to click the cell phone off, and loosen my grip on it. I unsnapped the spare magazine pouches, and the thumb break strap on my holster, and made sure my jacket covered it.

  I pulled onto the road, bore left and headed for the theater. I passed signs for construction and demolition companies, electronics and other businesses. I looked at the speedometer and realized that I was barely moving. I got it up to a reasonable speed, until I reached the theater with the car parked next to it.

  I pulled up, facing them, leaving my lights on. Their doors were both opening.

  “I said ‘alone,’ Jason.”

  “I didn’t trust you, but it’s cool.”

  “I want you both out of the car, with your hands in plain sight.”

  They got out, holding their hands out to the side. “Turn in a complete circle and stay right where you are.”

  “Look, Costa, this is stupid. Let’s get the deal done.”

  “My guarantee?”

  “I’m running for fucking congress, for chrissake. You think I can afford to be going after a fucking bartender? Or his stupid kid? I need to be clean, and I need those tapes.”

  I thought about that. Who gives a shit if one more sociopath makes it into congress? “You are more dangerous to me, than I am to you,” he said.

  “And your father’s murderer?”

  “Look, go get him. I hope you catch him, or the cops do. I want that tape, and the promise that you’ll hold up your end of the deal.”

  I had the tape in my left hand, and started towards them. My right arm swung back as I walked and the Velcro on the sleeve caught the side pocket flap. It pulled my jacket open, and my gun was visible. I saw Adam reaching to the small of his back. I dropped the tape, reaching up and back, lunging to one side at the same time. I drew my gun and brought it up two handed, chest high, centering my body mass directly at Adam’s.

  “Freeze, freeze, freeze!” It was Phil Lacombe, coming from behind a dumpster, into the open. He had a gun up in a two handed grip, right in front of his face.

  “Phil, Shit!” and Larry was up and moving, with his gun out.

  “You lying prick!” yelled Jason Morley, reaching under his left arm. Adam spun towards Lacombe and DaSilva, swinging his gun up one handed. There were explosions from him, and from the dumpster, and I saw Jason bring his gun up, awkwardly gripping it two handed.

  There was fire from the dumpster towards me, and I stepped to my right. Phil and Larry were firing in my general direction from over there, so I kept sliding right. Things slowed down and got silent. It was familiar to me. When I boxed, I never heard a sound, and everything seemed to happen in some kind of dreamy slow motion.

  Without thought, my feet were planted shoulder width apart, left foot slightly ahead, both pointed at Jason. My gun was still at chest level, and I was pointing it at him, not aiming. I yelled at him to drop his gun. I couldn’t hear myself, and there was a perfectly round blossom of orange and blue and yellow. I was on one knee, and my left shoulder was hot. I brought my gun up to eye level, dropping the barrel’s line and sight onto Jason’s midsection, I saw him struggling to bring his pistol under control, and level it at me. I had no cover, and I started squeezing the trigger. Twice quickly, then again. Grouped pairs of double taps. I continued doing it until the slide locked open on an empty magazine. I never heard my gun, but I felt the recoil. I couldn’t get the magazine out of the pouch with my left hand. I ejected the empty and was fumbling right handed for a full one, when Larry walked up with his gun dangling at his side. “He’s gone, Paul.” My ears were ringing, and I could feel a burning and wetness at my left shoulder. I felt dizzy and nauseated.

  “Jason?”

  “Yeah, and Adam, and Phil.”

  “Phil?”

  “Yeah. Adam got him twice, once in his hip, and one in the chest. Phil got him on his way down. I might have hit Adam once, but I don’t think so. Phil�
��s dying and he’s still a better shot than me. Him and that stupid little fucking thirty-eight.” DaSilva’s voice was lifeless, but calm. “How bad, Paul?”

  “What?” I asked, absently.

  “You’re hit, upper left arm, how bad?”

  “Don’t know.” I was sleepy, and felt stupid. “Morley?”

  “At least five hits, three in the upper chest, probably all fatal, and a couple more that he might have survived. He’s dead.”

  I turned my head and vomited. There was just enough warning to turn away, but not enough to stop it. One second I was talking, the next I was throwing up.

  “Jesus Christ on a crutch!” It was Bill Latronica. “I called an ambulance and the North Kingstown cops are on their way. State Cops, too. I don’t think I forgot anyone. This is gonna be huge. I’m sorry about your partner, and we’ll make sure we don’t exploit it,” he couldn’t seem to stop talking. Not an abnormal reaction to what he’d seen, but I was tired and felt empty. I couldn’t form sentences, or find the strength to make him shut up.

  We set our guns on the hood of my car, and Larry got his badge out to wait. I was holding my left arm with my right. The pain felt good. I deserved to hurt.

  Chapter 23

  I’d been grazed just below my shoulder. The heat from the bullet had cauterized it, so the bleeding was minor. The EMT bandaged it, and they checked it out at the emergency room. A local and a couple of stitches after the doctor debrided it took care of it. “You’ll get some amazing bruising soon, but there are no fragments. Some muscle trauma, but no nerve damage. You’ll have an interesting scar.” He looked at me as if I was supposed to say something.

  “Thank you, Doctor.” I wasn’t feeling witty.

  DaSilva waited for me, and we rode to the barracks in East Greenwich, in separate State Police cars. I was relieved to be alone. I had nothing to say to a man who’d lost his friend. The sling on my left arm made it hard to balance, and getting out of the car was a trial. The young trooper steadied me gently and led me into a conference room.

  There was a TV with a VCR and DVD player on a rolling stand at one end. Bill Latronica was there, and he pushed a tape into the machine. “Thank you, Mr. Latronica, but we will require privacy from here on out.” Her voice was familiar, yet strange. Dana Kilroy was standing next to a State Police Lieutenant, and she looked beautiful, remote, and cool. There wasn’t a hint of warmth or welcome on her face or in her eyes.