Shank

by Robert J. Krog

  Chapter 1

  Ingratitude

  In early February, there was a furor in the local media about the councilman’s sudden death from a heart attack. He was middle-aged and a bit overweight, with heart and liver issues. It was unexpected, but not inexplicable. Shaw heard about it on the news one morning just before he received a phone call from Ginger.

  “Oh, my God, Tony, you killed him?” Her voice was high pitched and nervous, which was not that unusual in his brief experience concerning her.

  “Ginger? What are you talking about?”

  “He’s dead. Councilman Strauss is dead.” The note of accusation in her voice amused him.

  “Oh, my. I’ll need to let my client know. This changes the whole field. It’s wide open.”

  “Did you have him killed? Did I help you murder someone?”

  “Ginger, didn’t we just discuss the other day how bad his health was?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then why are you asking me if I had anything to do with it? I’m a political strategist, not a shooter.”

  “But I don’t want to be part of anything like that.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Yes, Ginger, I am.”

  “I could tell people, you know. If I thought you had anything to do with it, I could tell people.”

  “Feel free to voice your concerns, Ginger, by all means.”

  Suspicion crept into her voice, lowering it several octaves below the original notes. “You wouldn’t be concerned if I told people?”

  “No, I wouldn’t be.”

  “But you paid me to break laws to give you that information.”

  “And you broke laws to get it for me, true.”

  “You could go to jail,” she said slowly.

  “Maybe. I have good lawyers, though. Do you?”

  “Well, maybe I’m cheaper to pay off than good lawyers.”

  “Maybe, but if you really think I have people killed, do you think you’re cheaper than a shooter?” He laughed.

  “Cheaper than a shooter?”

  “Yeah, but look. I like you. I’d never have anyone shoot or poison you, even if I was the sort to do that. I’m just pointing out the flaw in your thinking. Do you really want to threaten someone you think is willing to have people killed?”

  “Never mind.”

  “Okay then. Say, you wouldn’t want to get together again, would you?”

  There was a pause, after which she said, “My boyfriend and I are getting along great. I think I’d better behave.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep, gotta go. Sorry I accused you.”

  “Think nothing of it.”

  After she hung up, he set the phone down, chuckling. He turned the TV off, satisfied with the news report and not interested any further in local or national affairs. He settled down to clean his guns, taking them out of his safe one at a time to go over them thoroughly.

  He received a call a brief time later from Brenda.

  “Hey, Shaw. The client called and actually asked for a refund. Can you believe that shit?”

  “Really? Why?”

  “He said since the councilman died of natural causes…”

  He laughed. “Is this a case of a politician buying his own narrative?”

  “I guess. Anyway, he asked for proof.”

  “I assume you told him no.”

  “I did, but then I checked with a guy in legal. He’s not sure, but we might have to give some evidence to the client. It’s a hazy area that doesn’t come up often.”

  Shaw laughed again. “He asked for a guy to be killed. The guy dies within a reasonable period of time, which was stipulated in the contract, by a means that appeared natural, also as stipulated in the contract, and then he says we didn’t do it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Some people are hard to please.”

  “I think he’s just trying to be cheap.”

  “Does he realize that if he takes it to court in a lawsuit, he risks it getting out that he hired us? That’s not very bright. We don’t have to say what he hired us for, but the media will put it together and go after him.”

  “It’s not very bright, but what can you give me for legal?” She sounded resigned.

  “I was in Councilman Strauss’ house and can describe the décor at the time I was there. I found his medicine bottle and added medicine he didn’t need to his pills. I can tell him how many medicine bottles were there. I can also tell him what Strauss’ wife looks like in the shower. Frankly, I think the best thing for you to do is to let the candidate know, if he takes us to court over this, he risks it getting out that he hired us at all, and he should be grateful and keep his mouth shut.”

  “You’re probably right. Could you type all that up and send it to me, just in case?”

  “I can, of course.”

  “Thanks.”

  Chapter 2

  Delivery Pizza

  Jonesy ordered a supreme pizza from Garibaldi’s and sat, doing nothing, in his new recliner. The chair already felt old. The new one-bedroom apartment felt old. He looked around the place that had given him so much satisfaction just a few weeks ago. When had everything turned to gray in his vision and to chalk in his mouth? The walls were a bright, cheery yellow. He’d bought a king-sized bed and had rolled many girls in it since his first payoff from Gorley for staying quiet about the Cat. Most of the girls had been paid for, and the money had been well spent, as far as he was concerned.

  “Jesse isn’t due here until 9:00 p.m.,” he said aloud to himself, then glanced into the kitchen and looked at the clock on the microwave. It was 2:45 p.m. “That’s a lot of time to kill.”

  Since he’d dropped out of classes at the University of Memphis, he’d discovered he could get bored of video games. It had a taken a couple of months, but it had happened. He’d watched every movie and show he’d had even the slightest interest in on three streaming services. Pretty early on, he’d started hiring call girls and prostitutes, and that was still fun, but it was expensive.

  Jesse, his favorite, a leggy blonde with a bosom that just barely stopped when it should, was really good at everything he liked in bed. She had no inhibitions. He sat in his recliner, thinking about her. After a moment’s indulgence, he snapped the recliner closed and decided to go for a walk. “When the hell was the last time I went outside?”

  The thought of going out was enticing, suddenly, but he paused. Gorley had kind of threatened him yesterday when he’d demanded more cash. What had he said?

  “I tried to be nice to you for old time’s sake, but you’re taking advantage of me. Get a job.”

  Jonesy had said, “You shouldn’t have paid anybody but me, dipshit. You should’ve known I’d never have a partner.”

  “You’d better watch it, Jonesy. Do you want to live the rest of your life looking over your shoulder all the time? Leave me alone.”

  “I want a $100,000 delivered to my account by midnight tomorrow or I call the Egyptian Embassy.”

  Gorley had hung up then.

  Jonesy mulled over the tone of his voice. He’d sounded a little shaky. Was that fear or anger at work in his old classmate? A little of both, perhaps. I might have been. What had he meant by “looking over your shoulder?”

  He laughed. He couldn’t believe Gorley would hunt him down with a baseball bat or anything. That wasn’t the sort of thing rich guys did. He reached for the door, then paused with his hand on the knob. No, rich guys didn’t do their own dirty work, they hired people to do it for them.

  “What would I have done in his place? I’d have hired a shooter, like I did when Clark wouldn’t go along with my plan. That poor bastard. Poor Clark. He shouldn’t have tried to be so upright.”

  When had he started talking to himself out loud so much?

  “Man, I’ve been alone too much. I wish it was nine already.”

  But what to do about the stir crazies just t
hen? He peeked out the window by the door, just lifting one slat of the blinds covering it. He didn’t see anyone out of the ordinary on the street one story down. The sun was shining, and it was a warm day for February. His car, an Outback, was sitting by the sidewalk, awaiting him. A scruffy looking guy was walking a dog. Mrs. Jenkins, directly across the way, was watering the bright red and yellow flowers in the planter on her second-floor balcony. He started to sweat, though. The memory of Shank stepping out of the shadows and shooting Clark neatly in the head came back to him. The recollection came to him vividly, the blood pooling on the plastic sheeting, the glow of the lights from the chicken joint, the fresh ache of his cuts and bruises from the beating Clark had given him. “Hell, yeah, I’m glad he got shot in the head.” He grinned. “Don’t cross me, assholes.”

  The next thought was less pleasant. “What if Gorley hires a shooter like ol’ Shank to do me in?”

  He stepped away from the window. He’d bought a gun after he’d been carjacked. It was a Glock 9mm. He’d taken it to the range twice and gotten familiar with it. He retrieved it from where he’d had it hidden in a kitchen drawer. He checked it, pulled the slide back too far, and blinked as the cartridge shot out onto the tile and rolled away.

  “Shit.”

  He bent and searched for it. It was dirtier on the floor than he’d realized, and he wondered if he should hire a cleaning service. The cartridge was hard to find, but eventually his seeking hand came upon it under a cabinet by the open dishwasher. He pulled it out, along with a goodly amount of gray, sticky cobweb.

  “Shit.”

  It washed up well enough in the sink. Looking around, he wondered where he’d put the pistol. It wasn’t on the floor or the counters, nor was it in the sink.

  “What the shit? If a shooter kicked the door open right now, I couldn’t even try to protect myself. I gotta get my head on straight, like Clark used to say. Shit.”

  There it was. He’d absently set it in the top rack of the dishwasher while searching for the cartridge. More carefully, he pulled the slide back and laughed ruefully. Of course, there was another bullet chambered. He fumbled around with the safety and the slide release before finally figuring out that the squarish button behind the trigger released the magazine. It took a little more fumbling with fingers unused to the operation to force the cartridge back into the magazine, but there it was. It was done.

  “Okay, I have a handgun if an assassin shows up at my door. There.” He was about to tuck it into his waistband when there was a knock on the door. He blinked and jumped, heart suddenly racing. He stared at the door. His stomach rumbled then.

  “Fine time to be hungry. Where’s my pizza? Oh, yeah!” Grabbing his wallet, he headed to the door. There was another knock, ratta tat tatting, louder than before. “I’m coming, hold on.”

  “Garibaldi’s!” a voice shouted outside the door.

  He yanked it open, gun in one hand, wallet in the other. Mildly, the bearded, sunglasses-wearing pizza guy looked up from the slip of paper in his hand and asked, “Mr. Fredericks?”

  “That’s me.”

  “Jonesy Fredericks?”

  “Yep, whatta I owe you?”

  “Mr. Gorley sends his regards, pal.” The pizza box fell to the welcome mat as the pizza guy produced a handgun from a chest holster.

  Jonesy raised the gun already in his hand and fired once. The bullet took the bearded man in the face, and he fell back, dropping his pistol and screaming. Jonesy fired a second time at the staggering man, who’d reached the edge of the landing, and he tumbled backward down the stairs to the middle landing and stopped moving or making a sound. Blood flowed from the man’s face and chest.

  In his doorway, Jonesy felt the rush of adrenaline. There was a ringing in his ears. He took a deep breath and lowered his Glock.

  “Oh, wow,” he said. “Oh, wow.”

  The door next to his opened and his neighbor, Jeff, looked out. “Are you setting off fireworks?” he asked, only taking in the scene after a moment. His eyes widened under a disheveled shock of brown hair.

  “That asshole tried to kill me,” Jonesy stated with a grin. “I had to shoot him.” He pointed at the dead man and then at the pistol on the pizza box on his mat.

  “Oh, my God,” Jeff said, shutting the door fast.

  Jonesy took a good look at the pizza guy, double checking that he was no longer a threat. Was he still breathing? Maybe.

  “What now? Guess I call 911, right? Right.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and told it to dial the emergency number. It rang, and he was put on hold immediately. He stood there on his doorstep, feeling hungry. A minute later, an operator came on.

  “Nine-one-one, please state the nature of your emergency.”

  “A pizza delivery guy just tried to kill me, and I had to shoot him. I’m not sure if he’s dead or not.”

  It took a moment to get the facts straight. He had trouble remembering his own address in his giddy excitement and had to knock on Jeff’s door to get it right. Police and an ambulance were shortly on the way. He sat down on the top step, put his Glock on the landing beside him, reached back, pulled the pizza box over, chose the largest piece of supreme he could find, and took a hugely satisfying bite. He was on his third piece when the ambulance and MPD patrol drove up, sirens blaring, lights blazing, in front of his apartment. He downed the last bit, licked his fingers for the flavorful sauce, and grinned like the badass he felt like. It wasn’t illegal to hire a shooter, and it wasn’t illegal to defend yourself, either. He pulled a fourth slice out of the box and waved at the officer who was cautiously climbing the stairs.

  “Keep those hands up and away from your weapon, sir,” the officer ordered.

  “Sure thing. Hey, want a slice of pizza?”

  The policeman shook his head and kept his service pistol trained on Jonesy as he checked the shooter for a pulse.

  “This man is dead, son. He bled out while you sat there eating pizza.”

  “Better him than me,” Jonesy said, elated.

  “I need you keep your hands up, stand up, and turn to face that wall. If this is self-defense, like you claim, there’ll be no issue. Please cooperate.”

  Jonesy did as the man asked.

  Two more police cars wailed up the street toward them. Every eye on the block was on Jonesy. He’d never felt so alive.

  “Yeah,” he said, facing the wall, grinning at it. “Hell, yeah.”

  Chapter 3

  Revelation of Betrayal

  It was ashes she put in her mouth rather than bacon and eggs. It looked like bacon and eggs, but it tasted of ashes. Everything she’d put in her mouth since that day in December when George had been murdered had been like that. She had to eat. The boys needed her. Her mother needed her. It would be a sin to give in and starve herself, but it was hard to eat. She looked at the bite on her fork in disgust, and at the bloody hand that held it. Mechanically, she completed the motion, and stuffed the ashes in her mouth to chew them up and swallow them, bitter as they were.

  “Augusta?” She neatly cut another piece off her poached egg, her bloody hand working efficiently and grotesquely.

  “Augusta?” The voice finally registered. She looked up. It was her mother, weary, worried, sad, yet there for her, a rock. “You should get the boys to their appointment, and then to school. You have five minutes maybe, if traffic isn’t bad down Germantown Parkway.”

  “Of course, you’re right.” She ate the rest of her ashes quickly and rose, washing her bloody hands in the sink and drying her bloody hands with the towel hanging from the hook on the side of the cabinet.

  “I’ll be back shortly,” she said, patting her mother on the shoulder with her still bloody hands.

  “Don’t you have to be at the board meeting today?”

  “Right, of course.”

  She hadn’t remembered that at all. She’d been planning to return home and lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, until her alarm went off at 2:30, indicating it
was close to time to pick the boys up from school. She grabbed her purse and a jacket and called to the boys to get in the car.

  It’s not real, she reminded herself every few minutes as she studiously kept her eyes on the road and traffic. George’s blood on her hands, the little fragments of skull and scalp with his hair on them, weren’t really there.

  The boys were talking twice a week to a grief counselor recommended by Father Carl. She got them there at 8:15 and waited in the lobby, pretending to read a book. She’d been reading it before George had been killed and had been enjoying it. The Artifice Conspiracy was the title. All the pleasure had leaked out of its blameless binding, the way George’s blood had seeped from his head. She’d promised the author she’d read it and leave a rating and review online. She doubted she’d ever be able to do it, but she wanted to try. She read the same page six times before giving up and staring out the window. George’s blood kept staining the paper.

  The boys’ sessions with the doctor ended at 9:00, and, after a brief word with him, she was on her way, dropping them off at St. Francis by 9:20. She drove to the office and was there by 9:40, unable to drive any slower than that.

  George had designed the building. It was a lovely example of architecture, red and gray stone, a little bit Gothic, very solid, very elegant, with a courtyard and a central tower. George’s office had been in the tower. The boardroom was on the second floor of the right wing. She went in, pausing long enough to say hello to Margaret, then stopping at the desk of Helen, the executive assistant, who gave her the agenda for the meeting. Augusta smiled, exchanged pleasantries, and went upstairs reluctantly to the boardroom, where Luke, Tom, and Eric—the CFO—were awaiting her. The whole regular board was present once she walked in. If they needed a tie breaker, they’d bring Helen in.

  Luke, one arm still in a sling from his tumble down the stairs the night George had been shot, jumped up and hurried around the table.

  “Good morning, Augusta. Allow me.” He pulled her chair back for her. She managed a smile she didn’t feel and sat. Luke, despite being a wreck himself since waking up in the hospital, only to hear of his brother’s death, had been solicitous of her needs since the funeral.