Deadly Promise

by Brian Crawford

  “I still don’t think he’s a mobster. He rolled over too easily. He did insist I didn’t know the kind of guys he could call. Which, when you think about it, is true enough. I don’t know the kind of guys he can call. For all we know, those are Jehovah’s Witnesses behind us right now wanting to share the gospel.”

  Boyd chuckled. “I think they only come out on Saturdays.”

  I thought back to what Marino had said on the phone. About his problem being their boss’s problem. So who was the boss? And what was his relationship with Marino? Was it business or personal? I hoped it was personal. If the relationship was personal, then the mob boss sent his goons as a favor. Probably advised his men to see if they could scare off the men trying to repossess the horses. If it were business, if the mob boss had skin in the game, maybe if he were partially invested in the horses, then the men would do more than try to scare us into giving them back. If there was one thing I knew about organized crime, messing with their money meant war. The fact that the men had been following us for 45 minutes caused me to believe this wasn’t a personal matter.

  Great, more involvement with organized crime. As if I haven’t had enough of that in the last two years.

  “Are you gonna show me what this car can do, or not, L.T.?”

  “I can start bobbing and weaving if you’d like. That will let us test their resolve rather quickly.”

  Boyd answered me by pretending to check his seatbelt. The speed limit was 65, although no one seemed to be paying any attention to the limit, especially the vehicles in the fast lanes. I pushed the Supra to 80, at times 85 miles per hour as I weaved in and out of the slower vehicles. At first, it appeared they were giving up, or they weren’t up to the task. My hopes were dashed as I noticed the black Lincoln weaving in and out of traffic a hundred yards back.

  Boyd commented first. “Still there.”

  “I see them. It’s too bad these gangsters are driving a Mark VII instead of a big bulky Continental like Marino.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You remember that old song, ‘Hot Rod Lincoln?’ Well, it was a stupid song. Lincolns have always been big clumsy luxury cars. Until the Mark VII. That car has the same motor as the Mustang, and the suspension doesn’t totally suck.”

  “You know your cars, L.T.”

  “Like you know your guns, Boyd. Speaking of which.”

  “Surely, you weren’t getting ready to ask me if I’m carrying. You know guns are to me like an American Express card is to businessmen — I never leave home without it. Don’t you think we should try to lose them first? You know, instead of shooting out their tires or something.”

  “You paying the speeding ticket if I get pulled over?”

  “Out of my thirty grand? Sure.”

  We rode in relative silence for another ten minutes before Boyd spoke again. “I’m familiar with this part of the country, you know?”

  “I’ll bite. Why would an Alabama boy like you be familiar with central Missouri?”

  “Fort Leonard Wood is up ahead. I was there back in ‘79.”

  “Leonard Wood is Army. You’re a Marine. What were you doing there?”

  “All MPs train at the Maneuver Support Center, MANSCEN, regardless of branch. Except for you crazy squids and your Master-at-Arms bullshit. Texas for that, right?”

  “Yeah, that’s at Lackland.”

  “Lackland Air Force Base. Oh boy. You let the Air Force teach you guys how to be a military cop? And I thought we were stupid for letting the Army train us.”

  That’s how it was with Boyd and me, a constant friendly ribbing between two veterans of different military branches. It wasn’t unique among veterans, even if I liked to believe the relationship between Boyd and me was unique. Boyd and I fought together. We spilled blood together. I saved his life, and he saved mine. And I killed the SOBs who tried to kill us both. Afterward, it didn’t matter that I was a Naval officer and Boyd was an enlisted Marine Military Policeman. What mattered was we survived seemingly insurmountable odds together and came out the other side, scarred and forever changed, but alive.

  “Alright, Sergeant Bird Dog Dallas, since you know this part of the country, what do you recommend? Outrun them or lure them into an ambush and see how far they want to take this?”

  “As much as I’d like to shoot up some Yankee wiseguys, I say we outrun them. If they force us into gunplay with them, then they’ll end up dead. Next thing you know, more wiseguys show up to avenge the death of their friends. We have to kill more Yankee assholes, which means more guys show up again to avenge the second wave of deaths. Eventually, we’d end up on the Mob’s Ten Most Wanted List. That’s no life for a man like you. Someone who recently married a Russian supermodel.”

  “She not Russian. Or a supermodel.”

  “Maybe not, but when you passed her off as one last year, no one doubted your story.”

  Boyd liked to tease both of us about that incident. He often went so far as to call my wife “Katerina” as a joke. I waved my right hand at him in feigned irritation, telling him to knock it off. “The next question, Sarge, is do I do it here on the interstate or use a side road?”

  “L.T., I’ve changed my mind. There might be an easier way to lose them without driving a hundred miles an hour. Do you have your Veterans Health Identification Card?”

  “I do. What are you thinking?”

  “Let’s drive up to the gate at Fort Lost in the Woods, uh, I mean Fort Leonard Wood and see if they’ll let us through. If the Army lets us through, then we’ll drive out another gate and continue on our way. They won’t be able to follow us. Clean getaway, easy peasy, nice and easy.”

  “Boyd, that’s not a bad plan.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Boyd directed me off I-44 at Exit 161 onto Missouri Avenue, the main road heading into the Army base. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed the Lincoln was still tailing us.

  “The Main Gate is up ahead. There will be a visitor center on the left. Go there. It’s open 24/7.”

  The gate looked exactly like Boyd had remembered it. I pulled into the visitor center parking lot and stopped near the front door. Boyd and I exited the vehicle in time to see the black Lincoln pull into the parking lot and stop 50 feet away. For the first time, we acknowledged we were aware of their presence. The two men in front stared at us. We stared back. The third man in the back seat peeked around the passenger’s head and joined the stare down. It lasted for several seconds, with neither of us moving.

  “Enough of this bullshit,” I said, “I’m chasing them off right now.”

  I liked cops. I worked undercover pretending to be a Navy Master-at-Arms, the closest thing to a cop in the Navy. I used to help provide self-defense training for police officers in Huntsville, Alabama. I knew how cops thought, how they talked, how they walked. I started toward the Lincoln with my best cop walk, mimicking the bearing, the slow, cautious, confident walk of a patrol officer, the look of someone used to being in charge. Halfway across the parking lot, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my wallet holding it in my hand the way a police officer might hold a badge before showing it. That was enough for the men in the Lincoln; they sped across the parking lot to the other side exiting back onto Missouri Avenue heading north.

  I stood there watching them until the Lincoln was out of sight.

  “Bravo, bravo,” Boyd yelled. “Nice performance.”

  I turned around and bowed like an actor on a stage.

  “That was a very believable cop imitation you did there. When those boys get back to their boss, they’re gonna tell him off-duty cops repossessed Marino’s horses. Once again, nicely played. Now, let’s sit here until Ken and Rich page me so I can use the payphones in the visitor center.”

  ***

  The two cowboys paged us 30 minutes later to inform us they were stopping in Springfield, Missouri, to grab a late dinner and tend to the horses. We would meet them there in 90 minutes. We decided not to tell them about the black Lincoln. It
was late when we caught up to Ken and Rich. Boyd proposed spending the night in Springfield and finishing the rest of the trip to Dallas the next day. Everyone was in favor of that idea.

  The drive to Dallas was uneventful. We delivered the horses to Rutherford’s ranch outside the city the next evening. I couldn’t help but notice the relationship Boyd had with Rutherford. Kent Rutherford was the CEO of a Texas oil company. Sixty-one years old, a net worth of over 60 million, and he walked and talked like the kind of guy who gave someone orders and expected them to be carried out without an argument. He reminded me of some admirals and generals I’d met while in the Navy. His relationship with Boyd was noticeably different. Warmer. Almost friend-like. Definitely, one based on mutual respect. Rutherford didn’t hide his disappointment in getting the horses back instead of the money, but he readily accepted Boyd’s explanation for returning with the horses. He even had one of his men bring Boyd a cold beer while Ken and Rich unloaded the horses.

  After they had finished, Boyd paid Ken and Rich 5,000 dollars out of petty cash Rutherford kept at home and sent them on their way.

  “Did you see the grinnage on their faces,” Boyd said as the two men left for Illinois.

  “Did you just say grinnage?”

  “Yes, you got a problem with that?”

  “No, it’s a great word. I’m sure everyone will be using it soon,” I said facetiously. I held out my palm like a man waiting to get paid. “When do we get to put our grinnage on, Boyd?”

  “Tomorrow morning, once the banks open. In the meantime, what do you say we get a bite to eat and celebrate? Maybe I can talk you into a cold beer.”

  Boyd liked to tease me about my teetotaler ways. Just like he liked to call me Lieutenant Tofu because I insisted on eating several servings of vegetables a day. He said that’s what my initials L.T. meant to him.

  Boyd and I celebrated Wednesday evening at a nice steakhouse before getting some much-needed rest. The next morning, he met with Rutherford while I spent my time working out in the hotel gym. Boyd got back before I had finished and was waiting for me in our hotel room.

  “We’ve got a small hiccup,” he said with an apologetic look on his face.

  “Define hiccup.”

  “Rutherford can’t pay us until tomorrow.”

  “Why not today. He knew we were coming.”

  “His accountant already had a cashier’s check made out for 40,000, but Rutherford had agreed to 50,000 if we had to bring back the horses. Mr. Rutherford was extremely apologetic. Apparently, it’s a big deal to cancel a cashier’s check that big. Dinner is on him tonight. He recommended an even better steakhouse than the one last night.”

  “It sounds like he’s trying to pull a fast one, Boyd.”

  “Rutherford is good for it, I promise. He likes me. He even referred me another case for a friend of his.”

  “If you say so, but I still don’t like it. Maybe he’s trying to get back at me for threatening him last year.”

  “He’ll pay. I promise.”

  “He better.”

  Jessica wasn’t upset when I called to inform her I was spending another day in Texas. “It’s 25K, Legend, you spend as much time in Dallas with Boyd as you need to,” she said before telling me she missed me and she had a surprise for me when I got back.

  The steakhouse Rutherford recommended and paid for was one of the finest in Dallas. Very upscale. Grass-fed beef, steak cut an inch thick, perfectly seared, and the best salad bar I had ever seen. Steak and vegetables — my kind of place.

  The next morning, Boyd returned from meeting with Mr. Rutherford with a big grin on his face. He threw me an envelope. Inside was a cashier’s check for 25,000 dollars.

  “I told you to keep the extra 10,000 for yourself.”

  “And I told you I was gonna split it.”

  “It’s too much, Boyd. I can’t accept this.”

  “You can, and you will. You earned it.”

  “I beat up a guy and stuffed him in a trunk. I’m not sure if that’s earning it. Besides, you had the necessary paperwork to repossess those horses without me.”

  “I thought he was dirty, remember. I wasn’t sure how it might go down. Plus, watching you scare those pansy-ass gangsters away with the horrible cop imitation, well, that was worth 5,000.”

  I knew arguing with him was a waste of time. I took the check and thanked him. “Twenty-five thousand for repossessing horses. If we didn’t have to hit them over the head every time, it could be a pretty good gig. Are you sure you don’t want to ride back to Memphis with me? It should only take six hours to get there, and I know Jessica would love to see you. Maybe you two could go shooting together.”

  “I would if I could, brother, but I’m off to my next case. The one Rutherford lined up for me. I’ve already been working on it for three weeks. I took a break to help Rutherford with the horses. That’s partially why I needed your help; I needed to make sure it went down quickly. Besides, you have to work 12-hour shifts for the next three days.”

  “Three weeks; what’s the story?”

  “Sorry, big guy, I can’t share on this one. It’s a confidential client with a strong desire for secrecy. I’ll take a ride to the airport, though.”

  “You’re a busy man, Boyd.”

  “As busy as a three-dollar hooker when the Sailors are in town.”

  “You mean when the Marines are in town. Sailors have more discerning tastes; they hold out for the five-dollar gals.”

  “Except for submariners,” Boyd added. “You know what they say, ‘A hundred Sailors go down, fifty couples come up.”

  I drove Boyd to the Dallas/Fort Worth International Airport after lunch and sat with him while he waited for his flight to Chicago. I teased him about making sure he looked up Marino’s henchmen while there. Twenty minutes before his flight, Boyd’s pager went off. He looked at the number and smiled.

  “Good news?”

  “Sort of. Get going, L.T. I’ve kept you long enough. You have a beautiful wife at home who has a surprise for you.”

  I stood up to give my friend a parting hug. “Take care, Boyd.”

  “Helluva a way to make 25K, huh?”

  CHAPTER 5

  I played Boyd’s words over in my mind several times during the ride back to Memphis. Twenty-five grand in three days repossessing horses. As much as an engineer typically made in six months. More than I would make in the next couple of months as a doctor. Horse repo man — I didn’t remember seeing that on the job boards at school.

  Halfway home, it dawned on me Boyd mentioned my wife had a surprise for me, yet I had not mentioned anything to Boyd about a surprise. The extra day in Dallas waiting for payment, asking me to drive him to the airport, smiling when he received a page — Boyd and Jessica had conspired to keep me out of Memphis for an extra day. What are those two up to?

  I smiled as the familiar double arches of the picturesque Hernando de Soto Bridge spanning the mighty Mississippi River from Arkansas into Memphis came into view. Memphians called it the New Bridge, as opposed to the Old Bridge, which carried Interstate 55 over the river. The sense of smell is closely linked with memory. It is also highly emotive. The perfume industry is built around that connection. As I crossed the New Bridge, the smell of the river brought a flood of memories and emotions to the surface. Memphis had been my home for the last six years. I first moved there to start my three-year residency at Memphis Memorial Hospital. Upon finishing my residency, I took a job at the same hospital in the Emergency Department. I liked the job. It fit me.

  Unfortunately, trouble has a way of finding me sometimes. Approximately a year into my job in the ER, I spotted a man brandishing a gun inside the hospital. He intended to harm one of our doctors for turning him into Child Protective Services for possible child abuse. I stopped the man before he had a chance to harm anyone on our staff; however, he suffered injuries as a result of our altercation and later died from a blood clot in his lungs. The hospital did not like the publicity, or a
t least, the Chief of Medicine didn’t like it. Even with the Chief of Medicine taking a dislike to me, I might have been fine. Right up until I was involved in a deadly gun battle with members of the Dixie Mafia in Jessica’s hometown of Emmettsville, Tennessee a few weeks later. The hospital decided I wasn’t worth the trouble and terminated me.

  After losing my job and my girlfriend, Memphis no longer felt like home. I took jobs as a traveling ER doctor and spent less and less time in the city. Whatever love I had for the town was quickly disappearing. Until Jessica. She put a sparkle back in my life. She also thoroughly enjoyed Memphis. I owned two pieces of commercial real estate and a small real estate business I offered to let her take over as a joke once we got married. It had not been a joke to her. She jumped at the opportunity, quickly getting her contractor’s license and reaching out to local real estate agents to find her first project. Jessica made Memphis feel like home again. Running around with Boyd knocking guys over the head was fun and all, but I realized I missed my wife badly.

  I took the downtown exit off Interstate 40. Minutes later, feeling almost giddy, I pulled up to the apartment and parked on the street, purposefully avoiding the freight elevator, which would announce my arrival — I didn’t want her to be the only one with a surprise. I quietly opened the outside door to the interior stairwell and cautiously walked up the stairs. Opened the apartment door. Went inside. And stopped in my tracks. Something was wrong. All my stuff was missing. My furniture, my appliances, even my workout equipment. Not moved to a corner but gone. And there were too many walls in my apartment. Jessica had shown me the proposed floor plan for our apartment, and it was obvious someone was not following directions.

  Our phones were even gone. I was ready to walk downstairs in search of a payphone to page Jessica when I spotted a note taped to the wall outside our empty bedroom. There was an address written on the note in Jessica’s handwriting. She had signed it with a lipsticked kiss.

  What in the world is going on?