The Fall Guy

by Simon Wood

  “Ten grand is very generous, considering the situation,” Todd replied.

  “Yes, well, the money isn’t just for the vehicle.”

  “No?”

  “No. You’re going to have to do a job for me first.”

  “What job?”

  ***

  As mayors went, Lyle Moran was no Rudy Giuliani. Then again, Dumont was no New York City. Four thousand souls called Dumont home and the city clung to its incorporated status by its fingertips thanks to Moran. The town was so small, his mayoral status was a part-time position. Most of the city’s services were subbed out to county agencies. Moran earned an income from his hardware store and after a hard day’s graft from selling two by fours and chainsaws, Dumont’s residents could find their mayor at the Yellow Rose tavern. Despite this, Moran was a popular figure. He swapped near-the-knuckle jokes, slapped backs and on occasion, the behinds of women a decade beyond their prime and everyone loved him for it. Lyle Moran was the people’s man, albeit a good couple of steps out of stride with the big city world. Being Dumont’s mayor wasn’t a sign of civic duty but a popularity contest and Moran won hands down.

  Todd came up with this assessment after shadowing Moran for a day and a half in a pickup he'd gotten from Vandrel. He’d done a pretty good job fitting in. The unrelenting sun had darkened his skin and the absence of air-conditioning left a permanent shine of sweat. He disguised his stranger factor further by bunking down at Vandrel’s chop shop instead of checking into a motel. He’d even managed to mimic the local accent. It was far from perfect. People knew he wasn’t local but guessed he was from the vicinity. He wouldn’t have gone to all this effort if the job Vandrel had given him had been of the wham, bam, thank you ma’am variety.

  That was the easy part. The tough part was getting close enough to Moran to clean out his safe. Vandrel had been vague as to the reasons why he wanted Todd to rob Moran. Todd couldn’t see how this man was connected to Vandrel and he didn’t care too much either. He just wanted the ten grand Vandrel had promised him.

  Dusk was handing over the reins to night and the Yellow Rose had been well patronized since quitting time. Country western music leaked from an aging boom box. Two ceiling fans stirred the hot air, failing to cool it. But no one seemed to mind the heat as long as Grady, the Yellow Rose’s owner, kept supplying the beer.

  Todd had concealed himself in the shadows. He was on his third bottle of Bud Lite and cleaning the bottom of a chili bowl. He wouldn’t have credited Grady with the ability to come up with good Tex-Mex, but he pulled it off.

  He’d done enough surveillance. It was time to make contact. He drained the Bud and approached the bar. He stood behind Moran and the three other guys he was shooting the breeze with. There was a gap at the bar rail for him to stand at, but he wanted to be noticed.

  Moran, heavy from riding a barstool too often, felt Todd’s presence at his shoulder and turned. He wiped back his thick graying hair, which had slipped across his forehead. “Can I help you?”

  “No, I’m just after a replacement,” Todd said and held up his empty bottle.

  “I don’t know you, do I?”

  “No reason you should.”

  Grady acknowledged Todd’s request and reached for a replacement.

  “You could argue that I do have a reason.”

  “Why argue? It’s too hot to argue.”

  Moran liked that one and laughed. Moran’s drinking buddies laughed too.

  “You’re right. No reason to argue.”

  Grady handed over the beer to Todd. Todd reached for his wallet and fiddled with the bills.

  “I’ve got this,” Moran announced.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Todd countered.

  “I think it’s only fair that the mayor buy everyone in town a beer.”

  “You’re talking to the honorable Lyle Moran,” one of Moran’s buddies said.

  “You’re the mayor?”

  “Three terms and counting,” Moran said.

  “That’s very generous of you.”

  “Not really, that’s how I get re-elected.”

  “I like a politician who’s a straight shooter,” Todd said and held up his beer to Moran.

  This got another round of laughs from Moran and the boys.

  Moran swiveled on his barstool to face Todd full on. He smiled, but his cool stare examined Todd with snake-like intensity. “Now that we’ve established who I am, who are you?”

  Todd stuck a hand in Moran’s direction. “Todd Collins.”

  Todd shook hands with Moran. His drinking buddies introduced themselves as Charles “Chuck” Baker, Theo Masterson and J. G. Thorpe.

  “Am I buying Dumont’s latest voter a beer?”

  “Sadly, no, I’m just passing through.”

  “Then I’ve got a good mind to ask for that beer back,” Moran joked.

  Laughs came fast and easy after that. Todd fell into a rhythm with Moran and his buddies. After twenty minutes, he was parked on a barstool next to them. He trotted out his cover story he’d spent the day inventing and Moran and company bought it as gospel. It didn’t take long for Moran’s examining stare to recede. This gave Todd confidence to keep pushing with his cover story, but he kept it to the right side of cockiness. Moran might be on Todd’s side now, but his radar would be scanning for slipups.

  Last call came and Todd eased himself off his barstool. The combination of too much beer and heat that squeezed the sweat out of him left him lightheaded when he took his first steps.

  “Thanks for your hospitality and I hope our paths cross again,” he said.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Moran asked.

  “It’s closing time.”

  “For the unfavored,” Chuck remarked.

  “Do you play poker?” Moran asked.

  “Sure do.”

  “Then you’re welcome to join us.”

  While Grady closed up, Moran led everyone to a back room filled with cleaning products and a card table at its center. They settled into a five-handed game of stud poker. Todd feared these guys were scamming him, but after ten minutes, he realized that not even card sharks played this badly. Todd could have cleaned them out, but he wasn’t here for that. He followed their lead and lost enough hands to keep the game square.

  In some respects, this was a high-powered game. Chuck ran a real estate agency, although Todd couldn’t imagine he made much money at it in Dumont. J. G. doubled as the head of the Chamber of Commerce and owned a market on Main Street. Thorpe acted as city clerk while also being a practicing attorney. The game was an excuse to shoot the breeze. They talked about life and business. They probed Todd on his reasons for being in Dumont and he fed them more of his cover story about working his way back to Oklahoma.

  “Where were you looking to pick up work?” Moran asked, dealing fresh cards out for a new hand.

  “Dallas.”

  “Have you thought of staying on around here for a spell?”

  “No offense, but I’m not sure your town can spare it.”

  “Oh, you’d be surprised. We can rustle up something to put a young man to work. Can’t we, boys?”

  A chorus of approval followed.

  “If you’ve got work then I’m happy to do it—whatever it is.”

  “Good. Then come by the hardware store in the morning. Say nine?”

  Todd smiled. He’d hooked Moran. “Nine it is.”

  ***

  “You don’t look any worse for wear,” Moran said when Todd walked into Moran’s Hardware. “Youth is kind to the young.”

  Todd nodded, careful not to disturb the hangover skulking in the recesses of his skull. Moran could decry the virtues of youth, but he looked real sharp for someone who had put away the amount of booze that he had the previous night, not to mention that Moran’s Hardware had been open since seven. The guy couldn’t have had more than four hours sleep. Todd leaned against the checkout counter from where Moran piloted a cash register with no customer
s.

  “Fighting fit and raring to go?” Moran asked.

  “Sure am. What do you want me to do for you?” Todd smiled and his face ached.

  “Not for me—not directly, leastways. Chuck’s all ready for you.”

  “Chuck?”

  “Yeah, I talked it over with him after the game. He’s at his most persuadable about then. He gets real charitable when he’s down a hundred bucks and full of bourbon.”

  Todd masked his disappointment well. His plan had just gone to the wall. He’d expected to work alongside Moran and when he had the man’s confidence, he’d reward him by cracking his safe, just as Vandrel wanted. Time to switch to Plan B, which he’d put into action as soon as he thought of it.

  “Thanks, Lyle. I really appreciate it.” Todd did well to keep the sarcasm out.

  “Don’t thank me. Chuck’s the one paying you.”

  Todd returned to his pickup parked next to Moran’s Cadillac CTS. Not a bad set of wheels for this neck of the woods, he thought and pulled out of the parking lot. He checked his rearview and the reflected image of Moran’s Hardware without a customer in sight. How do you make your money, Lyle?

  Chuck’s realty business wasn’t hard to find. Nothing was hard to find in Dumont. Todd parked and walked in. Chuck’s offices were small, taking up one half of a commercial unit shared with a coin laundry. Pictures of unsold properties hung in the window and for the most part, they’d always hang in the window. The office furniture, which included a secretary, dated back to the 80’s.

  Chuck looked how Todd felt, but Chuck put on a good front and was all smiles and bonhomie. He sat Todd down with a much-needed cup of coffee.

  “Thanks for the job, Chuck.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know what it is.” He laughed his half-man/half-donkey laugh that Todd had acclimated to the night before.

  “Doesn’t matter. Work’s work in my book.”

  Chuck slapped a hand down on his desk. “Good to hear. Not enough people have that attitude these days. Isn’t that right, Jolene?”

  Jolene nodded while her gaze remained fixed on the world outside the window.

  “Like I always say, hard work never killed anyone,” Chuck added.

  “Unless you work for a bomb disposal unit,” Todd tossed in.

  It took Chuck a moment before his face lit up and he laughed again, this time, three parts donkey to one part man. Once Chuck had dispensed with the anthropomorphic side of himself, he slid over a map and a stapled sheaf of papers.

  “Up for a management job?”

  Management job? Todd hadn’t expected that. “Yeah, sure.”

  “Good. You’re my new Property Manager.”

  “Wow.”

  “Do you hear that, Jolene? The kid’s excited.”

  “He sounds ecstatic,” Jolene said, sounding anything but.

  “Don’t get too excited, Todd. The job sounds impressive, but it isn’t,” Chuck said with sincerity.

  Don’t sugarcoat it, Todd thought.

  “The job is pretty simple. I maintain a number of rental and unoccupied properties. These need to be checked out on a regular basis to ensure the renters haven’t trashed the places and that unoccupied ones haven’t been vandalized. Sound good?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Great. I’ve highlighted the ones Lyle, J. G., Theo and I own. Take special care with our nest eggs.”

  Todd flicked through the pages listing the properties owned by Moran and his drinking buddies. If they were nest eggs, then they didn’t have much to look forward to in their dotage.

  “Will do,” Todd said and stood.

  Chuck raided the petty cash for a hundred dollars gas and eating money and told him to come back when it ran out. He promised to pay Todd two-fifty a week, cash, with Fridays being payday.

  After returning to the pickup and looking up the first address, Todd hit the road. Within a handful of miles, a dark cloud settled on his shoulder. Two-fifty a week. He was in a dead-end job again. Worse still, he had less than he did when he was back in the Bay Area. Sure he possessed six kilos of cocaine and a Lexus, but both were worthless. Making matters worse, he was in deep again. He was supposed to be shedding his old life to start anew, but Vandrel had him over a barrel. All Todd’s rebirth money was tied up in this job.

  He wasn’t totally penniless. He did have the hundred bucks gas money. It wouldn’t get him far, but it was enough to cover the price of a bus ticket. He could start afresh somewhere else. Again. Okay, it might mean dead-end jobs for a while but he could get out from under. He wasn’t in as deep with Vandrel as he was with the small man. Vandrel had nothing on him. He could get away clean.

  He sensed getting away clean would become his mantra. Even if he hadn’t been saying it in the past, it was certainly his modus operandi in recent years—screw up, run away to start all over again. He guessed he could do that a few more times, but there was only so much road. Eventually, he wouldn’t have anywhere to run to. He’d stick this one out and hope the small man’s assessment that he had an aptitude for this kind of work held true.

  ***

  The first property Todd came to belonged to Moran. It consisted of a dilapidated farmhouse with a collapsed barn on four acres of desert scrub. A county road gave up on connecting the property to civilization.

  What the hell did Moran want with a piece of crap like this? Todd wondered. Moran had probably bought it for a song, but it was hardly a song worth singing. He bounced over the dirt drive to the farmhouse, parked and inspected the ‘nest egg.’

  Todd walked the perimeter of the farmhouse. He was no building inspector, but this place was a tear down. The siding curled away from the frame. Shingles dotted the ground where they’d fallen off the roof. The house possessed a slight list that screamed imminent structural failure. He would have liked to have checked out the interior, but couldn’t courtesy of some pretty impressive padlocks. Even the windows had been nailed shut.

  He had no idea why Chuck had wasted his time sending him out here to check on the place. You’d have to be a pretty desperate vandal to come out here and trash this crap. He didn’t see any point in noting down the condition of the property for Chuck unless the place fell down. He had reached the pickup when he noticed a set of well-defined tire tracks leading to the barn.

  Maybe there was good reason to have this place inspected on a regular basis. He retrieved the .357 from the glove box, glad he’d brought it along with him, and followed the tracks to the broken-down barn.

  He aimed the .357 inside the crooked doorway and peered inside. Light penetrated the gaps between the wood planks to give him a reasonable view of the interior. He ventured inside. Nothing of interest presented itself. The tire tracks went only as far as the entrance. Not that that was a surprise. The structure creaked every time the wind blew. He knelt and scooped up a handful of straw from the thin layer scattered on the ground and brought it to his nose. It was fresh.

  “Who’s been coming out here?”

  His curiosity was getting the better of him, but it would have to wait. There were other Moran properties to inspect. He wondered if he’d find more of the same. He dropped the straw and returned to his pickup.

  The distance between properties was vast and he didn’t make it out to all of them. He managed to check out one of Chuck’s properties, two of J. G.’s and two of Moran’s. In most cases, the properties were of the same ilk as the first—large parcels of land in the middle of nowhere. One of Moran’s holdings proved to be a true rental though. He logged the renters’ complaints of a rundown six-unit complex about a mile from the Texan. Instead of driving back into Dumont to drink away the night at The Yellow Rose, he drove to Vandrel’s. He found the old man there, but not the Lexus.

  “Where’s my car?” Todd asked entering the hangar.

  Vandrel had his feet up on a desk in a small space that passed for an office, listening to his country western spilling from a radio perched on a shelf. He turned the radi
o’s volume down. “Your car? I distinctly remember you saying it was stolen.”

  Todd saw this was going to be one of those conversations. “Okay, the car I brought you. Where is it?”

  “Gone. Sold. Got good money for it too. Better than I expected. I guess Jap cars are popular.”

  Todd leaned against the desk next to Vandrel’s dust-encrusted work boots. “Do I get any of it?”

  “That weren’t the deal, son. You get paid when you bring me the contents of Moran’s safe.”

  Todd said nothing.

  “How’s it going with the son of a bitch?” Vandrel asked.

  “It’s going.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Not as bad as you think.”

  Vandrel smirked.

  Todd wasn’t going to allow himself to be drawn into an argument and tried a different tack. “I’m assuming you know Moran well.”

  Vandrel nodded.

  “Why would he buy up undeveloped parcels of land with rundown shacks on them?”

  Vandrel took his feet off the desk and straightened in his seat. “He wouldn’t. He doesn’t spend a penny until he knows he’s getting a dollar back. What have you found out?”

  Todd told him. When he finished, he asked, “Mean anything to you?”

  Vandrel shook his head. “Keep digging, son. I think you could be on to something.”

  “I might need something other than the pickup. Have you got anything else I can use?”

  Vandrel tossed Todd the keys to a late model Buick Century and an aging Cadillac Seville. “I don’t need to move them any time soon. They run good. What are you thinking?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  ***

  The next morning, Todd went out to the remaining properties on Chuck’s list. At the rentals, he took down complaints. One guy tried to mix it up when Todd mentioned that he’d have to pay for a busted bathroom window. Todd escaped in the pickup as the guy retrieved his baseball bat. From then on, Todd kept the .357 on him. The money pit properties owned by Moran and his cronies were more of the same, except in one case. Chuck owned ten acres of dirt on the edge of Dumont. A scorch mark marked the spot where a ranch house once claimed to exist. An explosion looked to be responsible. Debris lay strewn for a hundred feet or so and it all smelled like burnt matches. The foundations were a tattered mess. This seemed to have happened pretty recently.