But some mysterious men who claimed to be from Sogolia had other plans. They had been his supplier when Smokeless Green was as legal as a box of cigars, and when they showed up after SISA was passed and told him that he had been chosen as the supplier—i.e., kingpin—of Sivingdel, he had politely declined the perilous offer.
He still wasn’t sure exactly how, but mere seconds later his arm was behind his back, a forearm was crushing his throat, and a polite but firm voice had told him, “I’m sorry. But you have been chosen . . . do you understand?”
The voice’s tone suggested the man was willing to provide further pain if necessary to instill a full level of comprehension in Mr. Hoffmeyer that he was being chosen, not solicited.
Once Mr. Hoffmeyer, a lifelong practical individual, acquiesced, the men explained that the process was going to be very simple. They would find and pick the person whom Mr. Hoffmeyer would deal with directly, and it would be that person’s responsibility to distribute the Smokeless Green throughout the city. Mr. Hoffmeyer was going to be assured full protection, and the distributor in question would understand that only he, and he alone, would know of Mr. Hoffmeyer’s identity and that he would come to Mr. Hoffmeyer’s warehouse to pick up the shipments in person, after which he would take them wherever he wished.
The men would communicate quite clearly to the distributor that, were he ever to cause any problems to Mr. Hoffmeyer, ever communicate his name to anyone, or even to even bring an associate along with him to Mr. Hoffmeyer’s office, the consequences would indeed be severe. Mr. Hoffmeyer was to wait until a man introduced himself verbatim with the greeting, “I’m here to inquire about Sogolian tobacco.”
Lastly, Mr. Hoffmeyer was given a list of prices corresponding to specified quantities and was told they would be coming by as needed to replenish his supply.
After that, there was a stretch of silence, but just when Mr. Hoffmeyer began to hope perhaps the men had decided to pick someone else, he received a visit from a grotesque, imposing man named Sam who introduced himself with the specified greeting word for word.
Mr. Hoffmeyer took him to his warehouse, and Sam had purchased ten pounds. The next week, he purchased a hundred. The next month, he purchased a thousand. From there, fluctuations had been minor.
The next thing Mr. Hoffmeyer knew he was bringing a wagonload of cash home once a month. At first he managed to bury it underneath the floorboards. Then, he filled a room to the point he could have only added a needle with difficulty. He then walled off the room, grateful he knew a thing or two about swinging a hammer.
After that, he filled up and walled off another room but decided that would be the last. He began digging holes in his yard—glad he lived in a rural area and had a large ranch—but it was backbreaking work, and although he put the cash into large boxes, he worried about the money rotting before he ever even touched it.
Nonetheless, as long as he kept making money he really had little other choice. He was able to launder a large quantity, due to the size of his business, but it was an incredibly small percentage of the amount he was earning.
It was beginning to become more of a chore than a luxury, since he had never been accustomed to keeping large quantities of cash on hand. He preferred investments, but he knew the amount of money he was taking in was far too much for him to put it into bank accounts or the stock market without attracting the wrong kind of attention.
When he heard that Heavy Sam had been beaten to a pulp and had his head cut off by a shadowy figure named Mr. Brass, he had nearly tap-danced with joy. Perhaps, that would be the end of it all—the gentlemen from Sogolia would maybe decide to start dealing directly with Mr. Brass.
But that didn’t happen. Mr. Hoffmeyer had found himself in his office with three brutes brandishing daggers and telling him, “We know you was Sam’s source!” and insisting that he begin working with them. The cat was already out of the bag by the time the Sogolian gentlemen showed up.
They seemed far less confident than before—almost as if they were in uncharted waters themselves—and they told him he would need to deal with those three suppliers.
It seemed the Sogolian gentlemen must have paid them a visit and instilled some manners into their beastly skulls because the next time they approached Mr. Hoffmeyer he heard more “sir”s in five minutes than he could previously recall hearing in a single hour.
But he soon realized Mr. Brass was making things nasty for them. It seemed every week their purchases got smaller. Mr. Hoffmeyer couldn’t have been happier. He was hoping they would just go away. Maybe in about ten years he could launder the drug money he had already stuffed his house and yard with.
But with the ever-shrinking purchases, he found himself starting to think quite a bit about Mr. Brass. Who was this guy? The three distributors told him he was an enigma because no one in the city’s underworld knew his real name and “that just don’t happen,” they had explained.
Two of them had been there when Sam got pulverized by Mr. Brass, and having done a little boxing themselves and a lot of street fighting, they each swore there was “no way someone could fight like that unless he was a real pro.”
That had titillated Mr. Hoffmeyer’s interest considerably. He had never quite been able to shake the memory of that clerk of Roger’s who had shown up claiming a dozen barrels of Smokeless Green seed had been spoiled—right after SISA was passed.
He knew that of course was a lie, so he figured either the clerk stole or sold the seeds, or Roger did it. While he wasn’t one to quickly dismiss possibilities—even remote ones—he had known Roger for quite a while, and he seemed the last person in the world to do something outside the rules.
As for this clerk, on the other hand, he didn’t know anything about him. He looked up his old notes and saw his name was Richard Simmers, and he had one of his employees go down to Ringsetter to do a little snooping around. He had casually asked about him in a bar after a few drinks, and one fellow quickly told him, “Oh, Righty? He ain’t been around here much lately, but he used to drink us all under the table. Why? Do you know him?”
His employee had responded, “Oh, it’s nothing too important. He was late paying for some inventory at his new store is all. I went by the store and couldn’t find him. I’ll guess I’ll have to go back to Sivingdel empty-handed.”
“Well, just tread real light when you talk to him,” a gregarious fellow suddenly said, causing some apparent irritation to the other man. “Righty was almost the national boxing champ, and I seen him whip three men at the same time!”
The other man had looked at his friend with real disgust and said, “How’s about I whip you?!”
The employee had quickly apologized if he had pried too much, paid for each man’s drink (which quickly satiated their anger), and did the best disappearing act he could.
When he brought the news back to Mr. Hoffmeyer, he figured it was all bluster, but deciding it would not cost him more than an hour or two of digging at the most, he went to the Sivingdel Boxing Association and asked.
He was immediately asked, “Do you know Righty Rick? He was set to be a legend. If he hadn’t been banned from the sport, many think he would have gone down in history as one of the best boxers who ever lived!”
Although Mr. Hoffmeyer knew now that Righty and Mr. Brass were one and the same, he spent a couple hours poking around the building’s archives asking a few questions about others and claiming he was thinking about becoming an investor at a boxing gym but wanted to first acquaint himself with the sport so that he could make an educated decision.
Afterwards, he had practically sprinted out, not knowing what the extent of Mr. Brass’s network could be and, in a way, hating the fact he had gotten the answer. Mr. Simmers had not shown his face around Mr. Hoffmeyer’s warehouse for a long time, and Mr. Hoffmeyer began to dread a nightmarish vision of him closing the office door behind him, brass knuckles clinking together, and saying, You know too damn much,
Hoffie!
He had hired a couple beefy security guards and installed them in the office next to his. They did nothing but sit around and wait for the day they were to be called in to action. Mr. Hoffmeyer’s secretary fortunately knew what Mr. Simmers looked like, and she had been told that if he ever visited she was to give a quick series of three knocks on the office door before Mr. Hoffmeyer’s, after which she would say with a blush, Sorry—you’d think I’d know where the owner’s office is located by now!
That would be the cue to the guards to exit as soon as they heard Mr. Simmers enter Mr. Hoffmeyer’s office, outside of which they would wait with their ears pressed against the door, ready to barge in and stab him in the back if he tried anything cute.
But when the police chief had showed up at his office one day and told him, “I’m onto you, Mr. Hoffmeyer,” and explained he was very disappointed with the dwindling bribe money he was getting from triumvirate that had replaced Sam , Mr. Hoffmeyer began to think about early retirement . . . preferably in a foreign country.
This sentiment had amplified considerably when he told him, “I’ll have Mr. Brass in my clutches soon enough. Perhaps if he pays a fair monthly contribution, you’ll be off the hook. If Brass doesn’t pay he’ll be put away real soon. That will put you back on top, and I’ll expect to be paid accordingly. I just wanted to drop in and say ‘hello.’”
He had barely slept a wink that night.
When he heard the news two days later that the police station had been burned to the ground and blown up for good measure, he realized it was time for retirement.
He had gone home, loaded as much money as he could onto his largest wagon while still leaving room for a few personal items, and hit the road.
Sodorf City sounded like a nice place. The economy was apparently booming due to a gold mine discovery, so it was likely new people were flooding into the city every day, making it as good a place as he was ever going to find to go unnoticed as a newcomer with plenty of cash.
Acting on an impulse, before he set off for Sodorf, he went back into the house, took out the nicest piece of stationery he had and began to write a letter:
Dear Mr. Simmers,
I know who you are. This letter is not a threat, but a plea.
I was dragged into this sordid business against my will, and I reckon that, if you have not already done so, you will soon discover that I was at one time the supplier to Sam and thus to the whole city.
Unwittingly, you did me a favor by killing him and then stealing the market from his inheritors. Nonetheless, if I were you, I might not be able to avoid the conclusion that I would sleep a little better at night if the other were dead. Perhaps I’m the only one who knows both of your identities.
I’m fleeing Sivingdel and leaving that rotten apple to you. I don’t doubt you’ll be looking for me soon, if you’re not already, but this letter is to inform you that’s not necessary.
I never wanted in, and now, more than anything, I want out.
If I wanted your identity known, I would have leaked it to the papers months ago. Ask yourself if that is not true.
I ask to be left alone.
You will find plenty of cash buried outside my house and inside a walled-off room. It’s on the far southeast side of the house. If it is not too bold of me, I offer this money to you as a proof of my sincerity and humbly ask that you see to it that my employees are taken care of.
I could not tell them I was leaving the country.
We only met twice, but you seemed like the type who can read a man. I hope so because if you do you’ll realize there’s no need to lose a second’s sleep on my account.
May you be prosperous and kept safe.
Sincerely,
You Know Who I Am
He looked over the letter once and figured it would have to do for a letter to a violent kingpin that he was writing as he prepared to go permanently underground. He closed the letter with a seal, slapped the reins against the horses’ hindquarters, and set off towards Ringsetter, glad it would be on the way to Sodorf City.
He stopped outside of Rich’s Groceries & Hardware, walked in and asked to speak to the manager, and then gave the letter to a young man named Robert, who assured him the letter would go straight to Mr. Simmers’ desk and that he would personally inform Mr. Simmers of the letter the next time he saw him.
Chapter 41
“Did you believe her?” Mr. Brass asked.
“Frankly, sir, I did. It didn’t sound rehearsed, and she sounded sincerely concerned. I don’t think she has a clue where Mr. Hoffmeyer is. But you let me know what you need done, and I’ll do it to the best of my ability.”
Righty scanned Tats’ face carefully.
“I might check back in on Mr. Hoffmeyer myself. As for now, I’ve got far bigger fish to fry. The reaction of the local, state, and federal government is going to determine whether we’re over the hump as far as the violence is concerned or just listening to the report of the opening salvo in a bloodbath the likes of which this country has never seen . . . at least not for centuries.
“I will not die in prison or on the scaffold, Tats,” Righty said, piercing through his soul with his gaze.
“Tell me what you need done.”
“I’ll be in touch sooner rather than later,” Righty said with a slight smile. “As for now, it’s best you lay low and enjoy some good times in that fancy hotel, which I assume you’re not staying in without company, but I don’t mean to pry.”
“You’ve deduced correctly, sir.”
“Well, a man just doesn’t know when one of those sweet moments will be his last, so let’s get you back there.”
“Are you sure?” Tats asked, suddenly feeling far more invigorated to help Mr. Brass out with whatever he needed.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
They flagged down a coach, went to the park, got on Harold, and were in a wooded area on the outskirts of Sodorf City in less than an hour.
“I’m in Room 541, if you need to look me up,” Tats said, as he dismounted from Harold. “Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
Righty looked at him long and hard. “I got some interesting paperwork at the chief’s house the night I paid him an uninvited visit. It contained a list of informants. That’s how you got set up. And that’s why we’re in this mess now. There’s going to be a purge.”
“You can drop me back off at Sivingdel right now. I’ll get the most trusted associates I have, and we’ll kill them off one by one.”
“Not yet. They’ve done most of the damage they’re capable of doing. Now’s when they’re most likely to be suspecting retaliation. And now is when we’ve got to keep an absolutely low profile. For all I know, troops could be in the streets before the week is out. The last thing I want to do is expose myself or my right-hand man to what’s left of the law just to hunt down some mangy sewer rats.
“They’ll get theirs soon enough. For now though, I want you to know Crabs’ name is on there, and so is the name of every person you got arrested with. They were just arrested and kept in jail as part of appearances. They were working with Chief Benson. There’s a major problem in this organization when people are more afraid of the police than me. That’s going to change soon enough.”
“You tell me when, where, and what, and it will be done,” Tats said, furious at himself for failing to detect Crabs’ treachery and that of the others. Though Mr. Brass hadn’t said it, the responsibility for this fiasco was in a way Tats’ due to his having failed to detect the treachery. He was going to make up for it as soon as Mr. Brass gave him the chance.
“We’ll talk soon,” Righty said, giving him a firm handshake.
Righty flew straight to the woods behind his house in Ringsetter and met up with the konulans. He felt it was a good harbinger that several of the konulans reported having found a ranch with a white picket fence within two hours by horse from Ringsetter, and furthermore, they had even overhear
d some dissatisfaction from the owner about the decline in the quality of the soil, which meant he might be open for a sale.
Righty jotted down the name of the rancher and some specifics about its location.
He felt relief that he was making good progress towards getting that transaction done, as it might behoove him to move him and his family from Ringsetter within days, if possible.
For now, however, it was time to put the konulans to use like they never had been before.
“Friends,” he began, with konulans hovering around him—some on his lap, some before his feet, some on surrounding tree branches—looking like soldiers awaiting the orders of their general, “the safety of my wife and baby is in your care. Wicked, ambitious men have betrayed me and forced me to take lamentable actions to protect my wife and child. But like a spider rebuilding its web that has been damaged, but not destroyed, by a powerful storm, my enemies are now coalescing all around me, plotting, conniving, seeking to lay a snare that I will walk into and leave my wife a widow and my daughter an orphan.
“Will you stand with me against my enemies?”
“We will . . . we will!” they cried, adding many exuberant chirps and whistles along with their exclamations.
Birth of a Monster Page 15
