Kings of Midnight

by Wallace Stroby

  “I know I’m the one started all this. But being up here now, seeing the house and all … I’m getting a bad feeling about it.”

  “It happens,” she said. “Sometimes it’s real. A warning. Something your subconscious is picking up that you aren’t. Other times it’s just fear, static.”

  “How do you know the difference?”

  “That’s the thing,” she said. “You don’t.”

  * * *

  The hardware store was in Newark, on Broad Street, three blocks down from the gold-leafed dome of City Hall. She went up a narrow flight of stairs, and through a glass door with a cardboard OPEN sign.

  There was a middle-aged black man behind the counter, his hair solid gray. He wore bifocals on a cord, was reading a newspaper laid out in front of him. There was no one else in the store.

  He looked up as she came in. “Help you?”

  “Maybe. Are you Otis?”

  He slipped his glasses off, let them hang.

  “My friend Anthony called,” she said. “Told you I’d be coming by.”

  He looked past her at the door. “Is that right?”

  “He said to tell you his father says you were the best center Weequahic High ever had.”

  He frowned. “Jimmy Junior said that?”

  “That was the message.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  “I’ve never met him. He’s in Marion now. I know his father, Jimmy Peaches. Anthony’s grandfather.”

  “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Sorry. Can you help me out or not?”

  “Why don’t you flip that sign, lock that door?”

  She turned the sign to CLOSED, worked the two deadbolts.

  “So you know Anthony,” he said. “And you know who Jimmy Junior is. But how do I know who you are?”

  “You don’t.” She took a cash-stuffed envelope from her coat pocket, set it on the counter. “Those are my credentials.”

  “You come on strong, don’t you?”

  “No more than I have to.”

  “Come on back here. We’ll see what we can do.”

  He opened the counter flap for her, gestured at the doorway that led into a back room.

  “You first,” she said.

  “All right.” He limped ahead of her. She took the envelope from the counter, followed him.

  The room beyond smelled of sawdust and solder. Metal shelves rose toward the ceiling. Propped in one corner was a mannequin wearing a full-length bulletproof vest.

  “Weequahic,” he said. “That was a long time ago.”

  She looked around the room. There was a sawed-off double-barreled shotgun on pegs just above the door. She wondered if anyone had ever tried to rob him, what had happened when they did.

  “Our friend didn’t give me much of an idea what you need,” he said.

  She pointed at the vest. “How much you asking for that?”

  “Five hundred. Price might be negotiable. You interested?”

  “Just curious. You get much call for that? People coming in off the street, looking for body armor?”

  “All the time. Just what is it you want?”

  “Looking for a handheld,” she said. “Something with a little push. Nine-millimeter or better.”

  She’d keep the .32 as a backup, but couldn’t count on its stopping power. She thought of the snub-nosed .38 Wayne had given her, now rusting at the bottom of a Connecticut river.

  “Wheel gun or auto?” he said.

  “Either. Let’s see what you got.”

  He took down a box marked PIPE JOINTS from a shelf above his head, set it on a workbench. He opened the flaps, reached into foam peanuts, drew out a rag-wrapped bundle, and set it on the table. He did it twice more, the cloths spotted with oil.

  Inside the first bundle was a Colt .357 revolver with a ventilated barrel. The other weapons were automatics, a Glock .40, and something she didn’t recognize.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “GSh, Russian.”

  “Looks cheap.”

  “It ain’t.”

  “This all you have?”

  “For now. Couple weeks, maybe something else.”

  The Colt was too big for practical purposes. She picked up the Glock, worked the slide. It was smooth, well oiled. She ejected the empty magazine, thumbed the loading spring to check the tension. The gun looked new, felt right in her hand.

  “You looking for something bigger?” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  He limped to a shelf across the room, came back with a long box, unmarked. He set it on the table, took the lid off, pushed rags aside. Inside was a short-barreled Remington 12-gauge pump, black and chrome.

  “Model 870,” he said. “Almost new. Might let it go for the right price. I was holding it for someone, but I don’t think he’s coming back.”

  She shook her head. “Maybe some other time.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “How much for the Glock?”

  “That all you want?”

  “For now.”

  “Eight hundred.”

  “Six.”

  “Then I guess it’s a deal. Seven.”

  “Shells?”

  “How many you need?’

  “Two boxes. Three if you’ve got them. And a spare magazine.”

  “I can do that.”

  She paid him with hundreds from the envelope. He wrapped the gun in the rag again, put it along with the extra magazine and three boxes of shells in a cheap canvas gym bag, zipped it shut.

  “You tell Anthony I was sorry to hear about his father. I did my share in state lockup, when I was younger. But federal, Marion, that’s hard time.”

  “I’ll tell him.”

  She let herself out, walked down Broad to where she’d parked the Taurus. Late afternoon and the sidewalk was crowded with office workers on their way home, people leaving the nearby courthouse. A line was queuing at the corner bus stop. By six o’clock, this would be a ghost town, the street empty, most of the buildings dark.

  She stowed the bag in the trunk, shut the lid. She waited for cops to come out of alleyways and unmarked vans, guns drawn. People moved past her on the sidewalk, none making eye contact. You’re paranoid, she thought, the way you always get before you commit to something. But maybe this time that’s a good thing.

  * * *

  Driving south on the Parkway, she called Rathka. When Monique put him on the line, Crissa said, “What do you hear?”

  “On which front?”

  “All of them.”

  “Two of our friends are out on bond. You need to be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  “I am. There’s a fellow works for me from time to time, an ex-Jersey state trooper. I’ve got him out there watching the Montclair house. It’s not cheap, but it makes me feel a whole lot better.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I feel like I brought all this on.”

  “Occupational hazard. Sorry I had to turn you away in the first place. I’ve been having second thoughts about that.”

  “Doesn’t matter now. We need to think about our arrangement going forward, though.”

  “You expecting something soon?”

  “Maybe. Looking it over.”

  “If it happens, we’ll figure something out, come up with a plan.”

  “That’s good to hear. What about Texas?”

  “I heard from our guard down there. He’s concerned our friend is going to force an issue with the fellow he’s been having problems with. He says word on the tier is it’s heading that way.”

  “Can’t they do something? Put him in Ad Seg until his hearing comes up?”

  “If he asked, they would, I’m sure. But until he does, I don’t imagine they’re going to do much of anything.”

  “I don’t want him getting hurt,” she said. “Not now, of all times.”

  “Nobody does. Our guard’s looking out for him, when he’s on shift, bu
t there’s not much else we can do.”

  “Can you set up another call?”

  “I can try. When were you thinking?”

  “As soon as possible. I may be out of town for a couple days.”

  “Business?”

  “Maybe. I’ll let you know.”

  “Well, don’t let me know too much.…”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I won’t.”

  FIFTEEN

  At noon the next day, she was parked at a small strip mall on a wooded stretch of county road. Even without the binoculars, she had a clear view of the driveway a quarter mile ahead.

  On the far side of the lot, Benny was parked beneath a stand of trees, out of sight of the road, in a green Honda Civic she’d rented that morning.

  She was in the passenger seat of the Taurus. It was less suspicious this way, would look as if she were waiting for someone. The strip mall held a laundromat, a paint store, and a flower shop, but the first two had few customers, and the shop never opened.

  Her cell buzzed. Benny’s number.

  “Yeah?” she answered.

  “How long are we going to wait here?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “What if no one comes out today?”

  “Then we come back tomorrow, do the same thing.”

  “I’ll need to piss soon,” he said.

  “You still have that thermos full of coffee?”

  “Yeah. You want some?”

  “No. Dump it out. You can piss in that.”

  “It’ll get all over the place.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?” she said.

  “I bet there’s a bathroom in the laundromat.”

  “No. Stay where you are. I don’t want us attracting any more attention than necessary. Use the thermos.” She hit END.

  She put the phone on the seat, raised the binoculars. No mailbox at the end of the driveway, no address marker. If police or fire/rescue were called, they might just as easily drive by the entrance, especially at night. No mailbox likely meant there was a rented one in town. Someone might eventually head out to check it, allow her to get a look at them.

  She’d gone over tax records online the night before. The property was in the name of a B. Scalise, with no sales or changes since the first listing. She’d run the name and address through all the public databases she could access. A Brenda Scalise had applied for a construction permit twice in the last three months, two weeks ago for an in-ground pool installation. So she still owned the property, at least on paper. Who lived there was another question.

  Earlier that day, she’d gone to a realty office two towns away, looked at posted listings on the wall. She’d fended off the chatty secretary, reached for a business card on the counter rack, palmed a half dozen of them. The cards were generic: agency name, phone, fax, and Web site.

  She set the binoculars down, opened a pocket notebook. On one page, she’d sketched the house the best she could from the vantage point of the opposite hill. Now she used a pencil to fill in the driveway, drew a straight line for the county road.

  By two thirty the boredom was getting to her. Few cars had passed. She wondered how Benny had resolved his issue. She was thinking about calling Rathka when she caught a flash of white coming down through the trees.

  She speed-dialed Benny. “Heads up.”

  “What is it?”

  The Cadillac came to the end of the driveway, paused there, turned left.

  “There goes the Escalade,” she said. She read off the plate number. “Stay with it.”

  “Jesus Christ. Okay, hold on.” She heard him fumbling with the phone, then the engine starting. She looked across the lot, saw him pull out. He bumped onto the road, started after the Escalade.

  “Not too close,” she said. “Just enough to keep it in sight.”

  “How far should I follow it?”

  “As far as it takes you.”

  “What if we end up in Pennsylvania or somewhere?”

  “Then call me from there,” she said, and hung up.

  She climbed over into the driver’s seat, reached down, and pulled out the Glock from where it had been wedged into the springs there. She tucked it into her belt in the back, the tail of the sweater covering it.

  Slipping off the gloves, she wiped her damp palms on her jeans legs. She gave it five more minutes, to see if anyone else came out of the driveway. Then she pulled the gloves back on, started the engine.

  No traffic on the road. She pulled out, checked the rearview. Nothing coming up behind. She slowed, made the left into the driveway.

  It was wide and rutted, and she could see the tracks where they’d brought up the backhoe. She had to slow almost to a stop to negotiate the curves, the driveway growing steeper.

  When the house was in sight, she pulled off into the trees, killed the engine. There would be just enough room to turn around, head back down.

  Her phone buzzed. Benny again. “What is it?”

  “She just pulled into a bank, went inside,” he said. “I got a pretty good look when she got out of the Escalade. I think it’s her. What do you want me to do?”

  “Go in after her. Fill out a deposit slip, whatever. Keep an eye on her. If she turns around, starts heading back here, you need to call me. Do you think she’d recognize you?”

  “After all this time? I’d doubt it.”

  “Be careful.”

  “I’m going in now,” he said, and ended the call.

  She opened the glove box, took out the small digital camera she’d bought the day before. She got out of the Taurus, locked it, started up the driveway.

  Woods on both sides, the shadows deepening. When she reached the yard, she activated the camera, took three quick shots of the front of the house. She’d upload them to her laptop later, blow them up for better detail.

  No security cameras she could see, no sign of an alarm system. At the garage, she looked through the window, saw an oil-stained concrete floor, a closed door that led into the house.

  She took shots of the garage, the boat, then the backyard and deck. A sliding glass door with vertical blinds led into the kitchen. To the left of the deck was a window with a broken and sagging miniblind. Through the gaps, she could see a small den, the living room, and the front door beyond. There would be a half dozen ways to get inside, if she needed to. It would take five minutes at most.

  She circled the house, took more shots. On the way back to the car, her phone buzzed.

  “She left the bank,” Benny said. “I think she’s heading back. I’m right behind her.”

  “It’s okay, I’m done.” She got behind the wheel, started the engine. “What did she do in there?”

  “Brought in a gray canvas money bag, kind with a zipper. Went to talk to one of the bank managers, then they led her into the back. She was in there about fifteen minutes. I was already waiting in the car when she came out. Couldn’t stay in there that long, not doing anything.”

  “Cash deposit,” she said. “Safe box.”

  “Looks like it.”

  “Meet me back at the motel. We’ll talk there.”

  She ended the call, cut the wheel hard to swing back onto the driveway. As she started down, she heard the throaty cough of an engine ahead. She slowed to take the next bend, and there was a motorcycle there, stopped at an angle across the driveway, blocking her. Black exhaust chugged from its tailpipe.

  She braked. The rider wore a leather jacket, jeans, and engineer boots. He undid the strap of a scuffed black helmet, pulled it off, shook out greasy dark hair.

  She tapped the horn. He looked at her through the windshield, set the helmet on the gas tank. There was no room to get around him.

  He shut off the engine, pushed the kickstand down, climbed off. He wore fingerless gloves, ran a hand through his hair as he came toward her. He was older up close, hair shot through with gray. There was a scar through his left eyebrow.

  She powered down her window, eased off the seat so
she could reach the Glock if she had to. She kept her left hand on the wheel, right hand on her thigh.

  “You’re blocking my way,” she said.

  He didn’t answer, looked at the camera, binoculars, and notebook on the passenger seat. He bent to look into the backseat, walked around the car. She thought about hitting the gas, sending the bike into the trees, getting away from there.

  He came back to her window. His jaws were working slowly.

  “Will you please move your motorcycle?” she said.

  He turned his head, spit tobacco onto the dirt. She hung her right thumb on her belt, inches from the Glock.

  He looked up toward the house, then back at her. “This is a private road. You’re trespassing.”

  “Is that your house?” she said. “I’m a realtor. I’m new here. I’ve been looking at some homes in the area, trying to get a feel for the town.”

  She opened the notebook, took out a card, handed it to him. He looked at it, then spit again. “What’s your name?”

  “Please move your motorcycle, sir.”

  On the seat beside her, the phone began to buzz. She ignored it.

  “You cold?” he said.

  “What?”

  “You’re wearing gloves.”

  She didn’t answer. The phone went silent.

  “Why don’t you step on out here?” he said.

  “I don’t think I want to do that.” Her hand touched the butt of the Glock.

  He looked at the card again, then slid it in a jeans pocket. “You don’t look like a realtor.”

  “Do I need to call the police?”

  “This property isn’t for sale. Hasn’t been. Won’t be. What are you doing up here?”

  “I think I already told you that.”

  “You don’t talk much like a realtor, either.”

  “Is this your property? Are you the owner?”

  He looked at her, jaw working, then turned away, went back to the bike. He climbed on, started the engine, spit. He pulled onto the shoulder, out of her way, watched as she drove past.

  When she reached the end of the driveway, she turned left onto the county road, wondering if he would follow. A half mile later, she pulled into a dirt turnaround. She was calling Benny when the Escalade passed her, coming from the other direction.