A Dead Issue

by John Evans

  “OK, what?” he asked.

  “OK, I’m going to give you five thousand dollars to go to Brazil.”

  His face brightened and that trademark grin came to his face. “I’m in,” he said.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Mark,” he said, “I’m tired of this. I want to leave. For a while there I thought maybe the brother thing . . .” he tapered off.

  “We’ll always be brothers,” I said and placed a hand on his shoulder. He left it there this time.

  He gave a weak smile. “It wasn’t working. I’m born to keep moving. It’s time. So if you’re willing to give me . . .”

  “You have to earn it,” I warned him. “Cash wanted to send you off to Brazil to take the heat off me. Are you still willing to do that?”

  “To go to Brazil? It’s where I belong.”

  “There’s no reason why Cash has to run the show. Chances are he’d screw you anyway—keep the five thousand for himself.”

  Dusty eyebrows rose in agreement with that possibility.

  “Cash is right. Devereaux is finished once he sees that tape. He has to assume you destroyed the other tapes before leaving for Brazil. The important thing is Cash has the gun, and that really isn’t good.”

  Dusty tried to look interested and did his best to follow my thinking, but I could tell he was distracted. His mind was already way ahead of his body basking in the Brazilian sun.

  “Here’s the deal,” I said, bringing him back to the here and now. “I’ll give you money for the trip. Once you’re out of town, Cash will have to give Devereaux the tape for his own protection. Then I’ll hire Cash to take care of Tony—let him earn his fee.”

  Dusty’s head bobbed enthusiastically.

  “You’re going to need a ticket—one-way.”

  “I can book it online—Travelocity or something.”

  A possible glitch occurred to me that threatened my plan. “You have a passport?”

  “Can’t get to Brazil without one.” He smiled and I marveled that a guy like Dusty would have a dream so dear that he would actually be prepared for it to come true. It was like learning that the grasshopper of the story had a 401(K).

  “Good. You may need it by tomorrow night. I don’t quite know what we’re doing, but I’ll need help. You’ll be there for me. Right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “When the shit hits the fan, I’ll give you five thousand plus some extra for airfare. Deal?”

  Dusty held out his hand and our palms slapped together in a firm handshake.

  “Then let’s go,” I said and headed for the door. “Let’s take a walk on the wild side.”

  “We’re going to Easton?” Dusty asked.

  “Wal-Mart.”

  CHAPTER 54

  In minutes we were heading toward the Crossings, a mall that contained a 24-7 Wal-Mart. We passed Miller’s Tavern, long closed, and my mind ran through a slideshow of images, the last of which was Liza bound to a chair, duct tape over her mouth.

  “Why are we going to Wal-Mart?” Dusty asked. His voice was tired, his tone idly curious. It was nearly 3:00 AM, and he hadn’t gotten any sleep.

  “To get a backpack,” I answered.

  “But Cash gave you one.”

  “I know. I want two of them exactly alike.”

  Dusty stared at me, the dashboard lights casting an eerie glow on his expressionless face.

  “All I need is two seconds with that gun. Wipe it clean. I’m not about to pay Cash for the privilege. We’ll do a switch.”

  “How do we do that?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. Liza would know, but I didn’t want to say anything after his “Gypsy” comment. “We show him a bag of money, switch it before we trade it for the gun.” I paused and looked at Dusty. “How we go about it is the question. We’ll have to play that by ear.”

  Even as I said that, I knew better. Things like that had to be planned down to the last detail. The trouble was I had no details to work with. I tried to simplify the situation—boil it down to the bare essentials. Tony was holding Liza and Cash was holding Jonah’s gun. I needed both, and both were going to cost money I didn’t have. I could borrow from my father’s vault to free Liza, and Cash’s muscle and street savvy might come in handy, but it would come at a price. Unless I was very careful, Cash would walk off with all the money and maybe the gun as well. For the moment, Devereaux was out of the picture, and Dusty would disappear when the shit hit the fan. The plan was simple: get the gun, free Liza, and screw both Cash and Tony Lovell.

  We drove in silence the rest of the way to Wal-Mart. Traffic was light. An eighteen-wheeler followed us down Route 212, trailed us into the parking lot, and peeled off to the loading docks in the back. Only a few dozen cars were parked amid an army of shopping carts strewn about at random. A street sweeper circled aimlessly around the obstacles, chasing debris blown by the wind.

  Near the entrance, a man unloaded bundles of newspapers. Inside, pallets of boxes blocked the aisles and here and there stockers filled the shelves, stuffing empty boxes into shopping carts. At 3:00 AM in Wal-Mart, no one makes eye contact, everyone believing the other guy to be the ax murderer. I think I was the only one buying a backpack to hold a quarter of a million dollars in ransom—but I couldn’t be sure.

  Backpacks were on sale. Cash got himself a bargain at 60% off and I picked out one with the same design and color. My phone twittered with a message. I flipped open my phone and Liza appeared on the screen holding a newspaper with the headline “Teens killed in crash”—Tony proving that Liza was still alive. She seemed stressed and dazed, maybe fatigued with lack of sleep.

  I held the phone out to Dusty. He pulled the screen to his face and nodded. “We have to move.”

  We breezed through the checkout lane and headed for the exit, stopping long enough to verify the headline displayed in the vending machine—“Teens killed in crash.” The paper was only minutes old. Tony was still up, doing his homework. Before I pulled out of the lot, Dusty nodded off. I opened the window for the cold air to revive him. His head jerked up briefly and then his chin fell to his chest. I decided to let him sleep. Then the phone rang, snapping us both into instant alertness.

  “Hello?”

  “Mark.” It was Tony Lovell’s unmistakable whispery voice. “The backpack was a good choice.” He paused, letting my mind register the fact that I was being watched. I checked the rear view mirror. How could I miss someone tailing me through the vacant aisles of Wal-Mart?

  “What you want to do is fill that backpack and wait. I’ll call you when the time comes.”

  The line went silent.

  CHAPTER 55

  I needed time away from Dusty. Morning was fast approaching, and I didn’t want him looking over my shoulder as I pulled open drawer after drawer of bundled bills. With his past history of dipping into the till, that didn’t seem like a good idea.

  “Dusty.” I waited until I was sure he was listening. “I’m taking you home. You need a nap. I want you fresh, able to think. Then you need to pack, get your passport, and buy a ticket out of here ASAP.”

  “Why the hurry?”

  “Cash has a tape of you stealing from McDonald’s.”

  Dusty looked at me. “Take me home. I got to pack.”

  As we drove past Cameron Industries, I glanced up toward the Crow’s Nest, wondering what I was overlooking—what needed to be done in the next hour or two. Dusty snorted. His eyes were closed, and I placed a wake-up call to Dusty high on my to-do list. When I pulled up to his rental on Market Street, his eyes opened to slits.

  “Home. Everybody out,” I said as Dusty slowly became aware of his surroundings. “But, first, give me the gun.”

  Dusty hesitated before reaching under his shirt. He pulled out the Beretta and held it by the barrel. “What if Stomp is waiting for me?”

  I studied him for a moment. “Would you shoot him?”

  “Until it was empty,” he said.

 
I thought of the beating I took from Cash and gave him a nod of understanding.

  Dusty smiled, climbed out of the car, and disappeared into the night.

  CHAPTER 56

  I drove back toward the Crow’s Nest, trying to flesh out my plan, running through different scenarios, trying to figure out how to make the switch. The only sure way was to have total control over the situation. I needed to call the shots—the when, where, and how of it with the switch neatly and cleverly woven into the fabric. The trouble was that Cash was in control. I tried to put myself in his position, think like him, anticipate what he was going to do and beat him to it. But it was impossible. There were too many unknowns and loose ends. And thoughts of Liza kept running interference.

  Eventually, all I could think about was Tony and Liza. As I neared Cameron Drive, I pieced it together. Tony Lovell had followed me through Wal-Mart, but he was too smart to drag Liza around with him in public. He was holding Liza, tied up like he said—but where? There was only one place. I drove right past the Crow’s Nest and headed for Fog Hollow Road.

  When I turned down Jonah’s lane, I cut the lights and dropped it into low gear. The BMW rolled down the hill as silently as an owl through moonlight. There was barely enough light to see the shape of the land and the gentle turns the lane took through it. At the bridge, I stopped the car. Tony’s Mustang was not there.

  I slid out of the car and studied the farmhouse, holding the pistol down by my thigh. An orange light glowed from within. The wind had picked up and swept a damp chill through the trees. A shiver ran through me, and it wasn’t the breeze that caused it. As I approached the compound on foot, I looked back over my shoulder at the Beamer sitting like a pale ghost on the other side of the bridge. If Tony came down the lane now, the BMW would tip him off that I was there. I’d be trapped. For a flashing instant, I considered going back to the car and driving it into the field to hide it behind the piles of brush we made on the day Jonah died, but there was a sense of urgency pressing me to get this over with quickly.

  I stepped up to Jonah’s front porch and approached the door. In the dim light, I could see that the lock had not been replaced. The door was ajar. I paused and gave it a gentle push. It swung in silently and I caught the slightest whiff of cigarette smoke in the air. I waited, listening—the gun now held at my shoulder, pointed toward the ceiling.

  The glow came from the kitchen—and noises, a soft rustling, like an animal at work among paper. I crept through the parlor and beyond to the den, stopping a few yards from the kitchen.

  “That should do it.”

  The voice was a deep rumble, familiar and terrifying. I stepped closer and recognized Stomp’s massive back as he knelt before Liza. He looped the end of rope around her feet.

  I aimed the gun at the square bandage taped to the back of his head, next to the root of his braided queue. Too small. I brought the gun down slowly, centering the notched sight right in the middle of the vast expanse of leather vest and right below the hawk feather in his hair. Liza’s eyes lifted and they widened when she saw me. She gave a quick shake of the head and I raised the gun, waiting for him to stand.

  When he did, Liza spoke with unbelievable calm. “Don’t make any sudden moves, Jason.”

  Stomp’s body tightened and he slowly turned toward me, his left eye catching up a second later. He stared at me silently for a moment before his eye drifted off course.

  “Mark,” Liza continued in the same controlled voice. “Don’t shoot. This is not what you think.”

  “Better shoot me now,” Stomp said. “Cause I’m gonna kill you, motherfucker.”

  He took a step toward me and I stretched the gun out, pointing it at his face and then lowering it to a wider target. He stopped.

  “Don’t matter,” he said. There was an undercurrent of resignation in his voice. “I’m dead anyway. Then they’ll come after you. And then you’re dead.”

  “Who’s coming?” Liza asked.

  “The guys in the hospital?” My words following so close behind, it seemed like one question.

  “They want their money.” Stomp’s voice rumbled out each word separate and distinct.

  “We didn’t take their money. We had nothing to do with shooting Stemcell.”

  “Don’t matter,” Stomp said. “They want their money and they want to send a message. Nobody fucks with them. Somebody has to die.”

  “Then feed them Tony,” Liza said.

  Stomp turned to look at her. I could see the idea churning around in his head and then his left eye drifted off toward a brighter future.

  “Untie her.” I gestured with my gun at Stomp, but he didn’t move. He glanced at Liza for guidance. She shook her head.

  “Jason found me like this and untied me. He’s a good person,” she continued and gave a quick eye-roll. I had a vision of her placing Stomp’s massive hand on her breast. I wondered how many times that had worked for her in the past.

  “When Tony gets back, he has to find me tied up just like he left me.”

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Following you around. Spying on you.”

  “Then he’ll be here in minutes.”

  Liza shook her head. “I know exactly where he is—after following you around, he sniffed out Sally’s Diner. He’s there now stuffing his ugly face. The skinny little fuck has to eat four or five times a day—has the metabolism of a weasel.” She paused. “Look, I need this to go down. This will get Tony’s ass in jail for a long time, maybe get him killed,” she threw a quick glance at Stomp. “Then I start a new life.”

  “What if I can’t pay?” I asked.

  “I don’t expect you to pay,” she said. “I expect you to call Devereaux. Set a trap for him.”

  That was my plan—to set a trap for him, but Devereaux was not part of it. I could not let him become involved—not with Cash lurking on the sidelines with his own demands.

  “I have a better idea,” I said and turned to Stomp. “How much money do you need?”

  Stomp was taken off guard by my question, unable to answer and factor in some personal gain at the same time. “Ten thousand,” he said at length. My guess was he had doubled the amount lost by Stemcell.

  “I can get that,” I said. “I’ll give you ten grand to keep Liza safe. Don’t let that fucker hurt her. You in?”

  Stomp’s eyes centered on me and he grunted an affirmative.

  “Her husband is going to contact me today. When he does, he’s going to have to meet me face to face. And it’s going to be at the Crow’s Nest. That’s my demand. Tony will have to take Liza with him. When he does, follow them to the Crow’s Nest. It’s off . . .”

  “I’ve been there,” Stomp said, and I momentarily froze, wondering when and how close I had come to being beaten to death.

  “You have a car?”

  He shook his head. “International Harvester.”

  Once again, I was speechless, captivated by an image of Stomp cruising around the countryside sitting on Jonah’s tractor.

  “I’ll get there,” he said.

  CHAPTER 57

  I found Moe as I pulled up to the garage. The headlights swinging across the north face of the house showed a ginger colored mass by the entry door next to the four garage bays—and I knew. Stomp had, indeed, found the Crow’s Nest. The bastard. Moe, the last remnant of my childhood, was gone. The poor guy had refused to become a pampered house cat and lived outdoors on his own, catching his own food, living on his own terms. We were so much alike on that count—and it had cost him his life.

  I wrapped his body in an old towel and placed the bundle around the corner. When this was over, I could bury him with care. Then I made my way inside to the vault with its drawers of money.

  On TV game shows, they sometimes show a million dollars, piled up like cord wood and monitored by armed security guards standing at parade rest on each side. And you read in the paper that a stack of one million dollar bills would reach the thirtieth floor of the Empir
e State building or laid end-to-end would stretch from New York to Chicago, but the fact of the matter is that a quarter of a million dollars in wrapped hundreds amounts to twenty-five bundles, weighs about the same as a bag of sugar, and can fit into a shoebox. I was amazed as I emptied my father’s drawer of hundreds—so amazed that I thought I was wrong. I had to count the pile again to make sure, and I still doubted myself.

  I made a pile of the packets, mounding them up like a campfire, and took a picture of it with my cell phone and stored it for future use. Then I sent Cash a short text message: “Call me.”

  A quick nap revived me, and when I awoke the sky started to brighten in the east. The sun was a long way from poking above the horizon, but it was on its way and so was Dusty. I heard his car, rusted muffler and all, struggling up Cameron Drive. I raced to the garage to be there when Dusty pulled up.

  Dusty parked by the door. “I got the ticket. I’m good to go,” he said, getting out of the car.

  “You have the gun?”

  Dusty patted the bulge under his sweatshirt.

  He followed me up to my father’s office and I sat behind the big desk. Dusty flopped into one of the leather chairs off to the side.

  “So this is what it’s like,” he said, taking in the details of the room. “To be rich, I mean.”

  “It’s what it looks like,” I said. “I don’t know what it feels like.”

  He thought about that for a moment and then asked, “Do you have the money?”

  “I have my father’s money.”

  “We just going to wait—until the shit hits the fan, I mean?” Dusty looked worried.

  “No, we have some work to do. I’m not going to give that sleazeball a quarter of a million. We’re going to fuck him over.” My idea of switching backpacks on Tony took on a new focus.

  I rummaged through my father’s desk and found some masking tape. The storage closet held several reams of duplicating paper and a paper cutter. Within five minutes, Dusty and I had settled into a monotonous rhythm cutting and wrapping packets of bill-sized paper.