by Michael Kerr
“The signal is moving west,” Ritchie said to him.
“Thanks, Ritchie,” Sal said. “But it isn’t with who I’m looking for now.”
He ended the call. It was time to ignore foolish pride and redirect his way of thinking. A switch clicked off in his mind. What had gone down since the debacle in D.C. up to this moment in time was history.
Forty-five minutes later Sal was on the ramp up onto the I-79, heading south toward Charleston with the intention of collecting enough cash to start over. Although he enjoyed killing, he was not addicted to it. His foremost reason for doing it had always been the monitory reward. It was time to quit while he was ahead of the game. The injuries he had sustained had acted as a wake-up call.
He was cruising, keeping to the speed limit and listening to an old Neil Diamond song on the car radio when he got the call from Gloria Brandon.
He turned down the volume on the radio and accepted the call.
“You got good news for me, Mrs. B?” Sal asked.
“I’ve got the best offer that Jerry can come up with.”
“Which is?”
“Half a million in cash.”
Sal wasn’t that surprised. Knew that guys like Brandon could be worth millions on paper, but hadn’t got it laying in a bank account. The money was usually working for them, reinvested, or tied up in new ventures. He said nothing for thirty seconds. Neither did Gloria.
“OK,” Sal said. “But I want you to know that I expect a double-cross. I’ll get back to you tomorrow morning and tell you where and when.”
Gloria sighed with relief.
“Did he go for it?” Ray asked as he pulled into the five-story public car lot at the hospital.
“Yes,” Gloria said. “He’s going to call back tomorrow and tell me where to make the drop.”
They met Jerry at the main doors. His right arm was heavily plastered and up across his chest in a sling, and the sun glinted off the ends of the metal splints that were taped to his fingers. To Gloria he seemed to have aged ten years overnight. He looked just what he was, a middle-aged, worried little man.
“Let’s get you home,” Gloria said, leaning in from Jerry’s left to give him a light kiss on the cheek. “You need a large Scotch and a lot of rest, baby.”
Ray stayed well back, out of hearing behind Gloria and Jerry as they walked back to the parking garage. He caught up with them outside the elevator and they rode it up to the third floor.
Jerry said nothing in front of Ray. Just let his employee help him into the rear of the BMW. Gloria got in beside him, and Ray drove back down to the street exit and headed out of town.
After Ray had dropped them off at the house and left, Gloria fixed Jerry a large Scotch rocks and fussed around him, wishing that the man called Logan had broken his neck instead of his arm and fingers.
“I’m in deep shit,” Jerry said after almost draining the crystal glass with one long gulp. “The police know everything, but have no proof as yet. And that maniac Logan will come back to Charleston if I can’t get Mendez to back off.”
“I’ve taken care of it,” Gloria said. “Mendez has seen the light. I made a deal with him.”
“What kind of deal?”
“Half a million and he’ll forget that Logan and the women exist. He’s going to contact me tomorrow to arrange where to collect it.”
Jerry felt his blood pressure rise to a dangerous level inside of three seconds. His face seemed to swell as it turned to a dark red. “I can’t lay my hands on that much money by tomorrow,” he shouted. “Are you fuckin’ mad?”
“Far from it,” Gloria said. “Mendez is always going to be a threat to us while he’s alive. “You have enough cash to make up a package that he’ll never get chance to check out. Ray will make the drop, and when Mendez starts counting the money, Ray will shoot him.”
Jerry held out his glass. Gloria took it and went over to the corner bar to get him a refill.
“You think that Ray is up to it?” Jerry said.
“He seems to have what it takes,” Gloria replied. “I told him that you would put him in charge of the limo service, now that Sammy is out of the way. And that he could expect a nice bonus and a rise in pay for helping us out.”
Jerry took the freshly-filled glass from her and considered what she had proposed. He wasn’t happy, but thought it might work. He couldn’t think of a better way to deal with the situation. The only problem would be if Logan had been lying to him about a record of his tax evasion. It would be better if they were all fuckin’ dead, but beggars’ couldn’t be choosers. He would have to deal with what he could and just hope for the best. Maybe contact Logan again and let him know that if Rita or Sharon ever went to the authorities with anything, then even if he went to prison he would reach out and arrange for them to be whacked.
Ray got back to the yard and inspected the pistol that Gloria had given him to do the job with. It was a S&W Centennial Airweight; a lightweight .38 Special with a two-inch barrel. This was a revolver with snag-free configuration, perfect for a ladies pocket or purse, to be used up close as the short barrel wasn’t much use for across the street shootouts. With a shrouded hammer, this was a gun that Ray could fire through a coat pocket without a hammer or a slide fouling in fabric and stopping the stream of fire. Gloria had also given him a box of shells. He checked the load and then wrapped the pistol and ammo in a dry, clean cloth and stashed the bundle in a car tyre, two down in one of the dozen stacks at the back of the large workshop.
The thought of having to shoot Mendez dead was making him feel physically sick, but the prize of having Gloria was incentive enough to ensure that he would do it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Logan pulled in to a lot at the rear of a motel just outside Morgantown city limits.
“Christ, Logan, this looks just like the Bates Motel out of Psycho,” Rita said.
Logan smiled. She was right; it did, although there was no spooky old house standing on a hill overlooking it. “If there are stuffed birds in the office we’ll find someplace else,” he said. “And you can always give taking a shower a miss.”
Logan had not seen the classic horror movie till about twenty years after it had been made. It had hit the screens in nineteen-sixty, before he had been born. But it was seminal; perfect in black and white, with scenes that burned into the memory.
“I thought that we were safe now,” Sharon said. “Why can’t we spend the night somewhere a little bit more upmarket?”
“Because until I’m positive that you are both a hundred percent out of harm’s way, I don’t want to have to use real names or plastic. A rundown place like this is usually happy to take cash and put Smith or Jones in the register.”
“So you still think that we’re at risk?” Rita said.
“No, but that doesn’t mean we aren’t.”
There were only two cars standing outside rooms. Logan parked in a corner of the graveled lot that was shielded from the highway by a tangle of bushes, weeds, and a gnarled old tree that looked to be dying, with hardly any leaves on its arthritic-looking branches.
He walked across to the manager’s office, which was attached to a line of timber-fronted rooms. He pulled the screen door open and entered. No stuffed crows or owls or any other critter, and the guy sitting behind the counter reading a paperback was at least twice the age and weight that Anthony Perkins had been.
“One night, two rooms, cash,” Logan said, knowing that this was the type of seedy ‘roach motel’ that would rent by the hour if required, no questions asked.
Benny Newman slid two keys on large, bright yellow plastic fobs across the scarred and cigarette-burned surface of the reception desk and said, “That’ll be eighty bucks, pilgrim.”
Benny had won the deeds to the Sunrise Motor Inn on a hand of five card stud back in nineteen eighty, just a couple of weeks before Lennon had been gunned down in the Big Apple. He had planned on selling it. But thirty-two years later he was still there, making enough mo
ney to keep him in booze and cigarettes, happy to lay the Latino maid a couple of nights a week and play the horses.
Logan handed one of the keys to Rita. She and Sharon had number seven, he was in eight. They gave the rooms the once over, then walked three blocks to a place called Miguel’s and ate pseudo-Mexican food. Logan had two grilled steak tacos, a side order of pinto beans and cheese, and a large black coffee, and Rita and Sharon ordered chicken burritos with nachos, and drank sodas.
“What now?” Sharon said as they finished up the meal.
“We get a good night’s sleep,” Logan said. “And in the morning I’ll decide what needs to be done to make sure that you can both get back to some kind of normality.”
Back at the Sunrise, Logan bid Rita and Sharon goodnight and told them to make sure that the door was locked and the chain was on.
Rita said that she would keep the gun under her pillow and shoot anything bigger than a cockroach that appeared in the room.
Logan went in his room, got undressed and made plans as he lay on the bed reviewing everything that had happened. He decided that the only guaranteed way that he could resolve the problem was to find Mendez and kill him. Maybe Brandon would have to go, too. He then stopped thinking and fell asleep.
It was ten a.m. Sal had bought a change of clothes and stayed the night at the Fairfield Inn on Washington Street East. He had fresh bandages on his thigh and side, and planned to have his injuries looked at by a doctor who’d been struck off and did whatever was necessary to make a living from people like Sal, who had suffered wounds that could not be treated in a hospital. But that would be later, when his business was completed. He had eaten filet mignon with all the trimmings and washed it down with a bottle of fine wine, before enjoying a good night’s sleep in a comfortable bed. He was all set to arrange to collect the money from Gloria Brandon and start enjoying the good life.
The phone rang at 10.30 a.m. Gloria picked up.
“Do you have the money?” Sal asked.
“Not yet,” Gloria said. “We should have it by noon.”
“Music to my ears, doll. I’ll call you back later and tell you where to take it.”
“I won’t be taking it anywhere, and neither will Jerry, he’s in no fit state to do anything. I’ll have one of the limo drivers deliver it to wherever you want.”
“OK,” Sal said. “But if you try anythin’ stupid, or there’s any hitch, then you won’t get a second chance. I’ll just kill you and that piece of work you’re married to.”
“We just want this whole sordid business behind us, Mr Mendez,” Gloria said.
“Keep that thought, and we all walk away from this happy,” Sal replied. “And remember, it was your prick of a husband that started this sordid business.”
Gloria ended the call and looked across to where Jerry was sitting and nursing a drink and looking as gray as his hairpiece. “He’s going to phone back,” she said. “I think he’ll want to meet after dark, somewhere isolated.”
“I’ve got a real bad feeling about this, honey,” Jerry said. “Mendez has probably killed a lot of people. Ray Darrow is just a car mechanic and driver.”
Gloria smiled. “That’s why it will work. Mendez won’t expect someone like Ray to shoot him.”
Sal left it till late afternoon before he called back. Jerry picked up.
“Hello?” Jerry said.
“That you, Brandon?” Sal asked.
“Yeah, Mendez.”
“We all set to do the deal?”
“I’ve got what you want in front of me.”
“I hope so, for your sake. Pack it in a sports bag, and have your guy pick it up at the house. I’ll need his name, description, cell number, and the make, colour and plate number of the car he’ll be drivin’.”
Jerry gave him the information.
“OK, Jer’, I think we’ve covered everythin’,” Sal said. “Have Ray leave your place at nine p.m. and head into the city. I’ll contact him.”
The line went dead. Jerry felt rising panic. Mendez was covering all the angles, and would no doubt ensure that Ray didn’t get a chance to gun him down.
The phone trilled again.
“Hello,” Jerry said for the second time in three minutes.
“It’s Logan.”
“What do you want?”
“To know if you’ve bought Mendez off.”
“It’s arranged.” Jerry said.
“You don’t sound too confident, Brandon. “Give me the details.”
“I don’t think so, Logan.”
“You need to.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d bet you’re trying to burn him, which is a mistake. He knows what he’s doing. You sell cars, he kills people. Work it out.”
“He’ll be taken care of.”
“How? Have you hired another pro, or are you relying on some jerk that works for you to get the job done?”
Jerry said nothing.
“I want in as backup for your boy,” Logan said.
“No way. I don’t trust you.”
“It’s not a request, Brandon. I lied to you. Rita Jennings had a flash drive all along. I’m sitting in an Internet café north of the city, scrolling through pages of figures, dates and transactions that the police would see as strong motive for the hit and run and subsequent criminal actions.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I don’t bluff, ever,” Logan said, scrolling through and opening files. “You want me to read about your dealings with Arista Holdings in Roanoke, or maybe Deerfield Components in Chicago, or―?”
“OK,” Jerry said. “But what’s your angle, Logan? I. was doing this to get you off my back.”
“Mendez is a man on a mission,” Logan said. “He’ll take your money, but if you make a bad play he’ll kill you. And I won’t sleep like a baby while I know he’s out there smarting over not being able to get the job done on Rita and Sharon.”
“So what happens if you get involved?”
“Mendez vanishes, you go back to your sleazy life, and I keep the memory stick in case you decide to ever sick someone else on Rita and Sharon.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You won’t, Brandon. You’ve got too much to lose.”
“How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don’t. But I really am the only chance you’ve got of staying alive and free.”
Jerry thought it over. “OK,” he said, knowing that he was in between a rock and a hard place, and that he would have to hope that Ray and Logan could take care of Mendez, and that he could then have Logan eliminated and get his hands on the flash drive.
“I can almost read your mind,” Logan said. “There’s a copy of this information, and it will be delivered to the IRS if I should come to harm. So you’d better hope I live long and prosper.”
Jerry didn’t believe him. If Logan and the women died, he was sure that he would be safe. But first he needed to know that Mendez was out of the way. That would just leave Sammy’s word against him, and no one was going to prosecute him on the unreliable testimony of an ex-con with no proof to back up his story with.
“So how do want to play it?” Jerry asked Logan.
Logan ran through some of what he had planned.
Detective Charlie Garfield was in possession of a lot of facts, but not enough leads. Dead bodies were turning up all over the state, and forensics had matched slugs to most of them. In this technological age information could be shared in seconds.
“So what have we got, boss?” Russ Adams asked Charlie.
“Nine-millimeter rounds in the corpses of several people and even a damn dog. Different locations and no known connection between the victims. We got a cabin resort owner, an old guy that rented and sold trailers, an old unidentified couple in the trunk of a car, two tourists and their mutt, all shot with the same weapon. And a veterinary surgeon that they’re sure was killed by a blow to the throat. A slug was dug out of the wall of her surgery that match
es the others.”
“No witnesses?”
“Not a one.”
That’s when Charlie got a call that gave them a direction to go in. It was from Sheriff Cal Mason in Alpena, who’d seen the BOLO they’d put out, and had been first on the scene at Bear Country Cabins where the body of one Norman Benton, the owner, had been found by a renter. The interesting part was that there was a guy by the name of Logan registered there. Another renter said he’d seen a tall guy and two women move into a cabin, and that they’d arrived in a dark-blue SUV, but he didn’t know what make it was.
“Thanks, Sheriff,” Charlie said. “Hope you can locate Logan. I’ll forward you a copy of what we have on him. Be advised that he is an ex-cop and extremely capable.”
Charlie and Russ went through it all again as they drank coffee in the station cafeteria. They agreed that for some reason Logan had taken on the role of guardian and was trying to defend Rita and Sharon Jennings from Sal Mendez, who was being paid by Jerry Brandon to kill them.
“Looks like Sammy Lester was being straight with us,” Russ said. “Do you think that Logan shot Naylor and his girlfriend?”
Charlie shook his head. “No. I’m sure that Lester did it. And we’ll prove it. And we need more proof than Lester’s word to make anything stick to Brandon. For now I’m more concerned with detaining Mendez, so make sure that his mug shot is on every news channel. Somebody must have seen him.”
Somebody had, and survived. Donny McGill had been watching his favourite show; Justified on FX, which was a country crime drama set in Kentucky. The main character was U.S. Marshall Raylan Givens, who enforced his own brand of rough justice.
Donny was getting up out of his La-Z-Boy recliner when the local news came on. He stopped in a crouch as the image of the guy who’d called himself Tony filled the screen. The pert little newscaster said that Tony was in fact Salvatore Mendez, and that he was wanted in connection with several homicides, and that members of the public should not approach him as he was believed to be armed and extremely dangerous.
