Port City Shakedown

by Boyle, Gerry

  “I’ll kill him for you right now,” Irina said. “He’s scum.”

  “Tell me about it, you fucking pimp,” Fuller said. “Nice friends you got, Blake.”

  “So here we are,” Lucky said. He looked at Brandon. “What do we do?”

  “I could just call the police,” Brandon said.

  “There’s a clock ticking, dude,” Fuller said, voice weary but still full of resolve. “You won’t find her. You can call the National fucking Guard.”

  “Ten minutes, I have him screaming out where she is,” Irina said.

  “She will,” Lucky said. “She’s seen things you wouldn’t—”

  “Blake, you give her a gun, first person she pops is you,” Fuller said. “You give her that shiv, she’ll stick it in your neck.”

  “No,” Irina said. “I want Mia back, too.”

  Fuller laughed, but it turned into a cough. He winced, but still said, “Who you kidding? You want to tie things up here, take your money, and get the hell out.”

  “Shut up, you piece of shit.”

  “She’ll get it out of him,” Lucky said. “She will.”

  “He’ll beg to tell you,” Irina said.

  “Interesting business you’re in,” Brandon said.

  He paused. Felt all their eyes on him. Thought of Griffin. What would he do?

  The gun still in his hand, he went to the closet, took out extension cords he’d flung aside when he was looking for the bag. Tossed one to Irina.

  “Hog-tie him,” he said.

  She smiled.

  “Now you’re talking sense, Brandon,” Irina said.

  “No,” Brandon said. “I mean Lucky.”

  Fuller gave a snort. “You lose, Natasha,” he said.

  “Such a bad decision, Brandon,” Lucky said. “Still time to reconsider.”

  “I’ll live with it,” Brandon said.

  “You were always at risk,” Irina said. “Now it’s your little girlfriend, too.”

  She tied expertly, not the first time. Brandon took the other cord, told her to lie on her belly, and she did. He put the gun in his waistband, quickly knelt on her back, and tied her wrists, then lifted her ankles, tied them, too.

  “Your knots are better,” Brandon said.

  “Dead,” Irina said. “You’re all dead.”

  Fuller started to try to lift himself up, fell back to the floor. “Blake. I can’t do it,” he said.

  “I’ll get the car,” Brandon said. “Where is it?”

  “Two driveways up, toward Portland. Fifty feet in there’s a little tractor path, goes to a shed. I pulled it in.”

  “Keys.”

  “Here.”

  Fuller winced as he stretched to fish the keys from the pocket of his jeans. They were wet with blood. Brandon took them and picked up the backpack and the rifle and walked out of the room, out the door. Paused to tighten the trigger with the thumbscrew and started to run.

  Out of the house and down the driveway, the woods dark and deep. Onto the road, turning right, keeping to the grass by the stone walls. A car passed and Brandon slowed to a walk, his rifle pressed to his leg. Breaking into a run again, he loped past the first driveway, lanterns on stone posts. Reached the second driveway, no lights at the entrance. Turned and ran down the drive, almost missed the path.

  It was two ruts in the lawn, receding into the darkness. Brandon trotted, saw the shape of the car, small and white. He opened the door, slung the backpack in. Put the key in and started the motor, easing out of the path with lights out, turned them on when he was coming out of the drive.

  It was a VW, stickers on the dash. University of Maine. Dave Matthews Band. Brandon pulled over, turned on the interior light. Reached between the seats and pulled out papers. A parking ticket, Portland. Receipt from a Burger King. A gas receipt, twenty-two dollars. A name on the receipt. Timothy Gould. Another card: hotel parking. He looked at it. No name, no address. Brandon squinted to see the date.

  June 2. 4:09 p.m.

  That afternoon.

  He dialed his phone. Waited, lights out now, sitting in the dark, wind rustling the trees.

  “Nessa.”

  “Brandon. Where are you? I’ve been so worried. I thought—”

  “Listen, Nessa. I need you to do something for me. Are you okay?”

  “No. I was frantic.”

  “Have you been—”

  “No. I promised.”

  “Good. Take the phonebook, call all the motels and hotels in South Portland, then Portland. Ask for Timothy Gould. Say he checked in today.”

  “Timothy Gould. Who is he?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Nessa. Just call me if you find him.”

  “I will. Have you heard from—”

  Brandon hung up. Sped up the road, took a left and floored it down the drive. Pulled over and stopped.

  Opened the passenger door and dropped the money bag out, then drove on.

  As he slid around the circle in front of the house, the headlights flashed over the shore, Ocean Swell, still riding at anchor. He pulled up to the door by the garage, left the car running. Before getting out, he slid Fuller’s Ruger under the driver’s seat. He trotted to the door, opened it, and listened.

  All quiet.

  Walked down the hall, rifle out. Pushed the door open. Saw Fuller, still leaning against the cupboards, eyes closed. Irina on her side on the floor, still tied. Where was—

  Lucky hit him from behind, sent him sprawling. He landed face-first on the floor, rolled sideways, and Lucky landed on him, but only on his arm, grabbed for the rifle. Brandon scrabbled backward onto Irina, who screamed to Lucky, “Shoot him, shoot him.” He rolled over Fuller, who shouted, “My leg.”

  Lucky raised the rifle and smiled.

  “The money,” he said. “I’ll take it back now.”

  “It’s not here,” Brandon said.

  “Untie me, Lucky,” Irina said. “I helped you.”

  “Let’s go get it, Brandon,” Lucky said. “You can take your twenty, be on your way.”

  “Untie me, you idiot,” Irina shouted.

  Lucky motioned with the gun.

  “Let’s go.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Irina said.

  “I’ll be back, baby,” Lucky said.

  “He’s going to kill you, Brandon,” Irina said. “He’s going to kill all of us. Just like he—”

  The gun swung, pointed at Irina.

  “No,” Lucky said.

  “Doesn’t matter now if he knows,” Irina said.

  “Knows what?” Brandon said.

  “She’s crazy. Crazy Russian bitch.”

  Irina smiled.

  “He’s going to kill all of us, just like he killed your mother. He killed all of them. He was on that boat. Shot them, sunk the boat with them in it.”

  “She wasn’t there,” Lucky said. “She doesn’t know.”

  “He told me. He was very drunk. Stoli, I remember. So drunk somehow some little bit of guilt shook loose. The next day he remembers nothing. But I don’t forget.”

  Brandon felt the room go still. No one in it but he and Lucky. The rest of them gone, disappeared.

  “Why?”

  “I wasn’t there. I was late. She’s just trying to save her pretty ass.”

  “Why?” Brandon asked again.

  “Probably a freighter. Somebody asleep on the bridge.”

  “Why? What did my mother do to you?”

  “Never would’ve known what hit them, one guy at the helm, everybody else asleep below.”

  “She liked you guys. I remember when you all left. How happy she was. Nessa took me down to say goodbye. And you killed them? You’re crazy. You’re a psycho. You are, aren’t you?”

  Lucky stared at him, finally shook his head. Smiled.

  “No, not a psycho, Brandon. A businessman. I was supposed to get my cut. Thirty thousand, after we moved the dope. Then Ketch says it’s gonna be ten. Like the whole conversation never happened. I get pissed, he
says, ‘Okay. Five.’ I say, ‘Hey, man. What’s going on?’ He says, ‘Two and a half.” I say, ‘No way.’ Money was right there, on board. I said to myself, ‘That’s just not fair. You want to break the rules, I’ll break the rules.’ And I popped him. Took all of it. A hundred and twenty thousand, forty of it from Nessa, by the way.”

  So that was it, Brandon thought, her life flashing before his eyes. Pain that all the wine in the world couldn’t ease, guilt that greeted her every morning, bid her goodnight at the end of the day.

  “I did Nikki first. She was asleep,” Lucky said. “I can tell you, she never felt a thing.”

  “Victor’ll find you, you bastard,” Irina said from the floor. “They’ll hunt you down.”

  “What’s there to hunt?” Lucky said, “if we all go down with the ship?”

  CHAPTER 62

  Out the door to the car, lights on, still running, starting to overheat, maybe what Timothy Gould had brought it to the garage for. Lucky motioned Brandon to the driver’s seat, climbed in the back behind him.

  Brandon put the car in gear, started around the circle.

  “Why Nessa? Who talked her into that?”

  “Didn’t need talking,” Lucky said. “It was pot. A victimless crime. A lot of money to be made.”

  “And she needed money,” Brandon said.

  “What was it? Husband blew their savings on some bimbo, then up and died? I forget the story. But no more talk. Let’s get the money.”

  “You don’t care about Mia. You didn’t care about Nikki.”

  “Caring was irrelevant,” Lucky said. “It was business.”

  The car was passing the money bag, invisible in the dark—except for a band of reflective tape. The backpack.

  “Stop,” Lucky said, jabbing the rifle barrel into the back of Brandon’s head. He braked, the car skidding on the wet gravel drive.

  “Back up,” Lucky barked.

  Brandon did, watching as the backpack showed in the mirror.

  “Stop here,” Lucky said.

  As Lucky got out, Brandon reached for the gun under the seat. Lucky lifted the bag, felt its heft. The rifle still trained on Brandon in the car, he squatted, unzipped the bag, felt the money.

  He grinned. “Get out, my friend,” he said.

  Brandon opened the door, stood there, his right hand behind his back.

  “Let’s take a little walk,” Lucky said.

  “Okay,” Brandon said, and brought the gun around, pointed it at Lucky’s face. Lucky pulled the trigger on the rifle. It didn’t move, screwed down tight.

  He tried again, his finger flexing.

  Nothing.

  “Drop it,” Brandon said.

  A moment passed. Another.

  And then Lucky lowered the rifle, dropped it to the soft ground. Brandon pointed the pistol at Lucky’s chest. “Now let’s go for that walk.”

  They started into the darkness, toward the trees, Lucky five feet in front. The ground was spongy and wet, the trees rustling with the wind gusts, the air heavy with the scent of sea and fir. When they reached the treeline Brandon said, “Stop.” Lucky did.

  “Kneel down,” Brandon said.

  Lucky did, but as he lowered himself, he turned and smiled.

  “You shouldn’t do this,” he said.

  “Justice,” Brandon said.

  “You’re not like us, me and Irina,” Lucky said, turning away. “It’ll eat you up. You’ll be like your grandmother, drinking herself into a haze. And you know what? Every morning when you wake up, it’ll still be there.”

  “You did that to her.”

  “Hey, she bought in, and when she did, she sold a piece of herself. Nikki, she was a very attractive young woman running in some fairly risky circles. Could’ve been a lot of things happened to her.”

  “But it was you.”

  “You can kill me, but if you get Mia back it won’t be the same. You won’t deserve her and you’ll know it.”

  Brandon held the pistol out, saw it wavering, still pointing at Lucky’s head.

  He swallowed. Tightened his finger slowly.

  Aimed the gun at the back of Lucky’s head.

  Relaxed, and let his finger fall away.

  He slipped his phone from his pocket. Started to dial. Heard a car start at the house, followed by a splintering crash. The Jeep, coming through the garage door.

  The motor roared. Gears ground. Brandon stepped back toward he drive. Saw taillights, then headlights, the Jeep lurching as it started up the drive.

  Lucky turned, still on his knees.

  “Stay there,” Brandon said, and the Jeep approached, no top, just a roll bar, swerving onto the lawn, back onto the drive. It was doing forty when it passed, just missing the VW, Fuller hunched over the wheel like a wounded man on horseback.

  “He knows you got the money,” Lucky said. “Probably going to grab your girl, take off again. Next time it’ll be a lot more than twenty grand.” He paused. “Or maybe he’s just gonna kill her.”

  Brandon turned back to him, the gun still pointed. Lowered it and fired. Lucky bellowed. Clutched at his ankle and writhed on the ground. Brandon ran to the car, scooping up the bag of money on the way.

  CHAPTER 63

  Brandon turned left, saw taillights in the distance, headed for the city. The lights disappeared over a rise and he floored the VW, felt it shudder and cough.

  Red lights came on in the dash and it slowed. The lights went off and the engine revved again.

  “Damn it,” Brandon said.

  Fuller was out of sight, headed for the Route 1 bridge, the city. Brandon reached for the phone, pressed the nine, the one.

  Stopped.

  Would Fuller talk? Would he say he knew nothing, let Mia die where she was? What if they shot him, shot the cop killer, shot him for Officer Griffin? What if he drove into an abutment, better that than to do forty years?

  Mia dying would be Fuller’s last revenge.

  Brandon pressed the gas pedal to the floor. The engine sputtered but then smoothed out and the little car whined, the steering wheel shaking. He hit sixty, slammed on the brakes as a car pulled out from a side street, hit the gas again and passed it. In the distance, on the bridge, he saw the single taillights.

  The Jeep. Fuller caught in traffic.

  Brandon was on the bridge, the black, glittering bay to his left. Fuller was going off the other side, the Jeep waggling as he looked for room to get around a slower truck, suddenly swerving right and passing.

  Following, Brandon saw the Jeep turn onto the Interstate ramp, southbound into the city. It disappeared and the car in front of Brandon braked for the turn, sat and waited for oncoming traffic. Turned slowly.

  Brandon followed.

  Onto the highway, traffic heavy. Four lanes headed into the city. No Jeep in sight, and then flashing blue lights in the passing lane ahead.

  “No,” Brandon said, and he floored the little car, moved left to follow. The city skyline on the left, the bank saying it was fifty-nine degrees. The VW doing eighty, in pursuit. Brandon creeping up on the police car, which suddenly swerved right as a car in front moved into the breakdown lane. Slowed.

  The Jeep. Fuller.

  The gun in his pocket? The cop walking into it? If Fuller missed, he’d be shot dead right there.

  Brandon slowed, drew alongside the cruiser, its spotlights on, facing forward. Brandon beeped the horn, saw the cop look over, a young woman, startled.

  He held up the gun, made sure she saw it, her eyes widening, head jerking back, hand going to the radio mic. Brandon floored the VW and pulled away. The cop had to wait for a break in traffic, then pulled out, five cars back, the blue lights flashing.

  And the phone rang.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me.”

  “Nessa.”

  The engine was whining, an oily, sweet smell filling the car.

  “I called all over,” Nessa said.

  “What did you find?”

  �
�Well, the Sheraton. He wasn’t there. The Hilton by the mall? He wasn’t there, either. It was a different Gould. You know they don’t want to tell you anything, these hotel people?”

  “Nessa, did you find him?”

  The blue lights still back there, the cop caught in traffic.

  “I’m getting to that.”

  “Get to it now. Please.”

  “Well, yes. I did. Timothy Gould. He’s staying at the Royal Arms. Right in town. At first they didn’t want to tell me, said they would give him a message, if he were staying there. If. I said, I need to reach my son and I need to know if he’s gotten this message. I said it was an emergency.”

  “It is,” Brandon said. “Thanks.”

  He closed the phone and tossed it beside the gun. Turned the lights out, and swerved off the next exit, downshifting, no brakes, hanging onto the steering wheel as the car lifted, tires squealed. He came off the highway, cut across two lanes, and rolled into an Arby’s parking lot.

  He sat. Waited. No blue lights came off the highway. He counted to twenty, hit the headlights and pulled out again, past the post office, up the hill, driving slowly with the traffic now, his heart racing.

  Through downtown, Brandon watched the mirrors. Held his breath. Eased right past slower cars, down darkened Congress Street past street kids, two African women waiting for a late bus.

  Down the hill to the Old Port, always people there, everybody young and hip, the VW fitting right in. He parked in front of a fire hydrant, fished in his wallet. Got out and crossed a courtyard to the hotel entrance, brassy and grand. A doorman opened the door for him, said, “Good evening, sir.”

  “Good evening,” Brandon said, not slowing. He strode to the registration desk, stepped up beside a couple with suitcases, a little girl. Brandon flashed his police-intern I.D., looking intent and undeterrable, because he was.

  “Police business,” he said. “I need to talk to a guest here. Tim Gould. It’s very important.”

  The guy behind the counter blinked once, hesitated. Looked too late as the I.D. went back in Brandon’s jeans. The guy looked around—for a superior?—then bent to a computer screen.

  “Four twenty-three,” he said, pointing to the hall. “The elevator is around the corner to the right. But listen, could you tell me your name so I can—”