Body Broker

by Daniel M Ford

  I walked back to the car trying to feel like I hadn’t just bathed in shit. It didn’t work. I wished the case was closed and I’d been paid so I could call Eddie and buy myself something nice. I’d take the Belle out into the bay, drop anchor, and smoke myself to the best sleep I knew.

  I wished for a lot of things, like a better solution than pitting one batch of criminals against another. I tried to play my job straight. I didn’t carry lockpicks. I tried not to carry a weapon. I didn’t shake people down and I wasn’t purely muscle for hire.

  But I’d crossed some kind of line here, and I felt it bone-deep.

  I drove back to the Belle, had a couple mouthfuls of whiskey for dinner, and tried very hard to sleep.

  Chapter 47

  Late that night, the buzzing of my phone on the small table next to my bunk pulled me out of a deep sleep. The incoming number wasn’t available on caller ID. I swallowed hard and flicked to accept it.

  “Jack Dixon.” My voice sounded like a quarter ton of gravel had just been blown through my esophagus.

  “Wake up call, Mr. Dixon,” the voice on the other end said. “The info you gave us came good. Gonna need you to clear some things up, though.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Mr. Dixon. You got an hour to be at the following location.” He then rattled off a series of what I soon realized were coordinates — latitude and longitude.

  “Hang on. Let me get some paper and copy this down.” I was awake now, for sure. My heart thudded in my chest, filled up my ears. A chill was working its way up from my stomach.

  I dutifully wrote down the coordinates and then that charming, cold, neutral voice on the other end repeated that I had one hour and disappeared.

  I got dressed in jeans and a dark blue Henley. I considered arming myself; I had some knives lying around. The brass knuckles were still in the company car. In the end I decided on those, as I liked my metal encased right hook a lot better than I did my odds with a sharp kitchen knife.

  Besides, I couldn’t afford to ruin any of my good knives on some biker’s ribs.

  I was in the car and headed north inside ten minutes, but not until I pulled loose the tell-tale meter plugged into the car’s electronics that read its mileage and where it had traveled. According to the GPS, I wasn’t going far; within the county, but up near the PA line. I kept the windows rolled down in hopes that the night air would help me wake up.

  Frankly the mystery of where I was going and what I was meant to do there was plenty in that regard.

  To get to the location eventually required turning off a paved road a while after I’d passed a Scout Reservation. I worried that I was beating the hell out of the undercarriage of the firm’s car as I rode up a badly rutted dirt road. I know I smacked the thing against the ground at least a couple of times.

  Eventually the road ran out, and GPS told me I had one tenth of a mile to go. I suddenly got a text.

  Looks like you’re walking from there. When you get beyond the trees, do not run.

  A second text came in just moments later.

  Do not run.

  I killed the engine, stuffed the keys into a pocket, and started walking. The feeble light of my phone did not do much to illuminate my path so I got my Maglite out and clicked it on. A stand of trees ahead of me, a field and a whole lot of blackness beyond that.

  I cleared the trees, shut my phone off, and slipped the knuckles on to my right hand. I kept the Maglite in my left. The instinct to sweep it around the field was overpowering, but I resisted.

  Then suddenly, on the far end of the field, lights came alive. Engines roared.

  Three motorcycles bounded across the field toward me. I turned to dive back into the cover of the trees, prepared to leg it for the car.

  The inarguable insistence of the text I’d gotten kept me rooted in place, doing the dumbest thing possible: nothing.

  By the time I’d gathered myself it was too late anyway. The bikers could certainly have given chase if I’d tried to go then.

  They didn’t circle me. That, at least, was something. I could pick a direction and run if I had to. They pulled up a few yards away.

  The rumble of the engines subsided; silhouettes detached themselves and advanced on me.

  “Mr. Dixon. A liar and a coward,” one of them — the one in the middle, the shortest and broadest of the three — said. I couldn’t make out too many details since I’d killed my Maglite’s beam, but all were bearded. I could hear the creak of leather, smell oil and metal, hear the tromp of heavy boots in the grass.

  I could also see the outline of one of them drawing a weapon — a shotgun, sawed off, wildly illegal — from a drop holster on his thigh.

  The stocky one, the talker, came forward till the ambient light of the stars helped me make out his features. Not Troy, certainly; this fellow was at least a foot smaller. I heard the whisper of a knife leave its sheath.

  Not quite time yet to make a play, I thought. But nearly so. I tried to stay loose, to breathe easy.

  “You broke your word, Mr. Dixon. Then you tried to sell us out to some local movers, I understand. They would rather reach an accommodation with us than start some pointless war over turf. Surely it will come to that some day, but there may be years of fruitful interaction now that they’ve given us a peace offering.”

  He raised the seax. Starlight glinted off the blade.

  “Are you going to cooperate, or will I take more than an ear to start?”

  “Nah,” I said, trying to project a confidence I did not feel.

  “It was not a yes or n…”

  He didn’t finish the question, because then I came alongside his face with the knuckles. Hitting with my fist wrapped in them hurt.

  Him, more than me.

  I heard bone crunch and I knew I’d broken his jaw. I was never going to get away from the one with the shotgun. But I wasn’t going to eat two barrels of buckshot while sitting on my thumb.

  Then the gunshots rang out. They were the crack of high-powered rifles, not the full-throated roar of a shotgun.

  I dove forward, away from the falling biker I’d decked, seeking the cover of the bikes. The one whose jaw I’d broken had staggered back to his feet and taken a pistol from his belt. Tough bastard, I’d give him that. But another rifle shot dropped him and he lay just a couple of feet from me, his face a ruin of shredded flesh and blood.

  There were a few more shots. Not many. Probably less than a dozen, all told. By the time they were done, all three of the bikers lay still and unmoving on the ground.

  I continued to lay still between the bikes. I only got up as I heard footsteps crunching over the grass. I thought about grabbing one of the biker’s weapons — I kicked the heavy bladed knife as I stood up — but I thought better of it.

  By the time I’d stood and picked my way around the bodies, they’d closed in. Four of them, covering every direction I could go.

  “Relax, Dixon. You gave us a good tip.” The one doing the talking was, I was pretty certain, the same one I’d talked to on the phone. Maybe the one I’d talked to in the trailer. They were all indistinct shapes with long rifles in their hands, straps trailing beneath them. And they wore hunting getups, probably camouflage, including balaclavas that hid everything but an oval of skin around the eyes.

  Even in broad daylight, I wouldn’t have been able to ID any of them.

  “Why the hell did you bring me out here?”

  The leader lifted his rifle and tapped my chest with the barrel.

  It was a tad warm.

  “Mind your tone, prep-school boy,” he said. “Now you know you ain’t dealing with amateurs. Nice punch, by the way. Hell, I think you broke that fucker’s jaw,” he said. There was some laughter around him. He didn’t laugh; neither did I.

  “You were at the scene of a mul
tiple killing. With a weapon in your hand, that’s been used. A competent cop could probably put that together if they got a tip. Just lookin’ out for you.”

  The muzzle of the rifle continued to rest lightly on my chest. I did not like how it felt.

  If it was just me and him — maybe just me, him, and one other guy — I would’ve taken my chances. I was pretty sure I could grab the gun with my left and pull him into a punch with my metal-wrapped right fist.

  But that would’ve done me no good when there were three other guns that, while not pointed at me currently, could be course corrected in a matter of moments.

  “Okay,” I said, and even I heard my voice crack a little, “what now?”

  “You go the fuck home and forget the Aesir existed. Not your problem anymore.”

  I didn’t give them the satisfaction of running back to my car, no matter how badly I wanted to.

  Chapter 48

  I tried to sleep, until I finally gave up while lying awake at five-thirty a.m. I got up, chewed on a tasteless apple, swallowed some tasteless almond butter. I even took a mouthful of whiskey, which I never did first thing in the morning. But I wound up merely swishing it around my mouth before spitting it over the starboard side.

  I untied the boat and went for a short cruise. I got out the ‘novelty paperweight’ and scrubbed it down with bleach and water and vinegar. When I was well out on the water, I threw the brass knuckles out into the river, hoping like hell that the current would be kind to a sailor, and carry it to the Chesapeake, or the Atlantic beyond, and away from any place with detectives and crime labs and search warrants. I thought about throwing my clothes in after it, but from what I could tell, they had escaped all stains other than mud.

  I got back to the marina around the time I’d usually get up, a little before nine. I went to the gym and did everything I could do: too many dumb-bells and too much cardio, but I was keeping my hand in. I tried not to hear gunshots, the sound of bodies hitting the ground, or the rasp of that knife coming out of its sheath while I worked.

  Then I drove the car up to the firm. I tried to sneak in, drop the keys, and bolt. But somebody was watching for me and I immediately heard a yell from the management corridor.

  “DIXON. GET IN HERE.”

  I sighed, steeled myself, and wondered if I was about to be looking for a job.

  I marched in. Jason looked stern, but not quite in a firing mood. I’d thought that before, about bosses. I’d been wrong.

  “Where the hell do you think you were going? Why didn’t you bring that car back yesterday?”

  “One,” I said, holding up a finger, “there’s this phenomenon I call the Peasant’s Instinct, which indicates that the less time one spends around authority figures, the better. That the potential negative consequences…”

  “Less bullshit.”

  “Fine. I needed the car yesterday. Wrap-up on the Kennelly case.” Watching a gang war start. Being part of the set up to an execution. That kind of thing.

  “Good. From now on, company cars are barred to you. I’m dropping you from the list of approved drivers with the fleet insurance.”

  “How the hell am I gonna do…”

  “Your job? Buy a damn car. And that brings me to my second point.”

  He produced two envelopes from his desk, and handed them over. Both had my name written on them.

  “Ms. Kennelly paid up last night. In full, and then some. She didn’t even blink at the expense report.”

  “I didn’t submit one.”

  “Brock did. I did. Don’t worry, I didn’t bilk her. I just estimated what you were likely to have spent on gas, tolls, ammo, food, and stupidity tax.”

  The first envelope had the firm livery on it and my name in the address window. The second was addressed to me, care of the firm. The return address was ADI Holdings.

  I opened it with a thumb. Inside was a slim letter wrapped around a check. Mindful of etiquette and many a childhood admonition to read the card before looking at the money, I read. The handwriting was a little spidery.

  Mr. Dixon,

  Though affairs at present prevent me from being as involved in my son’s life as I might like, I nevertheless retain a father’s gratitude for the safe return of his son. Below is a token of that gratitude. It also contains an apology for your treatment at the hands of my employees. They are sometimes overzealous in what they perceive as the protection of my interests.

  Best,

  Thomas Kennelly

  The check slipped to the floor as I scanned the letter. I picked it up. I blinked at it several times.

  “May I see it?”

  I held it out to Jason, but I did not let him touch it.

  “That is considerable gratitude,” he said.

  “Yep.”

  “Go buy a car.”

  “Let’s not be hasty.”

  “There’s an auto auction every week down in Bel Air. Seized property and the like. Go buy a car.”

  “Fine, fine,” I said. I’d already given up enough of myself the night before, why not submit to the car, too? “Look, I promised to make a friend dinner tonight, and she’ll actually kill me if I don’t deliver.”

  Jason nodded at the checks in my hands. “You’ve got carfare.”

  “Fine. I’ll file a final report tomorrow.”

  “Good. Get out of here. And Jack,” Jason said, “try to be just a little bit more of a team player. Like, eleven percent more. And don’t get any of your co-workers shot again, or I’ll fire you.”

  “What if I get myself shot?”

  “That I could live with.”

  “Noted.” I left his office with a sarcastic salute. I almost stopped and asked for a company gun, but if I suddenly started packing without complaint, Jason would know something was wrong.

  I used my phone to immediately deposit the first check, the one from Ms. Kennelly. The second would’ve put me over the monthly limit on mobile deposits, so the first stop with my Lyft was the bank.

  Chapter 49

  Buying the supplies to make the Beef Wellington Dani had requested certainly put a dent in my suddenly flush checking account. It would’ve paid for several weeks’ worth of nut butter, carrots, and apples. Not to mention the occasional lunch salad or the absolute extravagance of a burger for dinner.

  I texted Dani as I shopped, asking about veg, sides, and starters.

  Fuck vegetables, she replied. Potatoes. Em is handling cheese and crackers.

  I added a five-pound bag of Yukon golds and an extra half pound of Normandy butter.

  It was a long Lyft ride back from Janssen’s in Wilmington to Dani and Emily’s house just on the Cecil County side of the Susquehanna, but I had the money. And Jason had been right to take away my right to drive a company car.

  Frankly, that was less of a punishment than I probably deserved. On the drive I alternated between closing parts of the case file I’d built and looking for info on the auction at which I’d been instructed to purchase a car. It was slim pickings, mostly hatchbacks and coupes that had probably been seized from hapless kids carrying a trace of weed in their glove box.

  I tried to put my mind in a happier place by making the reservation for Saturday’s date with Geneva Lawton, and perusing the menu. I tended to navigate the menu several days in advance of attendance at any good restaurant so I knew how to adjust what I ate in the days leading up to it. And it gave me something to look forward to. There was a good chance I was getting crab cakes with shrimp and salmon mousse if they were on; shrimp and grits was in with a chance, though.

  This got me through the long ride, and the expense of it, without succumbing to the mood that was trying to drag me in. I was in the act of knocking on the door of a nice split-level ranch at the end of a cul-de-sac when it opened from the inside. That threw me off balance, and I almost droppe
d the two shopping bags I was carrying. But through superior body-control and a keen awareness of how much it had all cost, I kept it under control.

  Emily was about as different from Dani as it was possible to be. Shorter, curvier, prone to pin-up hairstyles and tasteful makeup. She had a cheese knife in her hand and a yellow apron on over a pale green dress. “You know where the kitchen is,” she said, pointing with the cheese knife. Indeed I did, and I unloaded everything on the kitchen table and the island.

  Once my hands were free, I was suddenly wrapped in a hug. At least until I let out an “Oof” and Emily let go and stepped back.

  “Sorry,” she said, “I forgot about your ribs.” She looked speculatively at my face. “You’ve looked better,” she said, pointing at the fading bruise under my eye. “Are you eating,” she added, suddenly tapping the cheese knife against my chest. Despite the presence of a blade against my shirt, I did not feel threatened.

  “Yes.”

  “Anything other than peanut butter and whiskey?”

  I froze for a second too long. “Carrots.”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “The world punishes us enough, Jack. You don’t have to do it yourself.”

  I shrugged. She’d always been able to see through me. “Only discipline I know, Em.”

  “Fine, fine. At least let me pour you a glass of wine.”

  “That I will not argue with.”

  Soon enough I had my sleeves rolled up, a red apron on — Emily had tried to give me pink, but I submitted to toxic masculinity and refused — and a puff pastry mixing with the dough hook in a bowl. Dani got home by the time I was putting it in the fridge.

  The rest of the afternoon passed pleasantly. I finished the pastry. I made mushroom duxelles with shallot. I peeled the potatoes against my usual protocol for mashing them, because when I suggested simply rinsing them off, Dani had glared at me.

  It took hours, but they were good hours. I couldn’t have done this every night — the home, the closeness, the wine. It would’ve driven me crazy. But it was nice to forget about drugs, drug dealers, bikers, threats on my life, and counting every single calorie. I didn’t think about gunshots, dead bodies, or gang wars for upwards of an hour at a time.