The Night Charter

by Sam Hawken

Parker did not see Matt draw the pistol from the small of his back. Suddenly it was in Matt’s other hand, brandished in the face of the younger man. Both of them had their hands on the attaché’s handle. The younger man let go only when Matt shot him in the eye.

  It was a moment of perfect clarity. Everything around Parker snapped into focus, from the glint of the sun off the yellow paint of the Charger to the droplets of blood that remained suspended in the air when the younger man’s head snapped back from the impact of the bullet. Parker saw the dead man’s fingers slip free of the case and then the whole body collapse backward as every muscle released at once and the tension vanished from every joint.

  The older man grabbed at his chest at the moment Matt shot him in the leg. The driver’s-side door of the SUV swung wide, and a burly Latino in a suit bulled out. Matt stepped forward with the pistol and fired three rounds. Two drilled through the side window and into the driver, while the third ricocheted off the windshield and left a divot surrounded by sharp white cracks.

  Chapado called to the dead men in Spanish, but Parker could not find his own voice. His mouth worked on empty air, struggling to form some sound, but there was only Matt laughing and the older man on the ground bleeding heavily from his wounded leg. Soto and Jackson said nothing and did nothing.

  Matt stood over the wounded man and leveled the gun at his head. “Hurt?” he asked.

  “I’m having a heart attack, I think.”

  “That’s too bad. Maybe you’ll bleed to death first.”

  “Why are you doing this? What have you done?”

  “The price just doubled. You wanted to pay a hundred grand for this asshole, but now you’re going to pay two hundred. If you want to see him alive again after today, you’ll have the money together in twenty-four hours. I’ll call you with the details. Don’t try to call me. You understand? ¿Entiendes?”

  The man nodded, his face warped with pain. “I will tell them.”

  “You do that.”

  Matt turned back toward the Charger and flipped the attaché case over his shoulder, holding it loosely by two fingers. He smiled again, but only for Parker and the others.

  Parker spoke. “Matt…what the hell?”

  “Your cut just went up, my friend,” Matt said. “Sandro, get that asshole back in the car. We’ve got to split before the cops show up.”

  “We didn’t talk about this,” Parker said. “You didn’t say anything.”

  The smile became a frown. “Are you turning into a little bitch or something, bro? Is that what I’m hearing?”

  “No, but—”

  “Relax,” Matt said. He put the gun away and clapped Parker on the shoulder. “I’ve got it all under control. You just worry about your end.”

  “What’s my end?”

  “Getting the front money. It’s time for us to divvy up. I’ll call you with the spot, okay? In the meantime, maybe you ought to get the hell out of here, huh? You don’t want to be around here when the cops find this mess. Oh, and something else: I’m going to hang on to this fifty grand, okay?”

  Parker struggled for more words, but he was breathless. He watched Matt get into the Charger and turn the ignition. The car peeled away, driving past the dead body of the younger man and leaving the older man in a pool of his own blood. Parker stood frozen for a whole minute, and then he ran. He ran and he ran and he did not stop until he was safe in his truck and headed for someplace far away.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  CAMARO RESTED AFTER they were gone, sleeping away hours in the bed in the bow. She awoke feeling achy, and with the air conditioning off in the cabin, the air had grown uncomfortably sticky. The boat had a tiny washroom with a freshwater shower and sink, and she splashed cool water on her face and let some run down the back of her neck.

  The envelope Parker delivered to her was underneath a pillow. She brought it out now. It was held shut with a red string that she unwound before opening the flap and dumping the contents on the bed.

  Ten little bundles of fifty-dollar bills fell into a scatter. Camaro sorted them out, then took the rubber bands off them so she could count the money out. There were two hundred bank notes. Fifty times two hundred made ten thousand exactly.

  There had been times when she’d handled more money than this. A lot more money. She had paid cash for this boat. And even at a bargain price—the seller anxious to get it off his hands—it had been a lot of cash. They had made the exchange much like this: bills in an envelope. But they had counted out the money in the galley.

  “Are you running dope?” the man had asked her when the deal was done.

  “No,” Camaro had said. “I just want to fish.”

  She put all the money in a single stack and wound one of the rubber bands around it. After that she stuffed it into her back pocket.

  The deck needed to be cleaned off and the boat rubbed back to a shine, but Camaro didn’t feel like doing that now. Tomorrow she had no charters, so she could do it then, but the bait box couldn’t wait. Camaro got a large plastic bucket and drained the melted ice from the box, then threw the unused bait overboard. A waste, but if there had been nothing in there to pass inspection, the game would have been over.

  Thinking of Phillips, the Coast Guard officer, turned her thoughts to Matt Clifford and the gun he carried. She felt foolish now for not insisting everyone go unarmed. It was only when the pistol was revealed that she had realized everything could turn into bloody carnage with one poor decision. If he had turned the gun on her, she might have been able to get him with her karambit if he was close enough, or maybe even the shotgun if she was quick enough. But those were long odds, and she did not like the idea of playing against them.

  A man who deceived was a man who could never be trusted with anything. That much Camaro knew. As she disembarked from the Annabel, she considered the position the others were in, Parker included. Parker had told her that Soto and Jackson were close to Matt. They had to worry less. But Parker was the outside man, nearly as dispensable as someone like Camaro, only he could not get away. Matt truly was a center of gravity, and everyone orbited around him.

  She got to her bike and swung a leg, but she did not start the engine. She thought, and she turned over in her mind the events of those fourteen hours, and then she brought out her phone. Parker’s number was in the memory, but she did not need the phone to remind her of it.

  He answered quickly, but his voice was low. Camaro heard a television in the background. “Hello? Who is it?” he asked.

  “It’s Camaro.”

  “Camaro,” Parker said, as if the name was new to him. “Why are you calling me?”

  “I wanted to hear how things went. After.”

  The sound of the TV faded. Parker was moving to another room. The sound of the TV was cut off completely, and Camaro knew he’d closed a door. “Can I meet you?” he asked.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it on the phone. Is there somewhere we can go?”

  “There’s the diner,” Camaro said. “Is that too public?”

  “No, that’ll work. I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to come by the marina, just in case they spot my truck. I have to be careful. I need help.”

  “What can I do for you?” Camaro asked. “I’m out, remember?”

  “Nobody’s out,” Parker said, and his voice was hollow. “I’ll meet you at the diner in a couple of hours. Is that all right? A couple of hours? I can’t just run out on my kid.”

  “I’ll be there,” Camaro said.

  “Thank you.”

  “Take care of yourself, Parker.”

  The call ended. Camaro weighed the phone in her hand a long moment before putting it away. A feeling of desperation lingered, palpable as the sensation of the bright Florida sun on her body. He did not have to speak the words for her to know that things were wrong and set to worsen.

  She could get out. She could close the book on Parker now. She did not. Instead, she started
her bike and rolled out, knowing in two hours everything would be on the table.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  IGNACIO MONTELLANO DROVE by Matt Clifford’s apartment building twice. First he went by quickly, simply another car passing on the street. The second time he slowed and examined all the cars along the curb out front and the still face of the building itself. No one moved, and the Dodge Charger was not there.

  The Charger interested him because it said things about where Clifford had gone and why. When he had returned to the station after the meeting with Clifford in his apartment, he did some research and found that a Charger of that vintage could run thirty thousand dollars or more if fully restored. Ignacio regretted not getting a look inside the vehicle, but he was willing to guess that the interior was all original and as mint as the bodywork.

  They had never learned what was inside the safe at the pawnshop. The three victims had been the only three employees with access to the safe, but two part-timers had speculated there might have been as much as a hundred thousand inside. Not all in cash, but some in gold and valuables. Things that could be moved without being tracked. Things that bought expensive classics with all the trimmings.

  On his third pass, Ignacio found a place to park and walked to the apartment building. He mounted the stairs one at a time. His heart was beating a little quickly by the time he reached the top, so he caught his breath before knocking on the apartment door.

  An answer wasn’t expected and there was none. Ignacio repeated the procedure three times to no avail before moving to the next door over. This one was answered by a small Latina in a cleaner’s smock. He had caught her before her afternoon work, and behind her two small children wreaked havoc in a room filled with toys. “Señora, estoy con la policía,” he told her, and showed his identification. “Do you speak English?”

  “Yes,” the woman said.

  Spanish was not an issue for Ignacio, but he also knew that speaking English was a point of pride for many, especially immigrants. He did not want to turn her away from him. “Do you know the man who lives next door to you?” he asked. “His name is Matt.”

  The woman thought and shook her head slowly. “I have only see him.”

  “Have you seen him today?”

  “No. But sometimes I no see him for a long time. Days.”

  “Gracias por su ayuda, señora.”

  “De nada.”

  She closed her door, and Ignacio returned to Clifford’s apartment. From inside his jacket he produced a folded leather case the size of a paperback book. He flipped it open, revealing a set of lock-picking tools. He crouched down in front of the door and eyeballed the lock before selecting his instruments.

  The lock was cheap and loose and took less than a minute to open. Ignacio put the tools away and opened the door slightly, peering in through the crack. With the front curtains drawn, the room beyond was bathed in shadow, but he could still make out the things he’d seen on his last visit.

  He opened the door all the way. “Police,” he announced. “Your door is unlocked. I’m coming in.”

  Once inside, he shut the door again, but he drew the curtains to bring in light. The air conditioner in the window was turned off. Ignacio switched it on to its highest setting, and soon cool air circulated where stale heat had been before.

  The television and the game console were gone, but the sheet and pillow were still on the couch, messier than before, left unfolded. On the coffee table was a wrinkled bit of plastic wrap. Ignacio took a handkerchief from his pocket and picked up the wrap by the edge, examining it closely. It was a makeshift bundle for crystal, put together by a dealer too cheap for baggies, and a little meth residue was still inside.

  He put the wrap down and went into the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a pizza box with two slices of pepperoni inside, a six-pack of beer, and a jar of mayonnaise. Clifford’s bread was stale, and what little flatware he had was all piled in the sink, left dirty and soaking in an inch of stagnant water. The cabinets were almost completely empty.

  From the kitchen he went farther in, passing through to the bedroom. Clifford’s bed was a mattress on the floor, his sheets black. An overflowing ashtray rested near the head by the wall, and there were several empty beer bottles scattered around it. A box of condoms was open there. Ignacio did not count how many were left inside.

  There was a single closet, big enough to walk into, and it was entirely bare. A single wire hanger dangled from a rod, but none of the built-in shelves held so much as a pair of underwear. In the attached bathroom he saw that Clifford had elected to leave behind his toothbrush and a half-used tube of Crest. The room smelled faintly of mildew, and Ignacio saw that some was growing on the lower edge of the shower curtain.

  Ignacio went back to the front room and stood in front of the air conditioner, letting it blow against him. He called out on his phone. Pool answered. “Hey, Brady, it’s Nacho. I need you to put a BOLO out for Matt Clifford.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’m in his apartment, and it looks like he skipped out again. Circulate a bulletin around to the other departments, and maybe we can catch him in the suburbs. Wherever. I have the tag number for his car. You ready?”

  “Shoot.”

  Ignacio recited the license plate number from memory. “It’s a 1970 Dodge Charger 440. Yellow and black. You can’t miss it.”

  “I’m all over it,” Pool said.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “Do you think he’s up to something crooked?” Pool asked.

  “I know it,” Ignacio said. “Let’s find him before we end up with three more bodies.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  CAMARO SAW PARKER’S truck in the parking lot of the diner when she arrived, squatted in its space, low on its shocks, looking as if it were one step removed from the junkyard.

  She spotted Parker sitting in the same booth where they’d last sat. His hands rested on a large glass of iced tea with two wedges of lemon perched on its lip. Even from where she sat on the Harley in the parking lot she could see his apprehension. He looked back and forth around the interior of the diner, and when the entrance opened to admit someone, he visibly jumped. She went in.

  The look of relief on his face when he saw her was total, but it only served to expose the layer of desperation underneath. He was pale beneath his tan. When she slotted into the booth opposite him, he smiled in a way that was not reassuring at all. “Hi,” he said. “Hi, hi.”

  “Hi,” Camaro said.

  A waitress came immediately and offered menus. Camaro took one and looked it over. She had not eaten and did not know when she’d eat that night. Better to have food in her stomach than continue on empty. She asked for a tea of her own.

  Parker waited until the woman was gone. He leaned forward conspiratorially and spoke quietly, though there was no one close enough to hear. “Everything’s gone to shit,” he said.

  “Matt?” Camaro asked.

  “How did you know?”

  “Who else would it be? He’s an asshole and he’s reckless. He’s going to screw up anything he touches.”

  “I didn’t think it would go like this,” Parker said.

  “What has he done?”

  “He didn’t do the deal. He backed out of the deal. And he…he killed two people.”

  “Where did this go down?”

  “Up in Hollywood. He just gunned them down, Camaro. Took the money and gunned them down.”

  Parker took up his iced tea and drank, but his hand was unsteady. Even his lips trembled. He put the glass down too hard, and it made a loud bang that caught the attention of an old couple a few booths down. Camaro wanted to tell him to calm down but knew it would do no good. “Where’s the guy? Where’s Chapado?”

  “He took him with him. He and Jackson and Soto took off together to somewhere. They’re going to call me later with the address. I have no idea where it is. Maybe it’s around here, maybe not. I don’t know.”

  Camaro was
slow to speak. Her tea came. She squeezed the lemon into the glass, dropped the lemon wedge in, and stirred the ice around with a spoon. The crushed lemon ended up at the very bottom. “I’m going to ask you something, and I want the truth,” she said. “You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you have any idea Matt was going to kill somebody today?”

  Parker shook his head violently. “No, no! This was supposed to be totally clean. Nobody gets hurt, everybody gets paid. If I thought people were going to die, I would have said no right out of the gate. I owe Matt, but I don’t owe him that much.”

  “What do you mean you owe him?”

  Now she saw shame in Parker’s face, drowning in the other emotions that gripped him. Despite herself, her heart echoed something in return. The sensation made her angry. “When we were inside, there were a couple of guys who wanted to…you know. They wanted to go to town on me. Matt kept them off. I’m still not sure how. These were big guys, and they were in for life, so they didn’t have anything to lose. But Matt stopped them. He stopped them for me.”

  “He kept you safe,” Camaro said.

  “Yeah. He did.”

  “But now he’s putting you in danger. You don’t owe him anymore.”

  Parker flung his hands up in surrender. “I’m stuck in it, though. Matt didn’t kill all the Cubans, so they’ve seen my face. They might even know my name. And there’s something else, too.”

  “Wait a minute,” Camaro said. “Cubans?”

  “Yeah, Miami Cubans. They have some kind of thing going on. I don’t really understand it, but they have money. It has to do with Chapado and what he was doing back in the home country. Matt never really explained it. But that’s not important. What’s important is the money.”

  “The money you’re holding,” Camaro said.

  “He wants it now. Like right now. But it’s the only leverage I have. As long as I’m the only one who knows where it is, he’s out forty thousand. He has more money coming, but he’s going to want that cash.”