by Louise Penny
“Slow down, slow down. Take a deep breath. Now, where are you? Can you talk?”
I heard a slew of inhalations and exhalations, followed by Nagelman’s only slightly less frantic answer. “Exxon restroom. Fitzpatrick’s waiting for me in the van.”
“Okay. Now tell me why you think he might be onto us.”
“He was asking all kinds of questions. He suggested that me and him double-cross you, but the way he said it made me think he knew what we were up to. I’m pretty sure he was toying with me, Kane.”
Goddamn Fitzpatrick, always looking for ways to mess with people. I hoped he hadn’t somehow spooked Nagelman. Unpredictability made me nervous. “You’re overthinking things here. I’m sure he honestly wants to screw me. He doesn’t like me, and he sure doesn’t respect me. What better way than to cut me out of my own job and steal my share of the take?”
“You didn’t see his eyes, Kane. He’s a psycho. And I’m afraid he knows about us crossing him. He’ll probably kill us both and smile while he’s doing it.”
“Trust me, he doesn’t know squat about our plan. This time tomorrow we’ll be a hell of a lot richer, and we won’t be worrying about Fitzpatrick. Or anybody else, for that matter.”
“I’ll feel so much better when this is over.”
I wouldn’t bet on that. “Sure you will. Now, just try to take it easy. And don’t get into it with him. I know how much of an a-hole he can be, but do your best to play nice. Can you do that?”
“I’ll try.”
“Remember, kid, it’s just you and me on this.”
Nagelman drove the van; I rode shotgun and Fitzpatrick sat in the back. I hadn’t known where they’d stored our haul until Nagelman brought the van to a stop right before the barricade arm leading into the Jiffy-Stor site. He rolled down the window, punched the code into the security pad, and the red-and-white arm rose with a jerk.
A few snowflakes from a developing storm blew in through the window.
Fitzpatrick leaned forward from the back, poking his head between the two front seats. “Some security. Hell, you could just drive right through that ridiculous arm and nobody would even notice for a week. This place is deserted.”
Nagelman rolled through the entrance and wound his way up a slight hill to the storage facility. Like a thousand similar places, Jiffy-Stor comprised a series of sprawling warehouses, subdivided into hundreds of tiny units, each with a roll-up door and cheap-ass lock.
I didn’t know why anyone would store anything truly valuable here; it was mostly surplus furniture and sentimental keepsakes and junk that people thought they’d use again but never would—like exercise equipment and sewing machines.
“Well, I got to hand it to you. You guys picked a safe place to stash the stuff,” I said. “No self-respecting crook would be caught dead prowling around here.”
“It was my idea,” Fitzpatrick said.
“Actually, I think it was my idea,” Nagelman said.
“Whoever’s idea it was, good job,” I said, cutting off further argument.
Nagelman drove to the back of the place, past five rows of units, and hooked a right to follow the asphalt circuit.
“I can almost taste our dough,” Fitzpatrick said, opening his door before the van had even come to a stop in front of the unit they’d rented.
He was out and fiddling with the lock as Nagelman and I came up behind him.
“Aaaand here we are.” Fitzpatrick snapped the lock open and removed it from the hasp. Rolled the door up. Flicked the light switch. Off to one side were six boxes. “Just to be safe, we marked them OLD CLOTHES.”
“Brilliant,” I said. “Let’s load them up and get going.”
Fitzpatrick turned toward the boxes. Nagelman winked at me and said, “So, Fitzpatrick, how are you going to spend your share?”
Fitzpatrick hoisted a box, smiled. “Hookers. Craps. Booze. The usual.” He walked past me toward the van, flashed me a conspiratorial look, and called out over his shoulder, “How about you, Nagelman? Big plans?”
“Gonna move to San Francisco. Buy into a buddy’s smoothie shop.” Nagelman picked up a box and followed Fitzpatrick. I grabbed a box too, and we loaded them into the van. Then we each made another trip, and we were done. Three million dollars in antique treasures weren’t very bulky.
I thought about Pen lying on the beach in Florida in a few weeks. Nice.
We climbed into the van, and Nagelman started it up.
“What about you, boss?” Fitzpatrick said. “What are you going to do with your dough?”
I thought about Pen, living in squalor, too broke to go to the doctor. “Mutual funds. I’m saving for retirement.”
“We’re almost there,” I said.
“You sure this is the right way?” Nagelman asked, voice nasal, as he steered the van down a winding road three miles past the middle of nowhere. The snow swirled in the wind, mini white tornadoes. The forecasters were predicting somewhere between six and ten inches; so far, about an inch had accumulated on the roads. Maybe I’d copy Pen’s idea and move to a warmer climate.
“Yep. GPS don’t lie.”
Nagelman jerked the wheel to avoid a pothole, then overcorrected, causing our precious cargo to shift abruptly.
“Hey, numbskull, try not to land us in a ditch, okay?” Fitzpatrick barked from the back of the van.
“You wanna drive?” Nagelman said. “Be my guest.”
“I could drive better than you with my eyes closed, that’s for sure.”
“Will you two just cut it out?” After spending the last month immersed in this job with these two chuckleheads—planning it, executing it, waiting for a buyer to materialize—I now knew what it would have been like to have squabbling children. I pointed up ahead. “Hang a left here.”
We bumped along for another three minutes down an ever-narrowing driveway until we came to a house. “This is the place.”
“Here?” Nagelman looked around.
There wasn’t another structure within sight.
“Right here.”
“I don’t like this,” Nagelman said.
“You don’t like anything,” Fitzpatrick said. “Don’t worry, it will all be over soon.”
“Look, my guy likes privacy when he conducts business. He needs to control the scene. In fact,” I said, pointing up into some nearby trees, “he’s probably watching us right now, so don’t do anything stupid.” Stupider than normal, anyway.
Both Nagelman and Fitzpatrick craned their heads, trying to catch a glimpse of the security cameras through the van’s windows.
“Let’s go,” I said.
We got out of the van and huddled near the driver’s door as I issued the orders. “When we get inside, let me do the talking—all the talking. After I make sure he’s got the money on hand, we’ll bring the merchandise inside and wait for him to do an appraisal. Then we’ll get our money and be off. No fuss, no muss. Okay?”
“Sure, boss,” Fitzpatrick said.
Nagelman nodded. “I won’t say a word.”
“Good. Now, who wants to stay in the van with the stuff?” I asked.
Nagelman looked at Fitzpatrick.
Fitzpatrick looked at Nagelman.
Neither said a word. I knew each was trying to figure out if staying with the goods or going inside with me was the best way not to get squeezed out of the deal.
“Well?” I asked. “Who’s it going to be?”
“Why don’t you stay,” Fitzpatrick said to Nagelman, “and I’ll go in? Just in case there’s trouble, I can handle it better. No offense, of course.”
“What if someone tries to hijack the van while you’re inside?” Nagelman countered.
“I’m sensing some distrust here,” I said. “Forget it. You can both come in with me. No one’s going to hijack the van while we’re inside. I trust my guy completely. Come on.”
I led the other two up a scuffed path toward the front door. Two shutters hung crookedly on ground-floor windows, and o
ne upstairs window had been boarded up. A few optimistic wisps of grass poked through the snow on the front lawn.
When we got to the porch, I stopped, took a few steps backward, and pulled a gun from the waistband at the small of my back. “So here we are.”
“I’ll pat him down, boss.” Fitzpatrick started toward Nagelman, sneer in place. “You idiot. You had no idea we were cutting you out, did you?”
“Hold it right there, Fitzpatrick,” I said.
Fitzpatrick glanced at me, saw my gun pointed at him, and stopped, jaw clenched.
“Now who’s the idiot?” Nagelman said, advancing on Fitzpatrick. “How does it feel to be the one getting—”
“You stop too, Nagelman,” I said.
“What?” He examined my face, realized I wasn’t joking around, and froze.
Fitzpatrick shook his head slowly. “Crap. I knew it. Triple-crossed.”
Nagelman didn’t say anything, but he looked as if he might puke.
“Very slowly, I want you to remove your guns and toss them on the ground, toward me. Flinch and I shoot. Fitzpatrick, you first.”
“I’m not armed. You said we wouldn’t need it,” Fitzpatrick said.
“Me neither,” Nagelman said.
“Sure you’re not. Look, if it’s easier for you, I can take them off your dead bodies. It doesn’t matter much to me.”
Fitzpatrick slowly removed a gun from the pocket of his coat and tossed it on the snowy ground a yard from my feet.
“Thanks. Your turn, Nagelman.”
“It’s on my ankle. Don’t shoot me while I take it out.” He bent down and removed his piece from the holster and tossed it near Fitzpatrick’s gun.
“Now your phones,” I said.
They tossed their phones next to their guns.
“I didn’t trust you a bit,” Fitzpatrick said. “Bastard.”
“Well, someone very wise once told me you should never trust anybody. Good advice, don’t you think?”
I picked up the phones and retrieved their weapons while keeping mine trained on my partners—my ex-partners. “Now, please get down on your knees.”
They hesitated a moment, then Fitzpatrick dropped down at once, while Nagelman eased down one knee at a time.
“Please don’t shoot us. Please,” Nagelman whined.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” I said. “Unless you get up before I drive off. Then I’ll use you both for target practice.”
“Bastard,” Fitzpatrick said again.
“Nice doing business with you. And remember, don’t trust anyone.” I smiled. “Adios, amigos.”
“Bastard,” Fitzpatrick said a third time.
I trotted to the van, started it up, and roared off.
Three mil, not divided by anything, was best of all.
I pulled up next to a Volvo station wagon behind a grocery store about ten miles from where I’d left Fitzpatrick and Nagelman. Pen leaned against the Volvo’s hood, smoking a cigarette. A white crown of snow topped his knit cap. When I hopped out and tracked around the back of the van, Pen had exchanged the butt in his hand for a Beretta, and it was aimed at my chest.
“What the hell?”
“Sorry, bud.” Pen stood straighter and seemed to have more zest than yesterday. More color in his face too.
“Feeling better, I take it?” I asked.
“Amazing recovery, don’t you think? I owe it all to clean living. Wanna toss me the keys to the van?”
I flipped them up in a graceful arc, and Pen snatched them cleanly out of the air. “No hard feelings, right?”
“No, Pen. I still love you.”
“You remember all those times we talked about our dreams, how we couldn’t wait to hit the big score so we could retire on some tropical island somewhere? Well, now I can, thanks to you. I really appreciate your effort.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“I must say, though, I’m a little disappointed in you, Kane. Your failure to master rule number one—never trust anyone—reflects poorly on me as a teacher.” He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I guess that’s how we learn, by making mistakes. Next time you’ll remember.”
I watched Pen drive off. He’d turned on me, and part of me stung from my old friend’s betrayal. I’d been his prize pupil. I liked to think he’d really cared about me.
But another part of me was content, happy even, as I pictured the proud look on my teacher’s face when he opened those boxes and found a jumble of old clothes. I had mastered the most basic lesson, and now I’d passed the final exam.
I’d stashed the merchandise in a safe place before I met up with Pen—an insurance policy against a cagey old pro. If he hadn’t double-crossed me, we would have picked up the goods on the way to our buyer, and we’d have gone through with the deal, smooth sailing. Then I’d have given Pen his dough, and we would have parted ways with a smile and firm handshake—teacher and pupil, partners in crime, dear old friends.
Sad to see, Pen losing his edge. He hadn’t even bothered to check the boxes before taking off.
Thankfully, he’d left the keys to the Volvo in the ignition. I hopped in and started it up, hoping the future would be kind to Pen.
Without the big score, I didn’t think he would ever make it to his tropical island. Maybe one day I’d visit him in that rundown trailer park in Boca, and we could laugh about how things had transpired.
Or maybe not.
William Dylan Powell
The Apex Predator
from Switchblade
Texas Equusearch officials said they have evidence of more than 127 cars submerged in Houston’s bayous and they think some could contain the bodies of missing people, perhaps murdered or lost . . . the cars could hold clues to the dozens of unsolved missing persons cases in the area.
—The Houston Chronicle, May 13, 2014
The layoff. The divorce. The gradual erosion of my 401(k). Getting that call from the Houston Police Department to help with the Buffalo Bayou vehicle recovery felt like a birthday present. Especially now, when the economy seemed to be made exclusively of bloodsucking lawyers, bakers of fru-fru cupcakes, and soulless tax collectors.
But as I swam around that ’87 Camaro, peering through the muck, it was hard to get too excited.
The car was covered with silt, reminding me of the drilling mud they use in oil-field drills. That’s my normal gig. Offshore oil rigs. Underwater. I ran my glove along the hood, leaving a bloody scar across the algae, revealing the vehicle’s original crimson.
Above me in an aluminum fishing boat an HPD officer named McCleary and Stephanie, the cute paramedic, sat moored to an oak tree. The police have their own dive team, but if they can go cheaper contracting guys like me, they’ll do it every time.
All week it had been the same: The computer nerds marked the location and vehicle’s general orientation. Trustees from Harris County Jail cleared brush from the bank, and the city brought a winch truck. Then I made sure the vehicles weren’t stuck on anything, found a solid connecting point, and signaled the all-clear with my radio. Up and out they went.
The older ones rusted to skeletons; the newer ones retained their shape but lost their bones. Low-rider Chevys with fancy wheels long since tarnished. Minivans with toys floating around inside. Muscled-up Mustangs and staid company sedans still containing office files disintegrating upon touch. Frozen little time capsules of someone’s everyday life on the move.
The job was scary and sad and strange when the underwater cars were occupied. More complicated too. HPD’s crime lab got involved. More paperwork. The dive felt dirtier—the water connecting you with the dead, both of you just floating objects. Each night of the assignment when I lay down to sleep I smelled the sour, earthy small of the bayou, even fresh out of the shower.
The Camaro in question was wedged into the bank. Moving in slow motion like an astronaut, my rebreathing apparatus making me sound like Darth Vader, I worked my way around it.
No fallen tr
ees near; that was a relief. Cottonmouths nested in them, their bodies tangling like ramen noodles in boiling water—hence the paramedic in the boat. I saw an unintelligible bumper sticker on the back of the car and ran my hand across it to clear off the algae. “Luv Ya Blue,” with a Houston Oilers helmet. I should have known it held nothing but heartache.
I shined my flashlight into the driver’s side window. The bayou’s current, seeping in through various imperfections in the vehicle, tumbled everything inside like a clothes dryer—though with no open windows or doors everything seemed to stay contained. Along with the murky brown water something light blue brushed across the window, then more brown water, then an empty can of Big Tex beer, then something blue again, then a plastic grocery bag. It was like peering at a slot machine before it landed on a lemon or BAR or cherry. Only the next thing that came up wasn’t a cherry or lemon. It was a badge.
The shield ticked against the window as it slid across on its tumble cycle, along with the light blue cloth of a uniform. I stared into the chocolate murk, waiting for it to come around in the current, but the next thing I saw wasn’t a badge but a hundred-dollar bill. Then the Big Tex can again.
Opening the downstream door would cause everything to float straight down to the Lynchburg Ferry, then Trinity Bay and eventually the Gulf of Mexico itself. I told myself that it was the badge I was following up on, not the hundred-dollar bill.
Fighting the current, I opened the upstream door. A cottonmouth slithered out of the back-seat area and snapped at me, its teeth striking my hard plastic diving mask.
A man likes to think he knows where he stands within the food chain of predators and prey; even among other men. But underwater everything gets all shuffled, your awkward limbs and limited breathing placing you much lower in the hierarchy. As I stood catching my breath and feeling the mask for holes from the snake, I saw the hundred-dollar bill float out of the car and shoot downstream toward the Gulf. Damn.
Shining my light inside, a skull stared back at me. Its grin floated across the car’s interior, rotating its head like a model at a photo shoot. A chill danced up my spine.
