by Michael Kerr
“Don’t you ever think about the future?”
“In the short-term, I suppose, but not too far ahead, that would be demoralizing, so it isn’t worth considering.”
Later, after drinking coffee, the men were ready to leave. Della and Margie hugged each of them in turn and told them to be careful; the way mothers would tell their children to be when they left the house for school.
Benny drove, Logan sat up front beside him for the legroom, and Paulie was in the rear. They were going to war, and not all of them would survive it.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Benny had driven past the front of the clinic on the Upper East Side of Central Park, then down the street next to it. At the rear were a staff car park to the left and a delivery entrance to the right. The sign above the open gates read:
STAFF PARKING ONLY
VIOLATORS WILL BE TOWED AWAY AT VEHICLE OWNER’S EXPENSE.
“Stop here,” Logan said to Benny, and he and Paulie got out.
“There’s nowhere to park,” Benny said.
“Just stay here,” Logan said. “If you have to move, drive round the block until we come out.”
They stopped next to the gates. Paulie lit a cigarette as they made small talk and looked at the layout. It was quiet. There were no deliveries being made at this time of the evening.
A door opened and a slim, middle-aged man exited the building and walked slowly to where a dozen cars were parked.
Dr. Ramon Garcia was preoccupied with the thought of how a female patient in his charge had died on the operating table as he was finishing up doing a run-of-the-mill hip replacement. She had been a friend of Patrick Fallon’s wife, and that meant he would face a third degree over the unexpected death.
As he reached his Mercedes and thumbed the opener, a hand grasped him by the shoulder. He jumped in shock and grunted in surprise.
“Are you a doctor?” Logan asked Ramon.
“Y…Yes. Who the hell are you?”
“A desperate man,” Logan said in a low, menacing tone of voice. “I need for you to give me your keycard or the keypad code to the door you just came out of.”
Ramon was five-seven, and had to tilt his head back to make eye contact with Logan. He saw a calm yet determined expression on the tall man’s chiselled face, and icy coldness in his slate-gray eyes.
“Five-nine-two-six,” he said.
“I hope that you’re being honest, doctor. I’d hate to think that you’d give me a reverse number that would initiate a silent alarm. I’m going to lock you in the trunk of your car. If anything untoward happens, then my friend will empty his gun through the lid. Repeat the number.”
Ramon did, and then on being asked, told Logan that Jack Trask was in room seven on the second floor, and that there were only security cameras in operation at the entrances and exits.
Handing over his cell phone as instructed, Ramon climbed into the trunk, once Logan had disabled the release mechanism on the inside of the lid and was as sure as possible that they were not being watched.
“Stay outside and keep a lookout,” Logan said to Paulie. “I shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”
He punched in the numbers. The door opened, and he kept his head down as he walked to the stairwell and climbed the two short flights up to the second floor.
The door to the landing was closed. He ducked down slightly to be able to look through the Perspex window set in it. All clear. He opened it and walked along the corridor to stop outside number seven and knock twice on the door.
“Come in,” Jack shouted, believing it would be a nurse checking on how he was. Maybe it would be the slinky young thing that had given him a couple of bed baths while he was in a bad way and couldn’t do anything for himself for a couple of days. She had even helped him put his dick in a plastic urinal bottle, several times, but he hadn’t felt well enough to try his luck. But he did now. If it was ‘Slinky’, then he fully intended to make it worth her while to jump his bones.
He had a smile forming on his face as the door opened, which froze as a massive guy stepped in and closed it behind him.
Jack shuffled sideways on the bed, stretching his arm out to try and grasp the cable that had a call button fixed to it, but Logan was next to him in an instant, pushing him back to lay with his fancy paisley-patterned robe hanging open to expose his hairy belly.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jack demanded, although he knew that it was the man that Max had described to him on his last visit. This was an ex-cop that had been tight with Newman, and had appeared out of the woodwork like some kind of avenging angel.
“By the look on your face you know the answer to that,” Logan said.
“What do you want?”
“I want to put your eyes out with my fingers. But I do my best to hold off when I’m faced with a gutless, wounded and unarmed man. I’ve got some questions needing answers.”
“So ask them,” Jack said, sitting up and edging along the bed to get within reach of the locker that had a drawer in it, where he had placed his loaded .38 revolver under a folded towel.
Logan asked him about security at Quaid’s and Dalton’s homes, and where Fallon, the owner of the clinic, spent most of his time when not in his sky-high apartment.
Jack answered the questions truthfully. He was waiting for Logan to be off guard, or for him to leave. It would only take him a couple of seconds to withdraw the gun and shoot the big ape. Dalton would be over the moon, and in turn the big boss, Fallon, would be impressed. He could foresee a bigger slice of the cake and perhaps a step up in the organization, maybe into Quaid’s position.
Logan was done with Trask. He decided to tie him up and gag him and put him in the bathroom. He stepped over to a bureau with a lamp standing on its laminated top, with the intention of using the cord to secure his wrists and ankles.
Jack made his move, wrenched the locker drawer open with his left hand and pulled the towel aside to uncover the gun, which he grasped with his right hand and turned to almost be in a position to shoot.
Logan caught the sudden movement from the corner of his eye as Trask opened the drawer. He reacted, took two steps forward, transferred his weight to his left side, spun and shot his right leg out straight, to power his foot into the center of Trask’s chest.
The revolver fell from Jack’s fingers as he was punched back over the bed to do an ugly splay-legged backward flip and land on his ass on the vinyl-covered floor.
Logan rounded the bed, but Trask was no longer a threat. He was sitting with his limp arms by his sides and his hands palm up. Blood was trickling from the left corner of his mouth, and then he coughed and sprayed the pale-green floor with a bright red and frothy cloud of droplets. The damage to his lung from being nicked by one of Arnie’s bullets, that had almost healed, was now worse by tenfold. He was hemorrhaging like a punctured water main, due to the force of the blow from Logan’s Timberland-booted foot. It was as if a dam had been breached and the cracks were widening under the pressure of liquid behind it. And that in essence was a fair analogy. The tissue of Jack Trask’s lung had ruptured and was coming apart, and he was slowly drowning as blood forced its way up his throat to find egress from his mouth and nostrils. The abject horror in his eyes reflected the terror in his brain. He had never been scared of death, but then, he had never experienced it before. Even when the cop had shot him, he had believed that he would survive, and had. But now he knew that he was dying, for he could not inhale a molecule of air through the tide of blood. Maybe if he could have received treatment there and then, they could have saved him, but he knew that Logan would not call for help.
Logan felt absolutely no remorse or empathy for the man. He picked up Trask’s revolver, stuck it in a pocket and just stood and watched and waited; a witness to a life ending. This was, to him, a fitting end for a man that had used fear and pain to his own advantage. He was now suffering for his sins, big-time, and that was just fine in Logan’s book.
There was a final wet gu
rgle, and Jack’s whole body shuddered as the top half of it slowly folded over and his head hung down between his open legs.
His last thoughts were of a backstreet slaughterhouse he had once been in to collect ‘protection’ money from the independent owner of the facility. He had enjoyed watching two workers skewering pigs with round files that they hammered through the tethered animals’ skulls, which was an illegal practice. The pigs had squealed and snorted and gone into seizure, and had in some instances still been compos mentis as they were swung up on hooks to be eviscerated. That’s how he felt in his last five seconds of conscious life, as he saw the blood pooling beneath him; he was just a slaughtered beast bleeding out.
Logan avoided stepping in the spreading blood and left the room, wiping the handles on both sides of the door with the bottom of his fleece.
Back downstairs without further incident, Logan used the fleece again to cover his hand and open the door that led into the parking lot.
Paulie was relieved to see him. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Trask was being guarded night and day. Although in the scheme of things he was only a step up from being one of Quaid’s foot soldiers, who in turn was working for Dalton.
“Let’s go,” Logan said. “We’re done here.”
“What about the doc in the Merc?” Paulie said as they walked back out onto the street.
“I’ll give the police a call and tell them where he is.”
The Malibu was still where they had parked. Benny was hunched behind the steering wheel with the engine running. He was not obstructing any traffic in the side street, and hadn’t seen a patrol car. He had just been sitting and hoping that Logan would kill Trask. And he felt a lot better about whom he now was. There was no way he would go back to being a bum. He didn’t need to do drugs, or steal, or live in squalor, or be a CI for a cop to make a few bucks extra. He was going to use this opportunity to turn himself around. Maybe he would go visit his dad in Chicago, get work and be straight. That is if he survived being part of Logan’s team of avengers. Not that he was complaining. Logan, Margie, Della, and even Paulie were beginning to feel like family. He enjoyed being with them, though not the fact that they were all in great danger.
“You okay, Benny?” Logan asked as he opened the passenger door and slid onto the seat.
“Never better,” Benny said. “Did you talk to Trask?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t survive the conversation.”
“You killed him?”
“I guess so. He wasn’t breathing when I left.”
Paulie was stunned. “You went into a hospital and murdered a patient?” he said as a question.
“I was going to tie him up and gag him, but he pulled a gun out of a bedside cabinet, so I kicked him in the chest. He started throwing up blood and died.”
“This is goin’ from bad to worse,” Paulie said. “I wish to Christ you’d spotted me back on the ferry instead of Ellery. If you had I’d be in my local bar now without a care in the world.”
“Wishing is for kids and losers,” Logan said. “Here in the real world we have to deal with how things are. Trask was a lowlife, and he put Arnie in a coma. He got what he deserved. Now we need to deal with Quaid, and then Dalton. If either of you want out, just step out of the car and walk away. And know this, you are the only two people in the world that know where Margie and Della are, so if anyone was to find them I’d know who to come looking for.”
There was ten seconds of silence.
“I guess we’re on this carnival ride till it stops,” Paulie said.
“And I’ve got nothing better to do than tag along,” Benny added.
Logan slowly nodded his head. “Glad to hear it. Let’s go eat, then find somewhere cheap and cheerful to rest our weary heads.”
Benny stopped at the first pay phone he saw, and Logan got out of the car and used it to dial 911 and report that a man was locked in the trunk of his Mercedes in the staff car park of the Delavall clinic.
After booking into a cheap hotel, they left the car parked and found a place to eat nearby.
“How do we get near Quaid?” Paulie said to Logan after they’d eaten and were sipping beers at a table in the alcove of Skeeter’s Bar & Grill.
“Easy,” Logan replied. “He’s searching for us. As far as he’s concerned we’re running scared. The last thing he would expect is to be attacked.”
“And what will you do?” Benny asked as he pocketed the knife he’d stolen after finishing his meal.
“Get the information I need to find Dalton. Trask didn’t have direct access to him, Quaid does. And Max Dalton is Fallon’s last line of defense.”
“I meant what will you do to Quaid?”
“That’ll be his call. If he cooperates he’ll be fine.”
“You think he will?”
Logan shrugged. “Depends on how much he wants to live.”
“Where will you find him?” Paulie asked.
“At his apartment, where he would least expect a visit.”
“He’ll have bodyguards,” Benny said.
“Only one when he’s at home. So we’ll deal with him. Trask gave me the layout of the apartment building. There’s a basement parking garage. That or the elevator will be the most vulnerable spots. As he’s getting in or out of his car may be the best time to lift him.”
“Lift him?” Paulie said.
“Yeah. He can arrange to meet Dalton, and then it’ll be game over.”
“You make it sound like a walk in the park,” Benny said.
“It should be.”
“Do you know what he looks like?” Paulie asked.
Logan nodded. “I watched him go into Bellevue, and I had words with his driver, Sonny Gilmore.”
“That’s all well and good,” Paulie said. “But how will we know when he comes and goes.”
“Benny can be bait. If he phones Quaid and says that he knows where I am, it’ll bring him out.”
“Maybe not,” Paulie said. “He’d be suspicious and just send the hired help.”
Logan thought it through. “You’re right. We’ll stake out the garage and do it there.”
“When?”
“Early, before it’s light.”
When they got back to the hotel room, Logan took the .38 revolver from his pocket and handed it to Benny. “You know how to use one of these?” he asked.
“Yeah,” Benny said, staring at the nickel-plated Smith & Wesson, “But I’ve never shot anyone.”
“Let’s hope you don’t have to, but that you can if the need arises.”
Benny swallowed hard as he gripped the gun and felt the weight of the lethal weapon. From the night that Arnie had been shot, and he had thrown himself in the river to save catching a bullet from Trask, the world had taken a slow, dark turn around the sun and trapped him in bizarre circumstances. The most surprising part of it all was that he felt up for it. His faith in Logan was growing in leaps and bounds. And now that he had gotten to know Paulie a little better, he liked the guy. A cop wasn’t just a cop. Same as a truck driver wasn’t just a truck driver; everyone was more than what they did to earn their paycheck. He decided to see this through to the end, and the previous thoughts of running or even selling Logan out evaporated. That the big guy had handed him a gun gave him the sense of really belonging, and more, it was a gesture implying trust. He had spent far too much of his life being someone that couldn’t be trusted, and who had little faith in anyone else. But now he had turned a corner. He was going to keep hold of the recent feeling of self-worth he had begun to experience, and build on it. Logan and Paulie may be his lifeline or death warrant, but whichever way it went, he would be part of something that he thought was worth doing. You needed to like yourself, he thought, and for the first time in his life he was beginning to believe that he had the capability to be a better person.
“Let’s hit the sack,” Logan said. “We need to be fresh to be efficient.”
The patrol car parked at the rear of the Delavall
Clinic behind a late model Merc, and Officer Dale Bentley stepped out, drew his pistol and opened the trunk to find a guy curled up on his side, but seemingly unhurt. Dale had thought that the call may have been a hoax, or that he would find a corpse.
“Who are you, sir?” Dale said to the man, who was pushing himself up into a sitting position.
“Dr. Ramon Garcia,” he replied. “I believe that a patient is in danger. The man that made me climb into the trunk wanted to know what room Jack Trask was in, and I had no alternative but to tell him.”
A nurse by the name of Judith Clooney led them to the room.
“We’ll take it from here,” Dale said, using the barrel of his service pistol to depress the door handle, and his knee to push it open. He entered with a rookie, Officer Alan Webster at his back, to check the bathroom before concentrating on the body sitting at the far side of the bed. He didn’t know if the guy had croaked due to natural causes or not, so treated the room as a crime scene and radioed it in as a possible one eighty-seven, which being the code for homicide would bring detectives on the run.
The clinic’s director, Dr. Richard Chandler, was called by Dr. Jody Spears and given sketchy details of Dr. Ramon Garcia being locked in the trunk of his car, and the subsequent discovery of a dead patient, Jack Trask, found in his room.
“How did the patient die?” Richard asked.
“We have no idea, sir,” Jody said. “The police have closed off the room pending it being processed.”
“Why, do they suspect it could be foul play?”
“Because one of the men who locked Ramon in his car wanted the code to enter the hospital, as well as Trask’s room number.”
Richard phoned Max Dalton and told him what had happened.
“Let me know anything else you hear,” Max said. “And as soon as you are able to, talk to Garcia and ask him for a description of the man that wanted the information. Then fire his ass for talking out of turn.”
Max poured a large scotch, took a couple of sips and then called Quaid and told him that Trask was dead, and that it was odds on that Logan was responsible.
