by Andrew Allan
“Talk to Duncan,” she said.
“Who’s that?”
“Ken’s friend. They were talking a lot before Ken...” she couldn’t finish the sentence.
“How can I get in touch with him?”
“Let me get his number off the phone.” I could hear the phone pull away from her ear. A moment later she came back on. “You there?”
“I’m here,” I said.
She gave me the number. I repeated it to be sure. Then said, “Tampa. Not far.”
“He’s the only other person I think might know. He and Ken were supposed to get together the day he died. But, that never happened.” She sounded tired, of talking, of grieving.
“Kathy, you’ve been a great help. I will call as soon as I learn more. Be strong, for yourself and the kids,” I said.
“Sure thing, Walt. Thank you.”
I hung up and dialed Duncan. He answered two rings in.
“Hello?” He sounded cautious. I had to earn his trust fast.
“Duncan, this is Walt Asher. Ken Kerenz was a good friend of mine and I think someone did him wrong. Real wrong.”
I paused to let him respond.
Nothing.
“I just got off the phone with Kathy, his wife. She gave me your number and said I should talk to you about some explosive information Ken received right before his death. If you want proof, call Kathy now at her number. She’ll vouch for me.” I gave him her number as further validation. He hung up without saying a word.
I waited by the phone, hoping he’d call Kathy then call me right back. Time dragged. I was starving and wondered what the hell was taking Tom so long with the food.
The phone rang. I picked it up.
“Yes,” I said, not giving away anything.
“This is Duncan,” he said.
“You call Kathy?”
“Yes. She vouched for you.”
“Good. So, you obviously know about Ken. I could tell by your voice when you answered.”
A long pause.
“I’m worried, yes,” he said.
“Has anyone approached you?” I said.
“No. Not yet. I mean I hope never. But, Ken...and Nadine.”
“I think you’re wise to keep under the radar. I’ve had several brushes with the guys who killed Ken. They’re bad news.”
Another long pause. I continued, “Problem is, I don’t know who they are. I’m trying to figure that out to take the heat off me, and of course, you and anyone else who might be in their sites,” I said.
Still no response.
“So, I need info. What did Ken find out that was so damning someone would kill him?” I said.
“We should meet,” he said. “I don’t want to use the phone,” Duncan said.
“Good idea. Let’s keep discreet. Where?”
“You know the Sulphur Springs Water Tower?” he said.
“Yes. I can be there in thirty minutes.”
“Okay. I’ll be there,” he said.
“Before you go, I gotta ask...am I onto something?” I said.
A long pause.
“Yes. More than you could possibly imagine.” He hung up.
The phone started to slip in my hand. My palms were sweating. I had that feeling where you push and push and push to get something, then immediately regret it. But, I couldn’t dwell on it.
Someone rattled the doorknob, trying to get in.
No keys were jingling. It wasn’t Tom. I froze, scanned the room then dashed out the back door, not waiting to see who was coming in.
Good thing I didn’t. As I walked back towards the car I saw Tom leaning against a police cruiser, our food going cold in a bag on the hood. Two detectives were grilling him—I’m sure looking for me. But, if he and the cops were talking on the street...who the hell was at his door? I hurried back to the car and got the hell out of there. The rumbling engine was much less subtle than I would have liked. Thirty minutes later I was across the Bay and weaving through traffic North of downtown Tampa.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE SULPHUR SPRINGS Water Tower was a Tampa landmark leftover from a 1920’s. It had been a luxury arcade that was damaged beyond saving by floods that occurred when the Tampa Electric Company dam collapsed. Two hundred and fourteen feet tall, you can’t miss it driving down I-275 right through the heart of the city.
I parked a couple blocks away on Florida Avenue near a tiny Cuban bodega that had been converted out of an old drive-thru only restaurant. I was tempted to get a Café Con Leche and Cuban toast since I still hadn’t eaten, but there was no time. I hustled over to the tower.
The tower’s surrounding area was all but deserted. Cars roared along the nearby interstate. The Tampa Greyhound track stood tall just beyond. The sun disappeared behind a thick patch of clouds. I made a point to hang out near a cluster of bushes, keeping out of site. I was still a wanted man. And, a scared man. A dose of clairvoyance flashed through my mind – what the hell was I doing here?
Duncan showed up late at 3:40 p.m. He was obvious to spot. His stereotypical liberal attire – sweater, cap, khaki pants, and hiking boots along with a salt and pepper beard and a rubber wrist band dedicated to some cause – seemed like the right look for Ken’s tribe. Paranoia had him checking every direction to see if anyone was watching. He spotted me and waved me into a small opening in the tower. I hurried over and ducked in.
It stunk in there. Birds, bats, and god knew what other creatures had turned it into a toxic shit pit. Critters came in through the ground entrance; birds and bats flew in via the openings at the top of the tower within its signature circular parapet wall. I had to put my shirt over my nose and mouth to breath. Duncan seemed unfazed.
“Walt Asher,” I said. It came out muffled through my shirt. I held out a hand for shaking. He just nodded and backed away from the light spilling in through the entrance.
I stepped closer. “Who are you worried about, Duncan?”
He looked at me, almost surprised I had caught him being a nervous nelly.
I held my hands up, palms out, hoping to reassure him. “It’s okay. I’m keeping a low profile, too, and made sure no one followed me here. Now, I need to know what you know. All you have to do is tell me and we can get out of here. It’s that easy.” I sounded like an infomercial Call-To-Action. For a very good reason. I wanted to close the deal ASAP.
He relaxed a little. “What I’m about to tell you has gotten people killed. It’s dangerous information.”
He had a flair for drama. But, I believed every word of it.
“Tell me,” I said.
“There’s a cancer in the state. And, it’s metastasizing, growing out of control.”
I knew what "metastasizing" meant and wanted to tell him to hurry the fuck up. I was nervous now. But, I let him tell it his own way.
He continued. “Everyone knows the corporations and the government are in bed together.”
“Ken had files full of news clippings as proof,” I said.
He looked irritated, like he wanted me to shut up. So, I did.
“Everyone knows the government changes the laws to suit the corporations instead of designing the laws to protect constituents,” he said.
I nodded, showing I was listening.
“Everyone knows the corporations bribe them to do this. Everyone knows. They hardly try to hide it anymore. You know why?” He stared at me. I could tell what he was about to say next qualified as a leap of faith for him.
I shook my head, not knowing why.
“Because when the average person sees there’s a protest going on, when activists raise hell, they think something is being done to stop these creeps. And, when that happens the public at large doesn’t press the issue. They leave us to do the work. So, it’s no longer a bother. And, that’s what the creeps want. They couldn’t handle the masses being fired up. They want them sedated and placated. That way, they only have to deal with a few squeaky wheels.”
“Like you and Ken and the other activists,” I
said.
“Yes. You’re getting it. And, usually we can only do so much. But, Ken was different. He had money, power, and passion. He could hurt them.”
I nodded, agreeing. “And, he did. And, they weren’t happy about it. His most recent coup was finding a capital hill staffer willing to testify to some of the collusion he had witnessed between the corporations and the State government. It had been going on for years. And, went all the way up to the Governor.”
“And, they wanted to stop him from talking,” I said.
“Presumably. But, that’s not why they killed Ken.”
I gave him a curious look. I felt like I’d missed an important detail.
“I made contact with the staffer first. Then, I introduced him to Ken, who was able to seal the deal that he would spill what he knew. But, the staffer was nervous. When we asked why he said it was because he’d heard a rumor.”
He took a big breath. His pause gave me pause. He looked grave. Like all of his dreams and hopes had been shattered. Like the world had reached a point of no return.
I sensed he was about to spill the dirty secret and stayed silent.
“We’ve already established how politicians are for sale. But, so is everything else belonging to the State. Our parks can be rented for private functions. Our colleges can be used for private industry testing. Our police are hired to direct traffic outside of churches on Sundays. It’s all for sale to keep the money flowing in. Everything.”
He looked me deep in the eyes, knowing what he was about to say would shock me.
“The rumor the staffer heard was that a certain arm of the government was starting to be farmed out. But, not as public service. As a private service. Something bandied about in backroom dealing. Something that makes problems go away. For good.”
He looked at me, reading my face to make sure I understood. “Now, ask your self which part of the government does nothing but make problems go away?”
“I don’t know. What kind of problems? ” I said.
“The worst problems,” he said.
“You mean killing?”
He nodded slowly.
I racked my brain. And, then I got it. He saw I’d gotten it, too. A small, hesitant smile cracked onto his face between his thin, tight lips. Like he was happy to have served a public good.
I remembered Ken’s folder.
“Capital punishment,” I said.
He nodded. “Saved for the worst of the worst,” he said.
My heart was pounding. It wasn’t a big conspiracy. It was a huge one. And, I was right in the middle of it.
“Are...are you saying that the State of Florida executes people for hire?” I said, stepping up to him.
“It seems someone is selling those services.” he said.
This was just the kind of information no one would ever want made public. And knowing Ken, he’d have done just that. That’s why he was dead. That’s why Duncan was on full alert. And, that’s why they were after me. Loose ends, all needing to be clipped. And, who better to do the clipping than the official Death Row executioners of the State of Florida?
Just like me, they’d gotten a new gig. No more waiting months or years between jobs. Now, they were freelancing full-time.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE HUMIDITY GREW oppressive. There was no breeze inside the tower, just swampy air that made the clothes stick to my body. Duncan’s revelation had made me forget about the stench.
“The staffer gave Ken a signed affidavit detailing a full list of names. Buyers and sellers,” Duncan said.
“I didn’t see any lists in Ken’s files. Just information on different corporations. Do you know where he put the list?”
He shook his head. “Some of those corporations might tie in,” he said.
“The files were destroyed. I can’t check. I have a list of some names, but...”
“You won’t find any proof. They’ve kept it beyond secret.”
“Who’s doing the killing? Is this like government sanctioned assassination stuff,” I said, hoping to have half my work done for me.
He shrugged. “I don’t think it’s official state business. But, someone has access to those resources. And, I’m guessing they don’t want the state or anyone to find out.”
“Who’s the staffer? Maybe I can get to him.”
“He’s dead.”
The air blew out of my lungs in a sigh of frustration.
“Did he tell anyone else?” I said.
“It’s time for me to go,” Duncan said, adjusting his hat and looking with caution towards the door. “I can no longer be a part of this.”
“Where will I be able to reach you,” I said.
“You won’t,” he said. He checked both directions then darted out of the tower. I gave him a moment, to make our rendezvous less obvious. Also, to let him flush out any killers should they be waiting for us.
And, they were.
I felt the whip of a blade as it slammed into the old, white concrete. Pulverized particles stung my face as I leapt back into the tower. Glancing out I saw one of the men I had seen at Ilsa’s house. The same one DG’s bikers had savaged. He had purple bruising laced around his arms, neck, and face. He had been worked over something awful. Yet, here he was ready to attack. Tough motherfucker.
Duncan was dead at his feet, throat red and ripped. The man ran at me. I looked around. The only place to go was up the stone, spiral staircase leading to the top of the tower.
Three steps up, my foot slipped on bat dung and I crashed against the stairs. Shaking, my hands covered in scum, I scrambled up the stairs two at a time. I held my hand against the curving walls for balance. When I heard the metal "ching" of the man – this executioner - lifting his blade off the concrete outside the tower, I double-timed it.
They caught a glimpse of me just as I disappeared up the curvature of the stairs. Two of them now, both climbing the stairs after me. I reached a plateau, a small semi-circle deck, which would have afforded me a glance below. But, I didn’t trust its rotting wood to keep me from plunging through it.
I felt a breeze blow in through a window cut into the tower wall. I looked out and saw the Hillsborough River below. It was a survivable jump—if I could have slipped through the iron cross bars, but I couldn’t. The killers appeared in my peripheral vision. I bolted up the steps.
Next level up, another plateau. This time with the wood deck already fallen away. Another window, more cross bars. I grabbed them and pushed. They budged. But, not enough. I pushed again, then pulled, watching over my shoulder, working them loose.
The bars broke free!
I looked back at the stairs, could hear the men approaching. I turned back to the window and started to climb out.
Stop.
It wasn’t the river below. Just a hard concrete parking lot. No chance of survival.
I crawled back into the tower and turned just as one of the men stepped onto the plateau. A vicious dagger gleamed in his hand. He swung it. The blade ripped my shirt, but missed my skin. I fell back and kicked him. He tumbled off the plateau and rolled down and almost off the steps. I stood up and kept running.
Each step became more of a challenge. Excrement was everywhere, making each step slippery, like in a sloppy bar bathroom that hadn’t been cleaned in...ever. The slippage slowed me down and the extra effort to stay balanced exhausted my legs. They were throbbing and sore. I was losing momentum. When I looked back, I saw the other man had surpassed his fallen comrade and was fast approaching. His hand clutched an ornate machete. I pressed on.
He gabbed my leg as I reached the fourth floor. I kicked him off, more panicked than precise, and raced higher into the tower.
Birds fluttered and flapped away as I stormed up the steps. Some flew out windows others flew down the deep interior. By the time I reached the fifth plateau, I could run no more. My legs felt weighed down. The other guy didn’t seem to have that problem. He sprung up to the landing before I could figure out what to do
next.
This was bad. The wooden deck looked sturdy and less rotten. But, if I stepped onto it all he had to do was push me off. If I circled around with my back to the steps, he'd only have to swing the machete at me to make me fall back. I had to go up or fight.
He swung first. I pressed against the wall near the window. Bars, parking lot view. Nothing doing.
He slashed again and I ducked. The blade cut a line into the cement, its powder raining down on my neck. I rammed my shoulder into his gut and slammed his back against the steps leading up to the next level. I heard the wind squeeze out of him and saw him gasp as I pulled back.
The machete was loose in his hand. I made a grab but he clenched his fist first then pushed off the steps and lunged at me, machete pointed like a sword. I screamed as it went under my arm and next to my torso. Way too close.
The machete and his arm went out the window. He grabbed my neck with his free hand. I pounded his face hard, harder...hard enough that he went limp for a moment. It was enough release to wiggle myself loose. I stepped back and kicked as he pulled the machete in from the window. But, he hadn’t brought it in far enough. His wrist caught on the cement window frame and my kick snapped his elbow. He dropped the machete out the window and clutched his arm. His scream echoed throughout the tower. I ran past him and down the steps.
I stopped at the fourth level. The other man was stalking up the stairs. He was older and looked more menacing, with scarring across his cheeks and wrinkles around his eyes. But, he was fit. His arms were cut and massive.
About twenty steps down from the landing, he slowed his approach. He started creeping up the stairs, his eyes fixed on me. Now, I was stuck between the two of them. And, the longer he took the more time his colleague above had to recover and come down.
He said something to me. In French. There was anger in his voice. He pointed with his dagger to the landing above me where he presumed his friend was.
I didn’t respond. I looked around. Half a wooden deck and a window. I tried the window. The iron crossbar moved. I tugged on it hard, back and forth. The ends of the metal dug through the decades old concrete.
