by Jon Mills
Jack made his way over to the priest and fished through the pockets of his dark pants for anything that might give him some connection to whoever had been in contact with both of them. He hurried into the rear of the church and located the office. A lamp was still on and there on the table was a suicide letter of confession along with a pen. Jack brought a hand to his forehead. Whether Jack had shown up or not he was going to kill himself. Guilt over his transgressions had eaten him up.
Who was behind their deaths?
He zigzagged the lines of the letter searching for anything related to Dana but all it contained was his confession for having indecently engaged with an altar boy, and his role in killing Cosmo. Jack scanned the desk and then opened two of the drawers before he discovered a cell phone. It still had power. He fired it up and was scanning through contacts when a cry from the sanctuary pierced the silence.
Jack darted out of the office and made his way down to the sanctuary. He cracked the door open and peered in to see a group of five people, some old, and some young, gathered around the priest’s body. A guy said he would call the cops and got on a phone. Jack turned and got out of the building through the same side door and noticed a church van now in the lot.
Had someone seen him inside?
Was it the one playing games with his life?
His mind churned over what the priest said as he slipped away into the night.
Chapter 22
The steady hum of a road-sweeping truck woke Jack that next morning. With the knowledge that police were probably scouring the streets looking for Garcia’s killer, he’d avoided heading back to Tyson’s mother’s place and opted to sleep on a park bench. His body ached as he sat up and stretched out. Old newspapers fell off like skin. He’d used them to keep himself warm as the temperature dropped. He pawed at his eyes. Not far from him a homeless person sat by a tree with his dog, swigging from a brown paper bag. The hobo offered a wide grin revealing a toothless smile. Jack nodded then glanced at his watch. It was a little after seven.
Memories of the previous night came back to him hard and fast.
His stomach twisted. There was so much he still didn’t know.
Although he’d learned a little, it wasn’t enough. It hadn’t given him Dana back; neither had it brought him any closer to finding out who was behind her abduction. Jack rolled his head around and ran a hand around the back of his neck as he rose to his feet. The weight of the priest’s phone in his pocket reminded him to toss it. He knew the cops wouldn’t be searching for it yet. Investigations into a death were a slow and painful process. Without concrete leads, or hard evidence, police usually had little to go on. Jack tossed the phone into the woods. It was useless. He’d searched through it late that night, but there were only a few contacts listed, one for his elderly father, and the other for two local churches. Text messages yielded nothing. He obviously was old school and stuck to phone conversations or an in-person meeting. It was possible that he hadn’t contacted him the same way he had with Garcia. But if Garcia was telling the truth and he was just a pawn in this man’s game, who were the two men Garcia mentioned seeing when he handed over Dana at the church? And what connection did Arkansas play in all of this? And if Dana never made it back to Telluride, how had the tablet with the video managed to find its way back into the safe deposit box?
As he strolled out of the park and headed east for Tyson’s home to collect his bag, he pulled out his own phone and powered it on. He knew Tyson would have been trying to get hold of him last night but he’d turned it off when he’d approached Garcia’s place. Sure enough, there were several texts, and a few additional phone messages.
Where are you?
The fight is starting. Call me.
Jack, Pope is pissed. Phone me.
The phone messages were similar.
He slid it back into his pocket and expected to make it up to him before he left Santa Fe. He couldn’t understand what he was dealing with here. Jack was used to cowards hiding behind others but manipulating a cop and a priest to do his bidding? That was below the belt. There was more to this. But what? Anyone could be responsible. His enemies were numerous.
It took him the better part of forty minutes to reach Shanice’s home.
When he arrived and knocked, Shanice came to the door, her eyes welled up and swollen from crying.
“Shanice?”
Holding a tissue in her hand she dabbed at her eyes as she tried to catch her breath.
Jack’s heart sank as his mind went to the worst.
“Where is he?”
“You don’t know?” she asked.
“I wasn’t with him last night.”
She nodded but said no more, she simply turned and walked back inside and he followed her into the kitchen. She was having difficulty breathing and the hiss of oxygen coming from the tank was even louder. “Carla phoned this morning.”
“What happened?”
“He’s in the hospital. He was attacked.” She shook her head. “Why would they do that to my boy?”
She heaved trying to get air. Jack placed a hand on her shoulder. “Have you been to the hospital?”
“A cab is supposed to be coming shortly.”
Jack nodded. “I’m coming with you.”
He collected his bag and waited for the cab. Carla had given her little information other than he’d been involved in a fight and knocked unconscious. Jack went to the window at the sound of a horn. He assisted Shanice out and they traveled together to Christus St. Vincent Regional Medical Center.
Jack expected Shanice to blame him but she never did. Instead she gripped his hand on the ride to the hospital. Here was a woman who only a day earlier had her reservations about him, and now she seemed grateful for his company.
Upon their arrival, an attentive nurse got a wheelchair for Shanice and took her up to Tyson’s room while Jack went and bought coffee. He felt it was probably best she saw him first. He didn’t want to intrude any more than he had. As he stood in a line waiting to place an order, he felt a tug on his jacket.
Behind him was Carla. “You’re Jack, right?”
He nodded.
“I’m glad you came. Tyson was asking for you. What happened to you last night?”
“Uh — something cropped up.”
She nodded and her chin dropped. “Tyson fought in your place.”
Jack’s jaw went slack. “That’s why he’s here?”
She frowned. “No. No, he won his fights. All three of them. Hell, you should have seen him. He laid down one hell of a beating on those guys. Impressed the hell out of me. He also made some good money.”
“Then what happened?”
“Tyson might have made money but Pope lost far more. It seems he bet a considerable amount on Tyson losing. I heard from a friend of a friend that Pope had some guys jump him.”
“Pope ordered it?”
She nodded.
“Why didn’t you warn Tyson?”
“It was too late. He didn’t take me out with him. Him and me… well, things haven’t worked out. But I love him.” Her chin dropped. “I really do.”
“Because he won and made money?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I know he thinks that’s all I’m there for but it’s not true.”
“Then maybe you should get off the fence and stop flirting with other men.”
She looked ashamed but nodded. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know.”
“You’re not sticking around?”
She thumbed towards the main exit. “I’ll swing by later. I have a shift I’m late for. Let him know I dropped by.”
Jack nodded and watched her leave. Pope’s reaction to losing didn’t surprise him. He’d seen Gafino do far worse to those who cost him money. He pushed the thought of retribution from his mind and collected the coffees. Once he made it up to the second floor he went along to room 202 and peered in through the window. Shanice was beside the bed holding her boy’s hand. Tyson had tubes up hi
s nose, and one attached to his arm. His face was severely swollen, both eyes sealed shut. A large bandage wrapped around his head, and a cast was on his leg. Jack knocked twice before entering.
Shanice looked over and Jack gave a strained smile as he placed her coffee on the bedside table. He blew out his cheeks as he looked at Tyson.
“Has he said anything?”
She shook her head.
“Do you know who’s responsible for this?” Shanice asked.
As much as he wanted to say he knew, Shanice would have wanted to involve the police. They would have come sniffing around asking questions and there was no telling if someone had seen him coming out of Garcia’s place or the church. He was working on borrowed time.
“No. Like you said, he’s been around a lot of rough people. It’s hard to know for sure.”
He wasn’t just going to lie. Of course it could backfire on him too if Carla opened her mouth later. The fact was they were dealing with hearsay. Jack believed Carla because he’d seen that kind of behavior coming from Roy Gafino but that alone was not enough. He would have to dig deeper. Get a confession out of those involved. In the meantime he wanted to do right by them. With Tyson injured, bills piling up and Shanice needing assistance, they needed money, a lot of it and soon.
He wished he had more to go on regarding Dana but he didn’t.
He was torn between leaving and staying to help Tyson and Shanice.
Arkansas would have to wait.
Feeling uncomfortable staying in the room, and seeing Tyson wasn’t awake to talk, Jack placed a hand on Shanice’s shoulder. He reassured her that whatever the medical expenses were he would cover it.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“No I don’t. But I want to.”
Her brow furrowed and she lowered her chin. “I feel ashamed.”
“For what?”
“For judging you.”
“We all do it, Shanice. You had your reasons,” he said looking at Tyson. “Take care of him. I’ll check back later.”
“Where are you going?”
“To make a few arrangements for my departure.”
Pope’s gym was buzzing with activity when Jack entered. It was even more packed than before. Someone had cranked up the heat or the air conditioning unit had died, as Jack hadn’t been in there a few minutes when he began to sweat. Several people who’d attended the underground fights recognized him and waved as if they knew him.
The attendant behind the desk tried to tell him that he couldn’t go back into the office area without first making an appointment but Jack just ignored him and pressed on. Unlike the Pig’s Ear there was no one standing outside his office to make sure no one could get at Pope. That revealed a lot about the operation. It was amateur, sloppy and so was having his guys beat on a man because he lost money.
Jack let himself into the office to the surprise of Pope who was sitting at the head of a long mahogany conference table joined by six other businessmen. Spike, Pope’s right-hand man who’d been sitting in a chair near the door, stood up and went to place his hand on Jack. In days gone by Jack might have grabbed it and broken a few fingers before he could touch him but under these circumstances he needed Pope to trust him. He couldn’t let on that he knew anything about Pope’s involvement in Tyson’s beating.
Spike tried to shove him back out but Jack stood his ground, fixing his feet firmly to the floor in a way that made Spike feel as if he was pushing up against a boulder.
“I’m here to speak with Pope.”
Pope raised a hand. “Spike, let him be. We were actually just talking about you,” he said motioning to the businessmen. “Please. Come in. Take a seat.”
Before Spike let him go he patted him down to check for a handgun.
“I’ll stand.”
Pope smiled as he rose and walked over. He wrapped an arm around Jack’s shoulders and presented him to the group as if he was being sold as a prostitute.
“Gentlemen, this is Jack Weslo.” He turned to Jack. “We were just discussing business, and I was saying how good your last fights were. A few more and I think you could be ready for Albuquerque.”
“That’s why I’m here. I have a proposition for you,” Jack said.
“Really? Please. Go ahead.”
Jack pulled his bag around and Spike stepped forward. Jack smiled. “It’s just money. Relax.” He unzipped the bag and took out all he had in cash and dropped the bricks on the table. “That’s seventy-five thousand dollars.”
The men gazed at it as if it was nothing more than pocket change. In their world it was. Jack had seen far more in his time working for the mob, and doing jobs for others but it was all he had left. Fifty of his own money, twenty of Dana’s and five from his recent fights. “I want Albuquerque tonight. Bring out your best.”
A smirk appeared on Pope’s face. He wagged his finger. “As much as I admire your tenacity,” he said, raising his voice at the end, “that’s not how it works. We make the deals, we determine the amount and so on.”
“You afraid I might win like Tyson did?”
Pope’s smile vanished and his lips pursed together. He narrowed his eyes and looked at the money. “No. I believe you are everything and more. The real deal.” He smiled. “That’s what Tyson said, right?” He rolled his head to one side. “How is Tyson?” He feigned concern. “What a shame. Terrible world, isn’t it?”
Jack wanted to pull a gun and kill them all but he needed to remain composed. He’d also left his firearms outside, as he knew they would check him.
“Wouldn’t know. I was out of town yesterday.”
“Right.” He nodded rolling his lower lip under his teeth. “That would explain your absence at the fight. I gather Tyson didn’t explain the penalties for not showing?”
“No.”
“Well you’re fortunate that he stepped in at the last minute. Not many managers would do that, would they?” he said smiling at everyone. They all shook their head like typical yes-men. Jack despised him. He couldn’t wait to wipe the smug grin off his face.
Pope looked back at him. “Seventy-five thousand. Not many fighters are willing to put up that kind of money. You’ve got balls; I’ll give you that. But like I told Tyson. You want to fight? Sure, I’ll get you in the cage.” Jack reached for the money and Pope placed his hands on it. “No. It stays here with me. Call it insurance that you’ll show up. I think you understand, yes?” There was a pause.
Jack pulled back and nodded.
“Spike, give this man the address for the Albuquerque Plaza. We’ll see you there tonight at midnight.”
“I’ll find it myself,” he said walking past Spike and scowling at him.
“And Jack, remember. Show up this time. I don’t like being let down twice.”
Chapter 23
They were easy to find. Pope’s expendables congregated in a seedy bar called Last Round just off San Francisco Street. Seeing that none of Tyson’s original attackers had shown their face at the gym on the two occasions Jack was there, he figured Pope kept his legitimate and illegal operations separate, which also meant keeping his dogs on a short leash. These were the kind of animals that would willingly do his dirty work at the drop of a hat for nothing more than beer money. Gafino had used that method for years. His guys operated on the streets distributing narcotics. They never met him; neither did they know who was giving the marching orders. That way if they were ever arrested and someone squealed, it wasn’t traced back to him. Gafino made a whole game out of it. It was like multi-level marketing and he was at the top making money off the backs of those who didn’t have a pot to piss in. They were thugs, nothing more. Hard cons that often had just got out of prison. No prospects. No future. No real way to earn money. Working for him beat banging on doors trying to get a real job. They didn’t ask questions. As long as the green flowed, so did the blood.
Last Round was a basement bar accessible only by a narrow, steep staircase. There were a couple of panhandlers
outside who asked for change, or a cigarette. Jack gave neither; his mind was too focused on the task at hand. He could feel the weight of the two Heckler & Koch P30L handguns secured inside his shoulder holster beneath his jacket. Inside the basement it was dark and dingy, the floor was covered with trash and it felt sticky on his boots as if alcohol was spilled frequently and no one cared to mop it up. The joint wasn’t fancy, the full bar was standard and there were three beers on tap. As Jack entered late that afternoon, it took a second for his eyes to adjust then he smiled as he saw staff too self-absorbed in their phones to notice him. There had been a video camera outside but a frayed cable hanging down made clear it wasn’t in service. There were none inside, a common practice for bar owners who allowed shady business deals to take place. They might have catered to all types but they attracted the scum of society.
Jack knew he didn’t have the luxury of time to follow through with what he wanted to do to each of them. He was also taking a big risk of being caught by the cops but that was the price of taking care of business. It wasn’t foreign to him, nor did he shy from it. Death had to be swift, without mercy and he needed to get out of there fast. Besides the main door, there was another indicated by an exit sign at the back of the room. He planned on using it.
Within the first ten seconds of arriving, he’d surveyed the room, determined exits, cameras, employees and number of assholes sucking up his oxygen. The bar itself looked as if it had been airlifted straight out of the ’70s. It was a cheesy relic, and yet fed those looking for a taste of nostalgia and a darkened corner. A jukebox played out some ’70s funk. The walls were covered in historic memorabilia from Santa Fe, and photos of the owners with unknown people. There was a dance floor at the center that was lit up in red with leather booths around the perimeter, and a couple of round tables close to the dance floor. At a quick head count there were eight inside. One employee, and seven patrons, four of whom he recognized from the night he gave them a whooping. A couple were dressed in flannel shirts, and Pavement T-shirts. The rest wore jean or leather jackets. The largest in the group cast a glance over his shoulder as Jack walked in but as the light above the door was out, his face was shrouded in darkness. The man returned to drinking and laughing with his buddy.
