Hauling Ash

by Tonia Brown

  Otto continued his murmurs of excitement, though they were slurred now that Walter had him by the cheeks.

  “Ooh coop. Ooh coop. Ooh coop.”

  “Take a deep breath, Otto.”

  Doing as his uncle said, Otto inhaled as deeply as he could from his puckered lips. The effect was much like a beached fish struggling to breathe on land.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Walter said.

  “Yoo fin sow?” Otto said.

  “I don’t just think so. I know so. Do you trust your Uncle Walt?”

  “Esh?”

  “You said the Vic was parked out back?”

  “Esh.”

  “Then we sneak out the back door, roll her down that hill you call a driveway and we will be out of here while they are still searching your house.”

  “Woo woo woo goo?”

  Walter wrinkled his nose at Otto. “What?”

  “Woo woo woo goo?”

  Walter shook his head.

  Otto pulled himself free from Walter’s grip. He massaged his cheeks before he said, “I said, where will we go?”

  The corpse considered this question for a moment. “You said that cruise left in a few hours?”

  “Is now really the time for such frivolity?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, the timing couldn’t be better.”

  “I think we should go to the police.”

  “Are you kidding? You don’t steal money from the likes of Maloney then go to the police with it. You’re just asking for a Waldorf. Grab the money and your mutt. Let’s take us a cruise.” Walter headed to the kitchen, toward the back door, Finster tight on his heels.

  “They only want the money. We should leave it here and maybe they will be so happy to find it they will let us alone.”

  “Sure, sure,” Walter said over his shoulder. “We’ll leave it here and when they realize you’ve spent part of it maybe they will forgive you and let bygones be bygones because, hey, you left the rest of it behind like a good sport. Then again, you might also start farting rainbows and pissing champagne and sleeping with a beautiful woman. It’s just as likely.”

  “You don’t have to be so rude about it.” Otto grabbed his backpack and the duffle, slinging each over a shoulder as he followed his dead uncle. “You can’t be serious about going on a cruise with all of this money.”

  “I’m as serious as death. You can duck out on the return trip and hang out in the tropics for a month or two while this whole thing blows over. The money will serve you well until you get back.”

  “A month or two?”

  “Maybe. Might take a few years for Maloney to forget. Though I doubt he will.”

  “Years! I can’t do that. I have to get back to work. I have responsibil—”

  Walter whipped about in the open doorway, meeting Otto toe to toe. “Look, boy, the only responsibility you have now is to your windpipe. Unless you want a gullet full of your own balls, I suggest you hide out for a bit. Understand?”

  A soft knock came from the front door.

  Otto squealed in surprise.

  “That’ll be them,” Walter whispered.

  “Do you think they know I’m home?” Otto said softly.

  Another knock came, louder and stronger this time, followed by a gruff voice demanding, “Come on out! We know you’re in there!”

  “I guess that was a yes,” Otto whispered.

  “Let’s get you on that boat,” Walter whispered. “There are much worse places a single young man with a quarter of a million in cash could end up than the Bahamas. Trust me on that.”

  Otto closed the back door quietly and followed his uncle to the Vic, wondering why those last few words sounded a lot like a statement backed by experience rather than opinion.

  Chapter Four

  Lucky Partners

  A few minutes earlier

  The gentle knock went unanswered. Which meant things had to escalate. Frank hated when things escalated. Why couldn’t anything be simple?

  “Looks like he’s not home, boss,” Larry said.

  Ignoring the kid, Frank beat on the door again. “Come on out! We know you’re in there!”

  No one answered.

  “Shall I break it down?” Larry said. He flexed his impressive and youthful muscles, chomping at the bit to use excessive force.

  “No,” Frank said. He slid a paperclip from the top pocket of his jacket, and set to reshaping it.

  “Boss, what are you doin’?”

  “Getting inside without destroying anything.” Frank squatted in front of the door handle and jammed the paperclip into the key hole.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Nothin’,” Larry said from behind his now upheld hand.

  “Good boy.” Frank wiggled the paperclip in the keyhole.

  “You really know how to do that?” Larry spread his fingers and peered between them. “I mean, not that I see what you’re doing. ‘Cause I don’t see nothin’.”

  “You don’t see anything, Lawrence. For heaven’s sake, learn to speak proper English. You make the rest of us sound like a bunch of goons.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “It’s hard enough trying to blend in with normal folks as it is without you speaking like some kind of mafia throwback.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  “And stop calling me boss. It’s annoying. Wallace is fine. Or even Frank. I don’t mind either.”

  “Okay, Frank.”

  The door gave a soft click, much to Frank’s delight. He stood, tucking the paperclip into his pocket again. “There. Now we don’t have to break anything. Isn’t that much better?”

  Larry stared at Frank with a broad smile and eyes full of awe, as if Frank had just slain a dragon instead of picking a lock. “Will you show me how to do that?”

  “Maybe some other time.” Frank pulled his gun and placed his hand on the door handle ready to bust in. “Let’s finish up with this first. Okay?”

  Raising his weapon, Larry nodded.

  Frank turned the handle and laid into the door, shoving it wide with his shoulder, leveling his pistol straight ahead of him. “FBI! Come out with your hands where we can see them.”

  Of course there was no answer, only the empty echo of Frank’s threat lingering in the air. Larry stepped around Frank into the living room, scanning the area as he moved along. Frank didn’t have to scan it. One glance told him everything he needed to know.

  “This room is secure, sir,” Larry said.

  “I can see that,” Frank said, and put his gun away.

  Larry furrowed his brow, as if confused by this action. “Shall I search the rest of the house?”

  “No need. Our man is gone.”

  “How can you tell?”

  Frank didn’t want to say he had a hunch, because it always sounded cliché and flakey. Never mind the new recruit would eat that kind of thing right up, which was the last thing Frank wanted. Larry Lawrence was a fresh transfer from the Bronx, full of vim, vigor, and as annoying as all hell. Frank liked the kid, and that was the problem—Larry was just a kid. What the new transfer needed was someone who could take him under their wing and teach him everything he needed to know to survive in this crazy business. What the kid didn’t need was an old man on his way out of the game.

  Trust the powers that be to stick an old dog with a fresh pup when that old dog was only two weeks away from retirement.

  “Because he left in a hurry,” Frank said. He stooped to pick up a stray fifty dollar bill from the carpet when he spied a colorful brochure on the coffee table. “Either he realized we were tailing him, or he had another place to be.”

  Larry holstered his gun and nodded at the living room. “He must’ve parked the Buick in the driveway, come in the front and went right out the back to a second vehicle. Stopped long enough to pack up the rest of the money and drugs and what not. I’ll bet he knew we were after him.”

  “Not nec
essarily.”

  “Boss?”

  “We don’t know how involved this Waldorf character is.” Frank pulled an ink pen from his top pocket and used it to lift the corner of a stack of unopened mail—all bills and all addressed to one Octavious Waldorf. The same guy who owned the Buick they followed from the bus station to the uptown district and now here to the heart of the suburbs. “The trouble about jumping to conclusions is we usually end up on the closest one, because it’s the easiest leap. It’s also, more often than not, the wrong one. Let’s go over it again. What do we know?”

  “We know Maloney’s man Mr. Banjo dropped a duffle bag in locker nine at the bus station two days ago. That guy from the Scooter counter—”

  “Mark Randolph.”

  “Right. Our sources say Randolph was supposed to drop a load of coke in the locker and take the duffle bag in exchange, probably this morning. He didn’t.”

  “Someone must’ve tipped him off.”

  “And now this guy’s grabbed the dough instead.”

  Frank huffed as he rubbed at his tired eyes. “Money, Agent Lawrence. Don’t call it dough. We aren’t in a fifties noir.”

  “Oh yeah, I forgot. This Waldorf did take the duffle bag, though.”

  “True. Which means Randolph could’ve called Maloney and warned him the deal was off, and Octavious Waldorf could be the courier Maloney sent to pick up the money. Or this Otto character could be some stooge roped into running Maloney’s money. Or he could have no idea what is going on, and just chanced across the cash. Read me back what Tracy found on him.”

  Larry whipped out his phone, scrolled through some screens, then read aloud, “Octavious Alexander Waldorf. Forty-five years of age. Caucasian male. Brown hair, green eyes, approximately five foot nine, one hundred and ninety pounds. No warrants. No history. No nothing.”

  While Larry read off the particulars, Frank took a stroll around the living room. Mr. Waldorf was a neat man, save for the signs of a rushed exit: a few stray bills lingering in front of the couch; a lone pair of socks on the kitchen floor; half a cup of cold coffee on the table. Frank’s attention landed on a photo propped upon the mantelpiece between two funerary urns. Out from the framed picture smiled a gentle looking man, holding up a frightened schnauzer. Octavious Waldorf? Looked like the description. And the urns? They proclaimed a loving mother and dear father. Awfully complicated set up for a fake identity.

  “He is completely clean,” Larry said. “Not even a parking ticket.”

  “Doesn’t sound like a mob courier, does it?” Frank said as he eyed the photo and urns.

  “Yeah, but stuff like this is easy to fake if you know the right folks.”

  “You’re saying it’s a cover?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “The name, for starters.”

  “This coming from a man whose mother had the nerve to name him Lawrence Lawrence?”

  “Think about it, boss. Octavious must be a play on eight.”

  “And what is so special about—”

  “Hasn’t it been eight years since you last had Maloney in cuffs?”

  Frank cringed. It was a low and dirty thing to bring up. Still, the kid was right. Eight long years ago was the last and only time Frank had enough evidence to actually get his hands on Toney “Waldorf” Maloney. Thanks to a well-paid network of lawyers, the man stayed behind bars less than an hour, the sweetest hour of Frank Wallace’s career.

  “And using Waldorf as a surname?” Larry said with a snort. “Does he think we’re that stupid?”

  “I must admit,” Frank said, “your argument is compelling. However, I won’t be convinced until I speak to this Waldorf myself.” Frank picked up the brochure and flipped through it. A pet cruise? Why not. The man loved his schnauzer enough to put the dog on the mantel yet kept the memory of his parents allocated to urns.

  “Waldorf with the money, or Waldorf Maloney? Phew, this Waldorf thing is going to get confusing.”

  “I can see how it would.”

  “Speaking of which, I’ve been wondering, why is what Maloney does to folks called a Waldorf?”

  Frank eyed the kid over the edge of the brochure. “You’ve never had a Waldorf Salad, have you?”

  Larry shook his head.

  “It’s made with apples and walnuts,” Frank said.

  The kid waited, as if he needed more explanation.

  “He has that maniac of his cut folks at the Adam’s apple,” Frank said. “Then Maloney cuts off the victims testicles and shoves them down the open throat wound along with a handful of walnuts.”

  Larry still waited, obviously not making the connection.

  “Apples and walnuts?” Frank said. “Apple, as in Adam’s … you know what? Just forget it.”

  “Okay, boss,” Larry said. The man’s phone began to play the distant strains of some song Frank had never heard before in his life. Larry poked at the screen a few times, silencing the racket. “Tracy says they’re done interrogating the travel agent that Waldorf visited.”

  “Let me guess, our friend has booked a cruise?”

  Larry looked up from his phone. “How did you know that?”

  “Because some of us still practice actual detective work.” Frank tucked the cruise brochure into the inside pocket of his jacket. He sensed the kid was disappointed that Frank beat him to the punch. “What does Tracy say?” The old dog may have been a hard ass, but he knew how to throw a pup a bone.

  Larry read from his phone, “Looks like the boat leaves at noon from Charleston. It’s heading to the Bahamas and back again. One of those week long affairs. Singles only.” The detective gave a sharp laugh. “Boss, you ain’t gonna believe this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Guess who else is booked on the same trip?” Larry held out his phone for Frank to see.

  The text was small enough to warrant Frank pulling out his glasses, an act he refused to stoop too, no matter how interesting the reading material. Besides, he didn’t have to read the text message to know who Larry was talking about. “Maloney.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Damn it. I was hoping this Waldorf character was unwittingly mixed up in all of this. This is too coincidental.”

  “It does seem too weird to be a fluke.”

  Frank eyed the kid. “Fluke? You’ve been at the crossword again?”

  Larry went a bit red in the cheeks. “You told me it was the best way to improve my words.”

  “I said vocabulary. Well, either way, I suppose we should start treating this character like a proper suspect. Lawrence, get them to work up a warrant for Mr. Waldorf.” Frank frowned at the photo on the mantel. It didn’t make sense. This Octavious guy didn’t fit the bill of one of Maloney’s usual men. Then again, this whole situation was unusual. “Tell them to bring in Randolph as well. We’ve let him stew long enough.”

  “Will do. You want me to get Tracy to call the head office and see if we got anyone out in Charleston that can set up a block?”

  Frank shook his head. “No. I don’t want anyone else in on this. I’ve played a long game setting Maloney up this time, and I won’t quit until I win.” Frank helped himself to the photograph of Mr. Waldorf, slipping it from the frame and tucking it into his jacket pocket while he added, “No, Maloney is mine, and I think this Waldorf character might be my ticket to catching him.”

  “Then we gonna go down there and nab this Waldorf guy at the marina? Give him the shakedown and whatnot?”

  “Not at all. We’re going to let him take his cruise.”

  Larry gave Frank a look of utter confusion. “Let him?”

  “Sure. Who are we to stand between a man and his vacation?”

  “We are the FBI, sir.”

  “Yes we are. That doesn’t mean we are a bunch of bastards.”

  The kid raised his eyebrow, his look disagreeing wholeheartedly with the lieutenant.

  Frank smirked as he made his way to the front door again. �
��Detective, how are your sea legs?”

  “My what?”

  “Your sea legs. As in, how do you handle oceanic trips?”

  “Don’t know.” Larry shrugged. “It’s been years since I’ve been out on the water.”

  “Well, my friend, we are about to change all of that. I think it is high time we got some fresh air and sunshine. Call Tracy and tell her to book us two spots on that trip. Under assumed names, of course.”

  Larry whipped his phone out again and began tapping on the screen, obviously texting Tracy instead of calling her. “We really goin’ on a cruise?”

  “We most certainly are. It’ll be nice to get away for a little bit. Don’t you think?”

  “Gee, boss, I don’t know what to say. I’ve never been on a cruise before.”

  “Neither have I. There’s a first time for everything. And it won’t hurt to see where Mr. Otto Waldorf thinks he is taking that money. Right?”

  “Right.” Larry beamed with excitement.

  If Frank didn’t know better, he would say the kid was almost as keyed up as Frank was about all of this.

  Almost.

  Chapter Five

  Nothing Sacred

  Meanwhile, across town

  Mr. Banjo rapped the wood again, impressed by the sturdy echo it gave off. It had been a long time since he buried someone alive, much less in a wooden box, and never in a proper coffin. Usually, he left his prey where they lay as a warning. Once in a while he would go through the trouble of hiding the body, though there was nothing like a corpse to deter the bad habits of others. It was gauche, to be sure, but effective nonetheless.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have your size in that model,” a man said behind Mr. Banjo.

  It would surprise Banjo more if they had his size in any model, considering Banjo was a clean seven and a half foot tall and over half as broad. His mother used to call him Benjamin Bear when he was growing up. The other kids called him sir. The teachers too.

  The name Banjo came much, much later.

  Mr. Banjo turned and smiled at the well-dressed speaker. “That’s okay. It isn’t for me anyways.” He gave the coffin another rap. “Nice wood. Sturdy. I like that.”