by Trace Conger
“Is Rollo the only other person in the room?” I said.
“No,” said Fat Sam. “There’s someone else there too. A big guy. Bodyguard.”
“Where is he in the room?” I said.
“I don’t know. Sometimes he’s in the corner; sometimes he’s in a chair. What difference does it make?”
“More than you think,” I said. “Does he pat you down?”
Fat Sam smirked. “Sometimes he does, but not always.”
“Who takes the money?” I said. “Does the bodyguard take it or does Rollo take it?”
“It’s usually the bodyguard, but Rollo has taken it before. They dump the cash on the couch and hand me the bag back.” He looked at Bishop. “What’s with all the questions?”
“So he doesn’t count it?” I said.
“Not really,” said Fat Sam, turning back to me. “He might look at the printout, but it’s so routine he never does a full count.”
Bishop stood up from his desk and walked back to the liquor cabinet. “The spreadsheet I mentioned earlier,” said Bishop. “That’s also in the drop. It’s a printout.”
“Does Rollo ever say anything to you?” I said.
“Sometimes he does; sometimes not,” said Fat Sam.
“What does he say to you?”
“Fuck, man, I don’t know. Nothing special. It’s not like we talk about our weekend plans or anything. Just small talk.”
“How long does the entire process take? From the time you step off the elevator to the time you’re back on.”
“No more than ten minutes.”
I turned to Bishop. “Since my ass is on the line, I’ll come up with the plan,” I said.
“It better be a good one,” said Bishop. “This has to go right. If you or Little Freddie fuck up, it’s ...” he stopped. “... It’s not going to be pretty for any of us.”
“I’m the one walking into Rollo’s office.” I sat my empty glass on his desk. “You can be damn sure it’ll be right. It’ll be fucking perfect.”
“You’ll want to disappear for a while afterward. Let things cool down. Maybe two weeks. I’ll get you the fifty grand when you come back.”
“I could use a vacation,” I said. I needed something more powerful than Scotch to get my head around Rollo. My mind went to the coffee pot on my boat. “I need time to think this through. I’ll have a plan by tomorrow.”
“Remember, it has to be this Friday at noon.”
Three days. “I’ll take care of it.” I was already in the hallway. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
WHEN I GOT BACK TO the boat, Albert was on the couch, wearing a white T-shirt and gray slacks and watching “Valdez Is Coming” on the small television in the galley. He clicked off the television, picked up the orange life vest from the floor, slipped his arms through the holes and snapped the plastic buckles on the front.
“You don’t have to turn that off just because I’m here.”
“I’ve seen it before. Valdez wins.” He pulled the white nylon straps, and the life vest cinched around him. “Let me have your car keys.”
“Why? Where are you going?”
“I thought about going to the library or just out to get a pop or something.”
“There’s pop in the mini-fridge.”
He snatched the keys out of my hand. “I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to get off this damn boat. It’s like a floating prison.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way, but I wasn’t expecting a roommate.”
“You’re an ass.” He stepped over the back of the boat and grabbed a pole on the dock for balance. I stepped closer to help him. “I got it,” he said, brushing me away. “Look, we’ve got to seriously talk about our housing options here. I don’t know how much longer I can live on this deathtrap. We need to find someplace else. An apartment. Maybe a house.”
“We? You got a mouse in your pocket?”
He patted his front pants pocket and then looked up at me. “Mouse? No, goddamnit. We, as in you and me. I’ll pick up a paper while I’m out and we can sit down tonight and see what’s available.” He started up the dock.
“Maybe you can knock over a bank while you’re out and get us a down payment,” I said.
He stopped, turned around and returned to the boat. “I got money. Not enough to buy something outright, but enough to get us into a house.” He waited for me to ask how much he had, but I didn’t. “But, I need you to go get it.”
“You need me to take you to the bank?” I said.
He lowered his voice. “No. It’s not in a bank. It’s six feet underwater. At the cabin in Maine. Under the boathouse.”
I set my foot on the back of the boat and crouched toward him. “Are you having a stroke or something? Do I need to call an ambulance?”
Albert’s eyes narrowed to a squint. “I’m not having a stroke, dumbass. It’s in a watertight container anchored under the boathouse. You just have to go and haul it up.”
“You’re serious?”
He leaned closer. “You’re goddamn right I’m serious.”
“How long’s it been there?
“I don’t know. Awhile. A few years.”
“And how much is it?”
“Twenty grand. Give or take.”
I stepped back and sat in the deck chair. “And why do you have twenty grand, give or take, submerged under the boathouse?”
“Because I didn’t want to dig a hole.”
I tried to think of something to say, but the words didn’t come. All I could do was stare at my father.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he said. “It’s not like I stole it.”
“I’m not sure I want to know where you go it.”
“It’s my money. Let’s drive up tomorrow. We can spend a few days at the cabin, come back and find a new place. Maybe do some fishing. It’ll be fun. I’ll pay for the gas.”
“I should hope so, given you’re sitting on a thick stack of soggy bills.”
“So it’s settled then. We’ll drive out tomorrow.”
I was about to agree until I remembered the reason I’d come back to the boat in the first place: to come up with a plan to permanently remove Rollo Watkins from Bishop’s business plan.
“I’ve got to take care of something for a client on Friday, but we can go up next week.” I needed to get out of Cincinnati anyway until things blew over with Rollo.
“Fine with me.” Albert turned and started walking toward the parking lot. I cracked a smile and fought the urge to laugh as my father, wearing a T-shirt, slacks and an orange life vest, wobbled along the center of the dock, his arms outstretched like a kid struggling to stay on top of a balance beam.
IN COLLEGE I CAME UP with a coffee drink I called the Deathbringer. It cleared my head, helped me focus and was a lifesaver during exam week, when I had to pile three months of learning into a few days of studying. I’d called upon the Deathbringer a few times over the years, and I needed to summon it again to figure out how I could walk into Rollo’s office, put a bullet in him and walk out again in one piece.
I grabbed the coffee pot, filled it with water from the jug in the refrigerator and poured it into the coffeemaker’s water reservoir. Then, I packed lose grounds into a coffee filter and slid it into the plastic cone-shaped filter basket and clicked the “brew” button. I waited for ten minutes for the coffeemaker to gurgle as the last drops of water made it through the filter and into the pot. When the coffeemaker made a satisfying beep, I dumped the used coffee filter, packed more lose grounds into a new filter and placed it into the basket. Then, I poured the coffee from the pot into the water reservoir and pressed “brew” again. The coffeemaker drew the dark-brown liquid from the reservoir and passed it through another round of crushed Colombian beans. Ten minutes later, I stared at a cup of steaming coffee darker than a black bear’s asshole. I closed my eyes, sipped and waited for the Deathbringer to ignite the deepest parts of my brain.
Two hours later,
I had an empty coffee pot and a plan to kill Rollo Watkins.
BISHOP WAS SITTING BEHIND HIS walnut desk, when Fat Sam entered the office with two men.
Fat Sam placed a thick hand on each man’s shoulder. “These are the two guys I told you about,” he said. “Solid guys looking for work.”
Bishop looked up from the row of computer monitors on his desk. The two men stood side by side. One wore a tan suede jacket over a collared white shirt. The kind of jacket you’d see executives wear on casual Friday. Not too dressy, but nice enough to know he gave a shit about his appearance. The collared shirt covered most of the man’s neck tattoo, a tarantula the size of a softball. Its legs were wrapped around the side and front of his neck. From a distance, it almost looked real. The other man wore an orange and navy-blue button-down shirt untucked with jeans. No tattoos.
Bishop stood up. “You guys a package deal or something?”
The man in the suede jacket stepped forward. “Nah, I just met him.”
“You know who I am?” said Bishop.
Suede jacket nodded. “I know who you are. You’re a paycheck.” He pointed to Fat Sam. “And from what this boy tells me, a pretty good one.”
“Which one of you is from Lexington?”
Suede jacket nodded. “I’m from Lexington.”
“Sam said you did some time there.”
“Yeah. Did a stint in Eddyville for B and E and assault. Got out and now I’m looking to get back to it.”
“Your parole officer know you’re here?” said Bishop.
Suede jacket smiled. “What parole officer?”
Bishop turned to the man in the blue and orange shirt.
“How about you?” he said. “You pop your cherry yet?”
“Nope,” he said, nodding to the man in the suede jacket. “Not stupid enough to get caught.”
Bishop looked both men up and down.
“This isn’t petty shit,” he said. “We’re up against some heavy hitters. I got a fucking shitstorm about to rain down on me and I need to know you’re not going to piss yourselves when push comes to shove. And push will come to shove. You got to have the balls to handle it.”
The man in the suede jacket snatched the Glock from Fat Sam’s waistband, shoved the weapon into the midsection of the man in the orange and blue shirt and fired three times, dropping him to the floor. He spun the Glock in his palm and handed it back to Fat Sam.
“Fuck me,” said Fat Sam, taking two steps back.
“I can handle my shit, Bishop. And I’m worth every penny you’re going to pay me.”
Bishop sat down in his desk. “I see that,” he said. “I guess you’re hired. What’s your name?”
“They call me The Truth.”
“What?” said Bishop.
“The Truth.”
Fat Sam stuffed his Glock back into his waistband, keeping a hand on the grip. “That’s retarded,” he said.
“That’s what they call me on the streets.”
“I don’t care what they call you on the streets. Sam’s right,” said Bishop. “What name did your mom give you?”
“Wallace.”
“Then, you’re Wallace from now on. I got no patience for dumbass names.”
“I hear people on the street call him Fat Sam,” said Wallace.
“Have you looked at him?” said Bishop. “He’s as big as a goddamn house.” Bishop looked at Fat Sam. “No offense, Sam.”
Fat Sam nodded.
“You want to be Black Wallace?” said Bishop. “That’s acceptable.”
“Just Wallace is fine.”
“All right, Just Wallace. Welcome to the team. First order of business ...” Bishop pointed to the dead man in the corner. “Clean that shit up.”
FOR TWO DAYS, I WALKED through my plan to kill Rollo. It was seared into my brain. Now it was time to see how good of a plan it really was.
Rollo Watkins ran his operation from the fourth floor of a building on Gest Street downtown. There was no parking at his building, so I parked in a lot across the street. I stepped out of the SUV and brushed the silver flecks from my charcoal slacks, the small metal file peeked out from behind my sun visor. I checked my watch. Almost noon.
My shirt and suit jacket clung to my body as I raked my forearm across my face, taking one last swipe at the sweat dotting my forehead. I’d hoped the cologne I sprayed would mask any smell my sweat-drenched clothes might offer up to Rollo and his men. Didn’t want to appear nervous.
I yanked the leather duffle from the back of the SUV and crossed the street. For a Friday, downtown Cincinnati appeared deserted, not a person in sight. They were all tucked away in their cubicles or offices, completely unaware of what was about to happen. An empty scaffold engulfed the first three floors of a dilapidated brick building near Rollo’s place. Farther down the street a large gray canvas tarp billowed in the light breeze as it failed to cover the exposed guts of a building renovation. Farther down still, faded orange barrels blocked off part of West Fifth Street. Downtown revitalization at its finest.
At the building entrance, I set the duffle on the ground, checked my right pants pocket for my car keys and wiped my hands down the sides of my pants leg. I took a deep breath, picked up the duffle and used my elbow to push through the glass door into the lobby. No prints.
The lobby was a tight squeeze. No doorman, reception desk or building directory—just an elevator and a potted plant that needed water. Two surveillance cameras stared through me. My head down, but not obvious, I reached out and called the elevator with my knuckle. The door opened with a ding.
The elevator jerked back and forth, and I thought for a moment that it might be a bigger threat to my life expectancy than Rollo. The elevator coughed a sickly buzz as it passed each floor. It settled into the fourth-floor bay with a metal-on-metal squeak. I gripped the leather duffle tighter as the door opened and stepped into the lobby. Large sheets of plastic lined the walls and stacks of drywall boards blocked the windows. The chalky smell of drywall putty coated the air and there was a haze of white dust on the floor.
Three black men watched me. The two younger men—one short and the other tall—looked like they could both bench-press a Volkswagen without a spotter. They wore light gray suits. Skintight. The older man wore short salt-and-pepper hair and a Bill Cosby sweater. He sat at a makeshift desk, a piece of plywood supported by two sawhorses. The elevator door closed behind me, and the two suits approached.
“Something we can we do for you?” said the tall man.
“I’m here to see Rollo,” I said.
I barely got the words out before the tall man’s fist blindsided me. I’m not sure what hit the ground first, me or the duffle. I hadn’t been in a lot of fights, but I knew that being on the ground wasn’t the best place to be. Try to get up and I’d expose my ribs to another blow, and balling up on the ground wouldn’t improve the situation, only prolong it. This was a lose-lose predicament. I waited for another blow, maybe kicks from the four dress shoes in front of me, but nothing came. I glanced up and the tall man had retreated back a few feet. I made it to my knees, then my feet, and then picked up the duffle.
“Nobody sees Rollo,” said the tall man.
“He’ll see me,” I coughed and raised the duffle. “I’m filling in for Sam.”
The tall man looked me over. “That right?” he said. “Name?”
“Mr. Finn,” I said.
“Sorry then. Nobody told us.”
The short man approached, snatched the duffle from my hand and set it on the old man’s makeshift desk.
The man in the Cosby sweater adjusted his glasses, slowly unzipped the bag and gave it the suspicious-package treatment. He tilted it to the side, surveyed the contents and then swept his hands along the inside lining, probably looking for any hidden compartments. He wouldn’t find any.
He zipped it up and handed it back to the short man.
“This way,” the short man said. He didn’t return the bag.
He
led me down a hallway. The tall man kept a distance behind us. Not far. He could close the gap in a second or two, if needed. The right side of my jaw throbbed. I checked for any loose teeth with my tongue. So far, still in good shape. We stopped at another makeshift desk. A handheld metal detector and a white plastic bin sat on top.
The short man looked me up and down. “You got any metal on you?” he said.
“You mean am I armed?”
“No, asshole. I asked if you had any metal on you.”
“Just my watch and keys.”
He held out the plastic bin. “In they go.”
I hesitated.
“In they go. I’m not going to ask again.”
The tall man took a few steps toward us.
“Okay,” I said, dropping my keys and watch into the bin.
The short man waved the metal detector around my body. It let out a low hum, but no beeps. He set the metal detector back on the desk and patted me down with his hands.
“Down the hall on the right,” he said handing the duffle back to me.
I slid the watch back on my wrist, dropped the keys into my right pants pocket and walked down the hall, counting my steps.
“Don’t fuck up,” he said.
There was a large oak door at the end of the hall. The smell suggested someone lacquered it within the last day or two. I knocked. The door buzzed, and then the deadbolt withdrew with a thud. Like a prison cell unlocking.
It took me thirty-two steps from the metal detector to Rollo’s office door. It’d take the suits five or six seconds to get here. Longer for Bill Cosby, if he came at all.
Another tall man in a beige suit opened the door and waved me in. He wasn’t as ‘roided out as the two men in the lobby, but the double-barreled sawed-off in his hands made him just as threatening. The dark metallic handle peeking out of his jacket also suggested a .45 in a shoulder holster. So far, the drop went just as Fat Sam explained, minus the fist to my face.
I walked into the office and the man in beige followed close behind. Too close. His first mistake. Rollo Watkins sat behind a thick wooden desk, a black iron safe, stacked with bills, open behind him. Rollo looked small, more because of the oversized desk, not his frame. So far, Bill Cosby was the only person on this floor who didn’t dwarf me.
