by Trace Conger
“What?” he said to the man on the line. As he listened, his eyebrows arched. The lean man tried to make out the details from the low voice on the line.
“When did this happen?” said Dunbar. More listening. He picked up a notepad and a pen from the desk. “Which guys?” He scribbled on the pad. “And who did it?” Another pause. “You’ve got to be fucking me.” He let the man on the other end of the line finish. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.” Dunbar’s fingers bulged around the receiver. He brought it down on the desk hard, sending the receiver’s plastic battery cover into the air and onto the cold gray floor.
The lean man stepped back. “What’s that all about?” he said.
Dunbar slipped off his tan canvas work gloves, tossed them on the desk next to the phone and handed the lean man the notepad.
“Pack the truck, Davy Bill,” said Dunbar. “You and Mercer are going to Cincinnati.”
DAVY BILL STOPPED THE BOX truck outside the house on Riverside Drive in downtown Cincinnati. He checked the address on the mailbox against the sheet of paper Dunbar gave him.
He turned to Mercer. “Let’s go,” he said.
Mercer stepped out of the passenger side, lifted the metal bar lock on the back of the truck and yanked the rear door open. The rear door, emblazoned with the DTC Woodworking logo, rolled into the ceiling of the storage compartment. Mercer climbed into the back, past the two wooden benches and gallon jugs of water and grabbed a triangular cardboard shipping box fastened in place with bungee cords. He tucked the box under his arm and followed Davy Bill to the house. Davy Bill rang the bell and the men waited.
A woman who looked to be in her late sixties cracked the door.
“Yes?” she said.
“Hello, pretty lady,” said Davy Bill as he pushed his way into the living room. Mercer stayed on the front porch with the box.
As Davy Bill walked past the woman, three men shuffled into the room from the kitchen. The older man with salt-and-pepper hair stood in front of the two younger men, one short and one tall. A girl, no older than five, played with a set of magnetic blocks on the carpet in front of the television. Davy Bill looked at the old man.
Davy Bill put his arm around the woman who had opened the door and pulled her close to his shoulder. “I know who you three are, but who’s this pretty little thing here?”
“That’s Henrietta. My wife,” said the old man.
“Nice to meet you, Henrietta. I’m Davy Bill. From Detroit. And what about this little engineer here?”
“That’s my grandbaby,” said Henrietta.
The short man and the tall man each took a step sideways, flanking the old man.
“What you want here?” said the old man. “You looking for trouble?”
Davy Bill released the older woman. “I never look for trouble,” he said, raising his arms and slowly circling to show he was unarmed. “But it always seems to find me.”
Henrietta pointed to his right hand. “What happened to your other fingers?”
“Table-saw accident,” said Davy Bill. “Took ‘em clean off. I was rough-sawing some poplar boards. One got wedged between the blade and the fence, and jumped on me. Pulled my hand right into the blade. Happened real quick.” Davy Bill wriggled his remaining fingers. “But that’s okay. I still got eight left.”
The old man stepped forward. “Something we can do for you, son?” he said.
“Sure can. You and your two boys here can walk out that door, climb into the back of my truck and take a ride up I-75 with me.”
The tall man pulled a Glock from his belt but kept it pointed at the ground. “What makes you think we’re going to do that?”
“Because if you three come with me now, you all got a chance of coming back in one piece. If you don’t come with me, you got no chance.”
“What if I just shoot you here and now, and push that truck of yours in the river?” said the big man.
“That man out there on your front porch has an AR-15 rifle in that cardboard box he’s holding. You can shoot me, but if you do, he’s gonna come up in here, empty that clip and murder all y’all. Point blank. And that includes this little princess here. It’s your call,” said Davy Bill as he sat down in the recliner in the corner of the room. “I’ll wait until you figure out what you all is gonna do.”
“What you want with us in Detroit?” said the small man.
“My boss has some questions for you. He wants to get to the bottom of this Rollo issue. Dunbar thinks you can shed some light on things, you working for Rollo and all.”
The three men huddled for a moment. Then, the big man set the Glock on an end table, and all three approached the front door.
“Don’t go,” said Henrietta as she grabbed the old man’s arm.
“It’s okay,” said the old man. “We’ll be back soon.”
“I think you made the right play,” said Davy Bill. He turned to Henrietta. “Don’t you worry none. I’ll have all your boys back safe and sound before you can even miss ‘em.”
Davy Bill started for the door, when he saw a leather duffle behind the recliner. He looked inside and then handed it to the old man.
“You might want to take this,” he said.
The old man took the bag and walked onto the porch. Davy Bill followed the men to the street and motioned them into the back of the box truck. The three men climbed in and sat on the bench anchored to the compartment’s floor. Davy Bill nodded to Mercer, who closed and latched the rear door.
MICAH DUNBAR ENTERED DTC WOODWORKING’S main shop, carrying a canvas tool bag in his right hand. In the middle of the room sat three men, each tied to a metal chair with ratchet straps across their thighs and chest and their hands cuffed behind them. Each had a clear plastic bag loosely draped over his head. Loose enough to breathe, but tight enough to raise a pulse. Davy Bill and Mercer stood behind the chairs. A tall woman in a skirt two sizes too small sat on top of a table saw, her legs crossed.
Dunbar set the tool bag on the floor and walked around the seated men. He leaned in close to the middle chair and slapped the old man on the shoulder. He grabbed the chair by its front legs and with one jerk pulled the chair and the old man who sat on it forward about ten feet. He turned the chair so the old man faced the others. Dunbar slipped the plastic bag off his head and patted his damp salt-and-pepper hair.
“You’ll all wanna see this,” he said. He nodded to Mercer and Davy Bill, who removed the plastic bags from the other two seated men.
Dunbar opened the tool bag and pulled out a belt sander. He plugged it into an orange extension cord that dangled from a pulley rig on the shop’s ceiling. The old man rocked his chair from side to side, when Dunbar pressed the trigger and the belt sander spun to life. The old man screamed, mouth wide open, and then clenched his teeth so that the muscles in this cheeks and neck bulged. Dunbar waited for a moment, the sander thundering. The old man shrugged his shoulders, trying to cover his right ear and muffle the tool’s roar. Dunbar turned the sander on the man, first starting on his cheek and then dragging the sander up the side of his face to the top of his head. The man’s shrill screams suffocated the sander’s howl as Dunbar worked it across the man’s scalp, shredding fine particles of skin and hair onto the shop floor.
The old man shook again, still screaming, trying to jump from his chair, but the ratchet straps held, holding him tightly to the seat. His head bobbed back and forth and a set of white dentures, loosened by the sander’s vibration and the shaking of his head, leaped from his mouth.
The sander bogged down as Dunbar raked it over the other side of the man’s face and across his eyes. The smoky smell from the sander’s overloaded motor rose into the wood shop as the man still screamed, mouth open wider than before.
The two seated men squirmed in their chairs and turned their heads down to focus on the floor in front of them. Davy Bill and Mercer grabbed them by the chin and the tops of their head, pulling them up, forcing them to watch.
Dunbar released the tri
gger and the tool feel silent. He drove a tight fist into the old man’s chest, squelching his screams as he gasped for air. Dunbar slammed the belt sander into the man’s head. Again and again until his skull opened up and spilled its contents onto the old man’s shoulder, the sander and the floor.
Dunbar motioned to Mercer, who brought another chair over and placed it in front of the two seated men, and then he sat down.
“That should tell you something,” he said. “If I’m willing to do that to an old man, just think about what I’m willing to do to you.” Dunbar paused. “Shall we begin?”
The two seated men didn’t speak.
“Let’s start off easy. Who killed Rollo?”
The short man cleared his throat. “Someone goes by Mr. Finn. Works for Bishop. He came into Rollo’s office. With a shotgun. Shot him with a shotgun.”
“Slow down,” said Dunbar. “One of Bishop’s guys?”
“Yes. Mr. Finn.”
“Mr. Finn,” said Dunbar. “How did he get to Rollo? In his own office?”
“He was delivering a payment. Had a bag of money for Rollo. A weekly payout. For Rollo.”
“For what?”
“For Bishop’s business. Rollo’s cut. It’s a weekly drop.”
Dunbar turned to the taller man. “You’re quiet. Got anything to add?”
“Everything he just said,” said the tall man. “Bishop’s guy came in with this bag full of cash to pay Rollo and then jumped Rollo in his office.”
Davy Bill handed Dunbar the brown leather duffle. Dunbar unzipped it and looked inside.
“This bag here?”
The two men were silent.
“I’ll ask one more time. This bag here?”
“Yes,” said the short man.
Dunbar turned to Davy Bill. “How much is here?”
“About eighty grand.”
“Eighty grand?” Dunbar looked at the seated men. “I heard Rollo’s safe was empty when they found him. This Rollo’s money?”
The two men were silent.
Dunbar stood up and grabbed a hammer from his canvas tool bag. He crouched in front of the tall man and gently set the hammer’s head on the man’s knee. “Is this Rollo’s money?”
“Yessir,” said the tall man.
“So let’s look at the facts,” said Dunbar. “Bishop’s guy, a Mr. Finn, comes into Rollo’s office with a bag of cash. A payout. Then, he shoots Rollo with a shotgun.” He turned to the short man. “How’d he get a shotgun into Rollo’s office? Seems like that would stick out. Be somewhat noticeable.”
“He took it from Rollo’s bodyguard,” said the short man.
Dunbar tossed the hammer into the air and caught it in his left hand. “Right. He come into the office, takes a shotgun from the bodyguard, kills Rollo. And then what? Rappels down the outside of the building?”
“No,” said the short man.
“Then, how did he get out? Assuming you guys heard a shotgun blast. Did he just walk out onto the street?”
“He had the shotgun,” said the tall man. “He was going to kill us.”
Dunbar walked behind the men. “With what, the handful of shells he had in his pocket? I’ll assume he didn’t have the foresight to pack those ahead of time.”
“He had another piece, too. Took a handgun off the bodyguard, too.”
“Gotcha,” said Dunbar. “I’m no Encyclopedia Brown, but I think I got this one pretty well wrapped up. What I can’t figure out is if you’re just a bunch of pussies or if you’re in on it.”
“Huh?” said the short man.
Dunbar walked to the front of the men, set the hammer on the ground and started to reenact the scenario. “Work with me here. So Mr. Finn walks into Rollo’s office with a bag full of money. He somehow subdues Rollo’s muscle and wrestles his shotgun away and pops Rollo.” Dunbar cocked an imaginary shotgun and picked up the duffle. “Then, he runs out into the hall with a bag of money in one hand and a shotgun in the other. This, of course, renders his second handgun useless because he can’t grab a second weapon if he’s carrying a shotgun and this here duffle.”
“He left the bag,” said the short man. “So he had a free hand to fire the handgun.”
Dunbar spun around to face the men. “Now why in the fuck would he leave a bag of money behind? You’d think he’d take it with him. You’d think if Bishop ordered a hit, he’d want his money back. Why didn’t Mr. Finn take it?” Dunbar paused. “Unless he gave it to you as a payoff in exchange for letting him walk out the front door.”
The two men were silent.
“So either you’re a bunch of pussies who can’t take out one guy carrying a shotgun, or you took the cash and let him go. And since you’re sitting her with eighty grand in cash, my guess is that you took the money. In which case you done fucked up. And around here you can’t unfuck up.”
Dunbar picked the hammer off the floor and started in on the tall man’s head. The tall man took the first blow and slumped forward. Never had a chance to scream. Dunbar kept swinging on his head until the short man, sitting only a few feet away, was covered in splatter.
“Stop. Please stop,” said the short man. “I can make it right. I’ll find Bishop and Mr. Finn for you. I swear, I can find them for you.”
“No need. Bishop’s easy to find. Not looking forward to the fucking drive, but we’ll take care of it. And Mr. Finn. I’ll handle that myself.”
“But your man over there, Davy Bill, he said if we told you what we knew, you’d let us go.”
“From the looks of your friends here, that doesn’t seem to be the case.” Dunbar turned to Davy Bill. “Finish up here and then meet me outside in an hour,” he said. “We’re going to see Bishop and then find this Mr. Finn character.” Dunbar turned around and walked toward the wood shop’s exit as a belt sander fired up behind him.
FAT SAM STOOD IN FRONT of Bishop’s Mount Adams home, watching the sporadic Sunday morning traffic. He jostled the straw in his red-and-white cup, mining diet soda through the icy bedrock.
The first two cars that passed didn’t raise his eyebrows. A Toyota Prius and what looked like one of those Mini Coopers that didn’t have a back seat. Probably headed for the vegan restaurant on the corner. The next two vehicles caused a lump in Fat Sam’s throat. A pair of black Dodge Durango SUVs with Michigan plates. He swallowed hard and sucked on his straw to ease the dryness in his throat. He turned to head back inside Bishop’s home, when he heard a woman’s voice behind him.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for a restaurant somewhere around here, but I’m not familiar with the area. I’m supposed to meet a friend for breakfast and I’m already fifteen minutes late.” The woman was tall and slender with a body that could make a coma patient sit up straight.
Fat Sam licked the tip of his straw. “What’s the name of the place?” he said.
“I’m not sure, but all they serve is breakfast. That’s all I can remember. Any ideas?”
“No ma’am. There’s a vegetarian restaurant around the corner. They might serve breakfast, but they do lunch and dinner, too.”
She ran a hand down her hip and let it linger near the hem of her skirt. “Great,” she said, dropping her shoulder. “I should have gotten better directions.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse, slid one out, tapped it against the box and placed it between her red lips. “Any chance you have a light?”
Fat Sam reached inside his pocket and pulled out a lighter. “Sure thing,” he said. He struck the flint wheel with his thumb and a flame erupted from the lighter. Fat Sam held it up for the woman with one hand, cupping around the flame, protecting it from the slight breeze that blew down Fort View Place.
She leaned in and inhaled. The tip of her cigarette flared bright orange.
“Thank you,” she said, thrusting a .38 into his midsection.
BISHOP SAT BEHIND HIS OFFICE desk, sipping from a water bottle, when his office door sprung open, ricocheted off the doorstop and then bounced off Fat
Sam’s right elbow as he stumbled through the open doorway. Behind Fat Sam, three men and a woman stepped in. The man in the gray hoodie pushed Fat Sam face down onto the couch, wedged a knee into his back and put a .45 to his head.
A second man took a position next to the office door. He wasn’t holding a weapon, but the way he held his deformed hand just above his belt told Bishop he could pull something from his jacket at any moment. The woman, a cigarette still dangling between her red lips, leaned against the wall opposite Fat Sam.
The third man stood in the middle of the room directly in front of Bishop. He had short gray hair and a square jaw covered in scruff from a day or two without a razor. His black sweater, which would have been too large for everyone else in the room, clung to his frame, the outline of his chest and arms visible underneath.
“You know who I am?” he said.
Bishop moved a few folders across his desk. “Got a pretty good idea,” he said. “Dunbar, right?
“That’s right. And you know why I’m here?”
“You’re looking for Rollo?”
“No. I don’t look for dead people. I’m here to understand why someone popped my boy in his own fucking office.”
Bishop reached for his water bottle, his hands struggled to unscrew the cap. “Look, I called Hickman about it,” he said. “To talk it through, but he didn’t called me back. I tried him several times.”
Dunbar raised his hands and placed them palm to palm in front of his lips. “I want you to stop right there,” he said. “Listen very carefully.” He pointed to Fat Sam on the couch. “The remainder of this conversation is gonna determine if you scrub sweat stains or brain stains out of that leather couch. I talked to two of Rollo’s men and they told me you sent a guy, Mr. Finn, to see him. To make a cash drop, but he dropped Rollo instead. That what happened?”
