The Contract

by JM Gulvin

  As he hunched forward on his heels he felt the edge of his belt buckle chafe his belly. A western design, the buckle bore the longhorn emblem favored by the Rangers, rectangular and flat-fronted; the edge might just be narrow enough. Stripping the belt from the loops in his pants he took the buckle in both hands then tried the edge in the groove of the screw.

  With a little maneuvering he managed to get some purchase and began to work the buckle back and forth. It was slow going, laborious; the buckle kept slipping but he carried on, not knowing how much time he had before either Franklin or those other two came back. Finally he got the first screw taken care of and was into the second then the third. Four screws clear, he could raise one piece of planking but he needed the width of two. He worked on but the buckle started slipping again and the light was fading now. Every so often he thought he heard the throb of an engine on the road outside but nobody came. He worked harder, applying all the pressure he could muster on the head of each screw; he was into the second length of board as the darkness became complete. Sweat on his brow, the flimsy weight of his shirt sticking to him, he was almost done when he finally did hear the throaty tones of a muscle car. Moments later the Malibu pulled into the warehouse again and the engine was shut off. Weapons drawn, the two men from the club came striding across the floor.

  Quarrie tried to pry that second plank free but it stuck as if he had missed a screw. Peering into the darkness he could see there were no more screws. He had got them all but the wood was so old and expanded with water it had sealed. He stamped on it. Again and again he stamped and from the warehouse he heard a shout. One last time he brought down his boot heel and finally the board sprang loose.

  They were at the door as he plummeted into chill, gray water that washed him against the wooden pilings. The wind knocked out of him, he hung there directly beneath the storeroom floor. A stripe of bubbles lit up the darkness as someone fired a shot and he grabbed the piling. The current pried him free and he floundered again for a moment as bullet after bullet came down. Somehow he got hold of the pole once more and used his feet to get himself all the way around. Now he was away from the gap in the boards with the piling between him and the hole in the floor. He surfaced and sucked a breath with the water slapping his face and the lights of the city jagged and broken up in a haze. It was all he could do to stop the current dragging him out from under the wharf. He could feel it tugging at his body with freezing fingers where the tide had swept up from the gulf. Clogged with salt and sand, he was conscious of drags and eddies, whirlpools that would suck him down.

  The shooting had stopped but he could hear the sound of voices and he had to move. With open water not being an option, he bobbed from piling to piling gradually working his way downstream. He could hear nothing from above anymore and could see very little below. He was going with the current heading away from the warehouse towards Algiers Point. At the fifth piling he saw a series of plywood boards fixed between it and the next with one board on top of the other reaching up like a laddered wall. The topmost lip of the topmost board was only a few feet below the underside of the wharf and there was a gap in the boardwalk itself that looked large enough to climb through. But he was still too close to the warehouse and dare not risk it now. He had to keep moving. They would be looking for him. There was no way they would take a chance on his drowning; they’d want to make sure.

  He drifted on aware that his boots had filled with water but he could not kick them off. He was trying to stay in the weaker current close to the shore and use the pilings as buffers to keep him under the wharf. If he ended up slipping clear they would either spot and shoot him or he would be swept mid-river and drown.

  They launched a boat. Just a few minutes later he heard the whine of an outboard and someone was shining a light. He swam with that light seeking him out and tried to figure how far he was from the point. He was thinking about the Canal Street Ferry. If he could get out of this river without being seen, he might get to the point and cross. But he was not out of the river. Right now there was no chance of getting out because he could see that skiff and it was hunting him down.

  It came in close and he dipped below the surface to avoid the light. Arms wrapped around the piling again, he fought to keep from bobbing up like a cork. He could see the light from under the water bright even there in the murk. It seemed to remain for an age as the boat made a circle and came around once more. He thought his lungs would burst or he would open his mouth, take in water and drown. But the light faded finally and he let go his hold, broke the surface and breathed.

  The light was fifteen yards away and he watched it recede as the boat headed towards the point. They were in front of him now so he turned back the way he had come and swam for all he was worth. Hand over hand against the current, he made it to one set of pilings and held on while he caught his breath then kicked for the next. All the time he was moving the boat was going the other way and he had to get out of the river before they returned.

  At last he was back at those vertical boards and reached for the lowest point where he could grab on. The current swept him hard up against it then tried to pluck him free but he managed to retain the hold. He tried to climb but it was much more difficult than he’d thought. The boards were slick with river water and diesel and there was not much space for his fingers to grip in between. Twice he tried and twice he slipped but the third time he managed to cling on long enough to haul himself up at least a little way. Then he lost his grip and slipped again. Treading water for a moment he gripped with one hand then reached for the next hold. Hand over hand, he used his knees to work his way up the slats until he was perched on the topmost board in a squat.

  Pushing up with the flat of his hands for balance he was right underneath the wharf now and crouched like a sitting duck. But they didn’t see him. They came back in their skiff and shone their light over the surface of the water but he was no longer in the water and the darkness was absolute. They passed on by and he waited till the sound of the motor began to die away before he reached for the gap. Moments later he had his elbows on the wharf and swung himself up. He sat there for a few seconds breathing heavily with his feet still dangling through the gap then he pulled off his boots and emptied the water out. Gazing back across the river he saw the skiff turn to make another sweep. He lay flat on the boardwalk as it came in so close he could hear voices and pick out Soulja Blue where he sat in the prow.

  When they were gone he put his boots back on and made his way to the warehouse keeping to the shadows. There was no sign of anyone around and he jogged the access road until he came out on River Street. From there with his clothes sticking to him it was street lamp to street lamp all the way to the ferry at Algiers Point.

  Twenty-three

  Detective De La Martin climbed from his vehicle and stepped between a pair of prowl cars parked outside the apartment complex on Esplanade. Lights burned in the windows of various condos as uniformed officers from the 3rd Precinct took statements from the residents.

  A siren sounded as the detective walked across the courtyard to where another couple of officers were standing underneath the gantry sheltering from the rain. When they spotted him they stepped aside and De La Martin’s attention was fixed on the shadows beyond. ‘Somebody got a flashlight?’ he said.

  One of the officers unhooked a heavy-duty battery cell from his belt and handed it to him. Upending it over his shoulder De La Martin cast the beam across the alcove where the garbage cans were housed.

  The body was slumped in the corner with the head at an awkward angle and one arm buckled underneath. The dead man’s eyes were closed. He still wore his tortoiseshell glasses, though one of the lenses was smashed. Casting his gaze over the bruised and bloody torso De La Martin spat a stream of tobacco juice on the ground. He handed the flashlight back to the uniformed cop then climbed the gantry steps. With a glance across the courtyard he made his way to Anderson’s apartment at the end of the block. There he paused for a moment
before he opened the door and went in.

  *

  When Franklin got back to the warehouse he could see the door to the storeroom was open. Standing in the doorway he spotted the hole in the floor. He heard the whine of an outboard motor and walked out onto the wharf. He stood watching the lights from the skiff as Soulja made his sweep. He stared across the water to the city beyond and then back again to the boat. Soulja was in the prow with a flashlight and he must’ve picked out the shadow on the wharf because he sent the beam his way. Franklin did not move. The boat came in close and the revs died away. No sound but the slap of river water. Soulja looked up at Franklin and the blond-haired man looked back.

  *

  The ferry docked at the Canal Street steps and Quarrie got off. He was about to head for his hotel room but then another thought occurred to him and he set off along the boardwalk instead. He followed the railroad tracks as a switcher came rattling past pulling a dozen empty freight cars. Gauging the speed Quarrie figured it was moving slowly enough that he could grab a rail and hang on.

  Jumping off just before they made the siding at Governor Nicholls, he walked towards Decatur Street and when he got to Esplanade Avenue he stopped. He could hear the sound of a siren howling and spotted two NOPD prowl cars parked at the entrance to Anderson’s apartment complex. Another cruiser pulled up and two cops in uniform got out. Still he could hear the siren and he watched as a coroner’s ambulance came down the road and made a U turn before it pulled up. Keeping to the shadows he looked on as the back doors were opened and the crew hauled a gurney out. A mass of people seemed to spill from the other apartments and were ushered back by uniformed cops. Moving closer now Quarrie could see lights on in Anderson’s apartment and he picked out a couple more uniforms up there as well as the detective from Chartres Street. He was about to make his way over to the steps when it occurred to him that Mr Football Scholarship probably believed he was dead right now and he might want to keep it that way.

  Remaining in the shadows for a while longer he watched as the two men from the ambulance came back with their gurney loaded and ushered it through the gates. As they did so an arm worked loose from the blanket and dangled briefly before they tucked it away.

  When he got back to the hotel Quarrie found Yvonne still working the desk. ‘The clothes I gave you before,’ he said. ‘Have they been laundered yet?’

  Half an hour later he was back at Gigi’s station wagon with his guns strapped on, taking in the confines of the criminal court building where the district attorney’s office occupied the second floor. Leaving the car he peered across the road to the plethora of bail bond companies that gave the area a seedy feel. He spotted a ‘Grayling Security’ panel truck parked in the side street where a single wooden door was set in the office wall. On a fire escape abutting the building across, he crouched on his haunches to wait.

  *

  Franklin followed him from the hotel. Parking a good way down the street from the coroner’s office he waited a couple of minutes before getting out of his cab. Opening the trunk he stared at the rifle case then reached for his leather pea coat. He transferred the Beretta from his waistband to the hip pocket, closed the trunk and walked up the street. When he got to the corner he stopped. The wind had picked up and it ruffled his close-cut hair. Nothing but shadows; he could see the security truck, but nothing more.

  Back in the cab he drove to Baronne. Lights burned in the foyer but there was no concierge. He didn’t stop; he drove to his apartment and parked. Upstairs he unlocked his door and tossed his keys on the drinks bureau. Reaching for the light he paused. A shadow in the corner where it should not be, someone was sitting on the Toledo chair.

  *

  Quarrie heard the side door in the coroner’s building open, followed by the echo of footsteps on the gravel road. He could see an elderly-looking security guard walking towards the truck with the door to the office ajar. Moving out from where he was hidden by the fire escape he was across the road and inside the building heading for the stairs he had taken before.

  In the gloom of the parking garage he stood for a moment letting his eyes grow accustomed and picked out the base of the ramp where the main gate was secured. No cars down there now, he remained at the foot of the stairs to make sure he was alone before crossing to the unmarked door in the wall. Thinking back to earlier he tried to recall what Gervais had told him, but there seemed no obvious way to call. There was no button in the fascia that he could see. There wasn’t much light to work with either and he had to feel his way, running fingers up and down the outer pillars, but he located nothing there. He searched again and again before finally he felt a button as part of the concrete wall. He pressed it and nothing happened at first then he heard a hiss and clunking sound as the elevator began to make its way down. Opening the doors he eased aside a set of concertinaed gates and two minutes later he was facing another set of gates and a door. The district attorney’s private bathroom; despite everything he’d been through he was able to manage a smile. This was as novel a way of gaining entry to any public building as he’d ever come across before.

  The DA’s office was capacious and panelled in wood. Bookshelves lined the walls where legal tomes bound in leather were stacked all but ceiling to floor. The door to the corridor was locked and there was no sign of any key. Quarrie studied the mahogany desk where it dominated the middle of the room. Set right in the center it seemed a little incongruous but then he remembered reading somewhere that District Attorney Garrison was convinced the entire office was bugged.

  Easing back the chair he dropped to one knee and inspected the drawers where only the top one was locked. It was an old desk and he could see a tiny gap between the edge of the drawer itself and the underside of the top. Looking closer he picked out the flat black bar where it was secured.

  He went through the other drawers but they contained nothing of interest save a couple of unused diaries and some of Garrison’s business cards. Flicking through the diaries Quarrie thought about how the 28th was only three days from now. Placing the diaries back in the drawer he noticed a box of paper clips. Selecting a couple he stretched them out then wove the two lengths together so he had a single pin that was double the thickness it had been before. He placed that on the desk before taking another two clips from the box and repeated the process, only this time he fashioned a hook. For the next few minutes he worked at the tumbler with the pair of picks. Finally it dropped and he was able to slide the drawer open and wipe sweat where it gathered on his brow.

  The drawer contained four separate piles of paper files each secured twice over with a series of elastic bands. Sitting down in the DA’s chair Quarrie took a long hard look at them, and when he was satisfied he could replicate exactly how they were bound, he stripped the bands away. He went through the files very carefully, Pershing Gervais on his mind and what had happened to Moore. There was nothing in the first few files but then he saw the name ‘Bertrand’ printed next to a photograph of a gray-haired man with dark circles dragging the flesh beneath his eyes. Alongside the name was a question mark and next to that someone had written Clay Shaw.

  Elbows on the desk, he read the file and pored over that photograph once more. He was thinking about the reasons Gervais had given him for using the back door, the fact that half the world’s media had been camped out front ever since DA Garrison rejected the findings of the Warren Commission and accused Shaw of being involved in a conspiracy to kill President Kennedy three and a half years before.

  Looking further down the page Quarrie came across the name Dean Andrews scribbled with a note alongside. The attorney he’d met in the restaurant eating lunch with Pershing Gervais; he studied that note with a frown. Then he laid the file to one side and opened another but didn’t find anything there. He went through the next and the next after that and laid those two aside. Opening the last one he discovered another photograph clipped to the cover inside. A weird-looking guy, he was clearly bald and sporting an impoverished o
range wig. His face appeared to be coated with some kind of greasepaint and fake brows had been applied above his eyes. On the opposing page was a dead person’s report from the New Orleans Police Department stating that his body had been found in his apartment eight weeks before. There was a note suggesting he’d been in fear for his life, but it wasn’t that which caught Quarrie’s eye.

  Twenty-four

  Franklin switched on the light and saw Tobie sitting on the Toledo chair. ‘Rosslyn,’ he said. ‘I almost shot you. What’re you doing here?’

  Tobie did not say anything. He held the cane across his knees and there was a briefcase next to him on the floor. Franklin took a pace towards him and the old man levelled his gaze.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Franklin said. ‘How did you get in here? What’s going on?’

  The old man indicated the cane. ‘You covet this. You always have. Forged in Ohio in 1865. Three nines fine, it’s the purest silver money can buy.’

  ‘I know what it is and I know when it was made.’ Franklin’s gaze had a bite to it now. ‘The transparency of lineage: something that’s denied me. Of course I want it, it’s mine.’ Quiet for a moment, he said, ‘What’re you doing here, old man? What’s all this about?’

  Tobie got up off the chair. Holding the cane by the handle he flipped it so he gripped the shaft. ‘I’m not so old that I cannot cut you down.’ Moving closer he stared. ‘You took unilateral action. You deviated from the plan.’