Dirty Money ARC

by Deforest Day

  The Chief considered the ramifications, a multipurpose word for all occasions. It meant a consequence of an action, especially when complex or unwelcome. It nicely covered this situation. “How would you like to get your hands on some cash? Possibly a lot of cash?”

  Chapter 51

  The whole damn thing had started out as a simple exercise in logistics. Transfer a container of money from a war zone to a dead zone. Launder the money, fade to black.

  Then Murphy’s Law kicked in. Should have seen that one coming. Mix stupidity with poverty, add money as a catalyst, and the explosion is inevitable. Baer blamed himself for that part. Should have thought about step two, step three.

  Step one, eliminating Tomczak; that was still the right move. But it was also white water under their famous bridge, so don’t dwell, move on.

  He opened the china cabinet, selected a heavy cut crystal tumbler, one worthy of fifdteen-year-old Glenlivet. He removed the tray from the little freezer compartment, and shucked it into the sink. The cork made a pleasant squeak as he twisted it free; an echo of equally pleasant moments, when he was back in Cleveland, and The Bitch was somewhere else. He poured an ample measure into the glass, watched the edges soften as the amber magic flowed over the ice cubes. Don’t dwell. Plan the future. Like, the next twelve hours.

  Wait until dark. Empty the RoachMobile into the Navigator. Get the hell out of Dodge. Bye bye problem. Hello Hawaii. Should have done that, first night here. Screw subtle. Screw Shaleville. Cash can be laundered anywhere.

  He swirled the ice in the glass, listened to the clatter. Tempes fuget. Carpe diem. He laughed aloud, wondering what’s the Latin for Fuck ‘em All. He drained the scotch in a single swallow, and tossed the glass in the sink, where it shattered.

  He climbed the stairs, gathered his few belongings; ninety seconds away from heading to Tomczak’s garage, to Cleveland. And then he heard tires crunch on gravel, and everything changed. He stepped to the bedroom window. A white Ford Escort stopped between the house and the barn, and a man climbed out. Now what?

  Master Sergeant Cortez looked at the big stone barn, the padlock on the sliding doors. The smell of death rose to his nostrils as he walked toward the house. Man; I thought I left that in Iraq. He rapped on the door.

  “Heyyy, Major Baer. Good to see you, again. Where’s our RoachMobile at? Locked up in the barn?”

  Baer glared at the grinning little weasel. “Got it one, Sergeant.” He turned to the hall table. “Let me get the key.”

  Chapter 52

  Justice stood in front of Number Forty. They were still arguing inside. He fitted the earpieces of his stethoscope in place, put the resonator against the wooden door.

  “Chief knows....Roachmo....ask....Bear.”

  “Bear... problem...get the damn money....”

  “That dude downstairs....”

  “Forget him. Chief Schmidt one to worry ...”

  “Wait for Bump...split...”

  This was going nowhere. Maybe electronic bugs and laser listening devices worked for the CIA, but this didn’t. Time to fall back on what worked, in the Back of Beyond.

  Justice removed the stethoscope, dropped his hand on the door knob, and twisted, slowly. Unlocked. He eased it open six inches. Slow, steady motion was the key to stealth. They were on the other side of the big brass bed, closer to the window than the door. The heavy draped blocked the afternoon sun. Howie faced Chick, faced Justice, who slipped in, quietly eased the door closed, but not latched.

  Howie saw the dude, but it didn’t register; his head was all messed up. It ain’t easy as it looks, listening and thinking at the same time. What with Chick raggin’ on him, about his big mouth. Hell was he supposed to do, all these people at him; Chief Schmidt, then this asshole by the door, askin’ him questions, gettin’ him all twisted in his head. Maybe the weed had something to do with it. Or beer; maybe it’s time to start buyin’ a better brand, and cut back on the amount. Chick finally shut up and gave him a chance to say, “There he is now.”

  Chick turned, and his eyes went wide. How long had the stranger been standing there? And what hell was the matter with Howie? Frozen, like he was hypnotized. Or stoned.

  Well, he wasn’t. Finally, a chance to do something, instead of standing around, talking. Time to give Howie a lesson in how to handle things.

  He dove across the bed, rolled, shoved his hand under the pillow on the way, and grabbed the Ruger. His feet hit the floor a yard in front of the jagoff, and he got the drop on him before the dude had a chance to react.

  He held the weapon at arm’s length, two handed, legs spread, knees bent, like they showed on TV, and aimed his gun at the jagoff’s head. “Stick ‘em the hell up,” he said.

  Justice stared at the muzzle a foot from his face. Thirty eight caliber revolver; popular fifty years ago, before the the nine millimeter autoloader rose to fame. Chrome, not nickel, plated. A shiny toy, aimed at the fantasy market. The ejector rod beneath the barrel told him it was single action; a ‘cowboy gun’.

  Double action, you squeeze the trigger, the cylinder revolves, the hammer cocks, the hammer falls. Bang. Single action, you try that, nothing happens. Justice scratched his ear, drawing the boy’s eye, as well as getting his hand up level with the weapon. “You have to cock it, first, Chick. Plus, you’re standing waaay too close.”

  Chick’s eyes said ‘huh’? and Justice gave his head a little shake, showing disgust. He took a half step to the right, grabbed the barrel of the pistol and pushed it up and over his shoulder, so that in the unlikely event that Chick managed to figure out how to get a shot off, the bullet would go high and left.

  At the same instant his left hand locked onto Chick’s right wrist. The resulting leverage broke Chick’s trigger finger and the pistol changed hands. All that, in three tenths of a second.

  “Guns are dangerous,” Justice lectured. “You shouldn’t fool with them.” He stuck the weapon in his waistband, at the small of his back, and pulled a handful of plastic cable ties from his hip pocket. Favorite tool of electricians, riot police, and SF troops moving fast.

  “OW! Damn!”

  Chick stuck his hand between his legs. Justice had always wondered why people did that. Sure as shootin’ didn’t make the pain go away. “Get on over there with Howie, lay on the floor.”

  Chick aimed a kick at the smaller man’s crotch, and Justice turned, took the blow on his thigh, then caught the foot with both hands, lifted, twisted. Chick went down, and hit the back of his head on the thick leg of the brass bed.

  Justice was on him cat quick; rolled him over and secured his wrists with a cable tie, snugging it up tight, the teeth making a ratchet noise. He looked up, his eyes level with the mattress. “Join us, Howie.”

  Howie picked of a ten pound dumb bell and threw it across the bed. Justice ducked, and the weight hit the wall, cracking the ancient plaster.

  “Howie, Howie,” Justice said, quietly, and stood up. “Play nice.” He eased around the foot of the bed, hands empty of anything but another plastic cuff.

  And that scared Howie, more than the gun. Who the heck was this man? He backed away, a reflex. Held his hands up, palms out. Another reflex.

  “Look, mister, I got no beef with you. I don’t even know you! What the hell is going on?”

  “Tell me about Bear, Howie. Tell me about the dead man got his neck broke.”

  “Say what? I don’t know-”

  Justice closed to six inches, looked up at the taller man’s face, and brought the heel of his hand up, fast, under Howie’s chin. Never hit a man with your fist; you’re just asking to break a bone on something harder. Like his head. It’s why prizefighters wrap their hands, wear gloves.

  There was a satisfying click and Howie staggered back. “AHH, fut! Bit my futtin’ tun. Fut fut fut!” Blood ran down his chin, soaked into his shirt.

  Justice knew that hurt like the devil. Probably more than Davy had felt, the moment he died. He kicked Howie’s ankle, where the little b
ones were close to the surface. Howie hopped on one foot. Justice hooked him behind the knee, and the bigger man dropped to the floor. He trussed him beside Chick, who was still crying about his finger.

  He grabbed their collars and pulled them up to their knees. Lifted the right foot over the left. Making it impossible to stand up, short of rolling over, untangling your feet. He’d once left a line of hooded Talib prisoners that way for an hour, and they had still been kneeling there when he came back.

  Break a man’s will to resist, and he has a long struggle to regain it. Another lesson he’d been taught at S.E.R.E. school. When it’s your will that’s been broke, you remember the lesson. Sometimes, if a man has any sense of worth, humiliation can last long after the pain of physical abuse fades.

  Adding to the disorientation and discomfort, he removed Howie’s glasses, then wrapped a double turn of black gaffer’s tape around his head. Chick got the same treatment. He squatted down beside the two captives. “I say one more time. Tell me about the dead man.”

  That’s when Bumpsy pushed opened the door. And took in the scene in a flash. He swung his new motorcycle helmet by the chin strap, hitting Justice in the side of his face.

  Chapter 53

  It sounded like his brother-in-law wanted him to defuse, disconnect, this booby trap. Oh-oh-oh. Actually doing the things he knew so much about was altogether another kettle of fish. Time to play for time. “Let’s go take a look at the critter,” he said, and grabbed a small digital camera from his desk drawer. “Blacken our faces, don the ninja suits, and embark on a recon mission.”

  The Chief left his cruiser in front of the police station, and they rode to the garage in Danny’s Tahoe. Russ unlocked the door, turned on the lights. Stealth was yesterday’s news. “There it is.”

  Danny circled the truck, twice, then went to the corner, unfolded a step ladder, and climbed for a closer look. Snapped a photo. Moved to the other side of the device, and snapped some more. Got a few close-ups. Was very, very, careful not to actually touch anything.

  “What’s this all about, Danny? Can you make it safe, or not?”

  Danny held his finger up. Testing the wind, thinking, or pausing for drama; Russ wasn’t sure which, and didn’t really care. His brother-in-law, as far as he was concerned, was a necessary evil. If he could disarm the Claymore, fine; he’d earned a small share of whatever was inside. And if he blew himself up in the process, well, that was too bad, but the end result, access to the money, was the same. “Danny?”

  “I have an internet acquaintance, in Idaho, whom I plan to e-mail these pictures to. He’s a top man in dealing with this sort of situation. Top man.”

  “Yeah, well light a fire under him. Something tells me if we don’t get into this truck tonight, we won’t have another chance.” He hit the lights and locked the door.

  Chapter 54

  The door swung open and Pudge turned to it, the way she always did. If you knew who was coming in most times you also knew their drink, could have it ready before they were.

  The Hospitality chapter in the textbook taught it's how you build a customer base. Make the patron feel welcome, a valued guest. Remembering what they drank was a part of that. In Shaleville it was pretty easy, with most everyone on a beer budget, and just three brands on tap.

  Only it wasn’t a regular, a member of the shot ‘n’ a beer crowd. It was a woman; slender, green dress and red hair; waay over-dressed for the Shaleville Hotel.

  Hells bells, way over-dressed for the town of Shaleville itself. Probably Cary Grant’s Ferrari was broke down outside, and Audrey Hepburn was lookin’ for a pay phone, call for the backup limo. Or more likely a clothing catalog was in town for a photo shoot, and one of the models needed the Ladies.

  A few years back some famous high fashion designer took over the whole second floor for an entire week. Winnebagos, tractor trailers, even a helicopter, one day rental.

  Taking pictures of skinny women, next to naked, up at the old breaker building. Hired a bunch of the old farts to break out their old clothes, stand around. Looking like miners. Whatever that meant.

  This woman crossed the floor in quick, confident strides to the bar, and every male eye in the room- all six of them- followed her. She looked familiar, and then it hit Pudge. It was the new school teacher; she’d been in here, once or twice before, with other teachers.

  Carrying on, a bit rowdy, celebrating something or other. But never dressed like this. “Hi,” Pudge said. “You’re, uhm; ahh-”

  “Pen Driver. My brother was murdered, upstairs. You have any white wine?”

  Above their heads the ramp was down, the stick of eight was hooked to the static line, and the jump master was yelling. “GO! GO! GO!” rang in his ears, and Justice tumbled into the icy blackness, twenty thousand feet above the LZ.

  Sometime later he hit the ground, hard, rolled over, felt a pain in his side. He opened his eyes. A big, fat, bearded man in a black T-shirt with Harley wings across his chest was delivering vicious kicks into his gut and his side. There was a whole lot of ‘hurt like hell’ going down in the room, and he scrambled under the bed, his ribs screaming.

  Bumpsy groped after him, grabbed his ankle, and pulled. Justice rolled on his back, and bench pressed the bed frame, tipping it toward Bumpsy. The cast iron side rail came to a rest on Bumpsy’s forearm, and he let go of Justice, roared.

  And unhooked his belt; 48 inches of primary drive chain with a chromed skull buckle. Wrapped two turns around his fist, swung the remaining 30 inches in a lazy figure eight.

  Justice staggered to his feet on the other side of the bed, faced Bigfoot, who was advancing with little shuffle steps. Justice saw that the man knew a bit about street fighting, and fumbled in his shirt pocket. He found what looked like a butane lighter.

  “What you gonna do, dickwad, light my fire?”

  “It’ll feel that way,” Justice said, and directed a stream of pepper spray into the big man's face.

  Bumpsy screamed, and his hands flew to his eyes. The chain was still wrapped around his fist, and it tore open his right cheek. Tears and blood and phlegm met in his beard.

  Snot was running down his nose. Oh, oh, Aqualung. Davy, Davy, Davy, ain’t we got fun?

  Justice closed, grabbed the big man by the testicles, and lifted. You had to act quick, while the pepper made the mind quit workin’. Bumpsy instinctively rose on his toes. Justice grabbed a fist full of T shirt with his other hand, and ran him four steps, head down, into the the plaster wall.

  Pudge is going to be P.O.’d, he thought, rolling Bumpsy over, and securing his hands with another cable tie. The back of his shirt said, in big white letters: IF YOU CAN READ THIS THE BITCH FELL OFF. Except ‘BITCH’ was in red. In case you didn’t get it. He took pity on the man, and did not blindfold him. Bastard was in no shape to see anything, anyway.

  He grabbed Chick by the elbow, helped him to his feet, led him into the bathroom, and closed the door. He moved in close, said softly into his ear, “Talk.”

  The pain had subsided to a dull throb. “Screw you.”

  Justice reached down and grasped the broken finger and gently twisted. Fingers are filled with nerves, useful for delicate tasks. Not so useful for resisting an angry man seeking information. Chick screamed.

  “The dead man.” Justice recalled an Arab saying, one he’d come across more than once, while interviewing prisoners in Afghanistan. ‘Let one hundred mothers cry, but not mine. But, better my mother, than me.’

  “Ow, damn, you’re killing me!”

  “I haven’t even started. The dead man.”

  “Ahh, Jesus; that hurts! Baer did it. Honest to Christ.”

  “Who is this Bear?”

  “The Army guy, the Major, Major Baer, from Iraq. He killed Mr. Tomczak, too. Over there. Ask Bumpsy; he was there.”

  “I think I will. Stay loose, Chick. You may yet walk out of this room, alive.” He put Chick back in the kneeling position and smiled; stress came in many forms.

&
nbsp; He remembered now, seeing the name in the register, the night he arrived. Baer, not Bear. But, Major?

  He tore off a length of toilet paper and went back into the bedroom. Howie was quiet, kneeling, head bowed above a bloody pool of saliva on the floor. Bumpsy had rolled over, knee walked to the wall, and sat against it. Justice studied the man. His red eyes and redder nose were still runnin’ like a sugar tree, but he was focused as he watched Justice screw wads of tissue into his ears, then retrieve the revolver.

  He winked at Bumpsy on his way back into the bathroom. Saw that the man had the street smarts to understand what was about to happen. “Ol’ Chick lied to me. Shouldn’t have oughta done that.”

  He closed the bathroom door, ran a strip of gaffer’s tape across Chick’s mouth, then lifted him into the big cast iron bathtub. He cocked the revolver, and fired a shot into the tile wall. Pudge is going to be really, really pissed.

  Speaking of pissing, when Justice returned to the bedroom he saw that the big man had wet himself. He dropped to his haunches, laid the still warm revolver barrel against his hairy cheek. Let him have a whiff of spent gunpowder. Smell is the most powerful of the senses. The reason women wear perfume. Quietly he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Bumpsy. Bumpsy Wills.”

  “Well, Bumpsy Wills, tell me about Major Baer.”

  Bumpsy sighed. “Yeah, I figured that’s what this is about. The money. You’re in the Army, right? You bastards are all the same. Quick on the trigger. Over there, one of our bodyguards shot a little kid, just for messin’ with the RoachMobile.

  “Hey, we found it, couldn’t see that it belonged to nobody. The place was on fire, for Christ’s sake. We wasn’t about to stand there and roast weenies!”