Bad Penny

by John D. Brown

  Frank looked down. The track had come completely off. The wheels that kept the track in motion—the whole back end of the chassis—were all bent to hell. This fine horse wasn’t going anywhere.

  The pickup accelerated along the dirt road, Tony inside.

  Desperation rushed through him. He needed to call 911. How far could they get in a pickup with a post sticking out of the windshield? The cops would spot them a mile off.

  He looked around. The closest house looked like it was five miles away. To the north, the direction the pickup was moving, there was nothing but fields. To the south, the remains of the Goroza’s stash house burned, the flames leaping a hundred feet high, a huge pillar of black smoke rising into the sky. That was going to draw some attention. Fire, police. But it was going to take some time for them to get out here in the middle of nowhere. And the more time Ed had, the easier it was going to be for him to ditch the pickup and find a better ride.

  Frank saw the two guys on four-wheelers with their dog. They were moving slowly on the road, gawking at the fire. Surely they had phones. If he could get to them, he could sic the cops on Ed.

  He began to run in his soaked boots, but pain shot up his leg. He remembered the stick and stopped. He reached down and yanked it out. A length about a long as his pinky finger came out of his leg all covered in blood.

  Gah! He cast the stick aside. Then he took off his shirt, removed his undershirt, which was bloody from the road rash all along his rib cage, and tied it tightly around the wound with a double knot. He checked himself for any other injuries and found none. Then he picked up his shirt and began to hobble-run back down the road. He yelled, hoping the sound might carry, and waved his arms.

  He thought one of the men spotted him, but they didn’t stop. Didn’t turn. And who would turn to help the guy with the P90 who’d been chasing a pickup truck? The men looked from the house to Frank, and then something spooked them, and they high-tailed it out of there. Maybe the propane tank was still standing, waiting like a time bomb. Regardless, they did not come for Frank.

  Frank’s leg was killing him. No way he was going to run five miles on it to get to the next house. He was going to have trouble just walking. Frank took another step. The pain shot up his leg. He could do pain. His choice was the burning house or the neighbors five miles away. The burning house would draw people to it. The neighbors—who even knew if they were home?

  Both gave Ed too much time. He glanced back north. Ed’s pickup was gone. Frank blinked and performed a pattern search of the horizon. Nothing.

  “Lord,” he prayed.

  To the south, the house burned, smoke piling into the sky. From the marsh, a column of gnats moved over to give him a sniff. Out across the water the cows swished their tails and chewed grass. A large flock of black birds wheeled into the field next to him. In the distance, something made a high-pitched whine.

  Frank’s whole body was lit up now: his leg, elbow, and ribs all throbbed. He began walking toward the burning house, hoping every second to see the flashing lights of an emergency vehicle on the horizon. He knew Ed’s people were going to be pissed, knew they were going to take out their anger on Tony, knew this whole situation was now out of control.

  He walked another twenty yards. The house continued to burn. The smoke continued to rise. But there were no flashing lights. The volume of the high-pitched whine grew louder. Frank turned, looked around. There was nothing on the road. No motorbike, no four-wheeler, no cars.

  In the field, the flock of black birds rose up in a undulating cloud that flew one way, then suddenly changed direction and sped another way. When the black mass cleared away, it revealed a plane flying toward him maybe two hundred feet off the ground.

  It was a Cessna.

  It had a yellow cowling and a brown stripe down the side.

  He watched it come, watched it buzz past, and Frank swore he saw Henry looking out the back window.

  There was no freaking way.

  The plane banked and turned, then came back around.

  Two men sat up front. The big man on the pilot’s side was definitely Pinto.

  Freaking way.

  Frank waved both his arms, yelled.

  A moment later he heard the distant sound of a car horn. From the northeast, a vehicle was coming, kicking up a trail of dust. It wasn’t Ed’s yellow pickup. It wasn’t an emergency vehicle with flashing lights. It was a Mazda mini-van. Baby blue, shining in the sun.

  Frank looked up into the heavens. Looked back down at the van. Looked back up. “Is this some post hoc joke?”

  Silence.

  Maybe it was all intermediaries, and the desk jockeys were in charge. Maybe God had servants assigned to watch various regions. Maybe he gave the hosts of Heaven jobs, because who would want a bunch of sycophantic folks in robes singing at you day and night? Unless it was Michelangelo’s vision of heaven, and then it would be a bunch of sycophantic naked people doing the singing. But even that would get old.

  “Thanks for moving my number up,” Frank said. “I assume you realize things have just hit the fan?”

  The heavens did not reply.

  The plane circled around once more, then flew off toward the burning house. Frank began to hobble toward the mini-van.

  About two minutes later the mini-van turned onto his stretch of road. He watched it grow larger, watched the trail of dust kick up and blow away in the slight breeze. When it got closer, he could see Sam at the wheel. Sam gave the horn a couple of happy toots, then a few moments later rolled up and stopped to let him in. The cloud of dust that had been following the van blew over Frank.

  Frank opened the passenger’s door. “Sam.”

  “I’ve got him,” Sam said for his Bluetooth’s ear. Then he turned to Frank. “You look like crap.”

  Frank climbed into the car. The van still had all the junk that it had before—spilled Cheerios, a sack of potatoes, and all the PVC Cub Scout mess in the back.

  Sam said, “Where’s Tony?”

  “You talking to Pinto?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Tell him to go north-west of us. Tell him to look for a bright yellow pickup with a fence post sticking out the windshield.”

  Sam looked at him with puzzlement.

  “Just tell him.”

  Sam repeated the message, then said, “Who’s in the truck?”

  “Ed. He’s still got Tony.”

  “Aw, crap,” Sam said. He relayed the info to Pinto, then turned to Frank. “Dude, we were looking all over.”

  “Tell me you have Tony’s phone.”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. He dug down into the pink diaper bag between the seats and came up with it. “You left it on the back seat.”

  Frank took the phone. “Hang on,” he said. He scrolled through the log of calls and found the number he was looking for and pressed the dial button. The phone on the other end rang once, twice, three times. Frank was thinking maybe Ed wasn’t going to answer; maybe the fencing post had given him pause, but then someone picked up.

  “Frankie,” Ed said in an angry voice.

  “Let the boy out now.”

  “You just dug yourself a grave, Jockstrap. You dug it deep.”

  “I’m going to put your head in a meat grinder, Ed. You let him out.”

  “Forget the house. Forget the foot soldiers. Frank, you just killed Jesus Goroza. Do you know what that means?”

  “Self-defense.”

  “You just took this to a whole other level. You just sent a missile into Red Square.”

  “That’s right. I sent it. Not Tony. So put him out.”

  Above Frank the Cessna buzzed to the north-west.

  “You put me in a bad position, Frank. I don’t know that you’re going to get Tony. I’ll call you back.”

  “Ed.”

  Nothing.

  “Ed!”

  Ed hung up.

  Frank dialed again, and it went to voicemail.

  He turned to Sam. “Tell Pinto the pickup was
heading west, right along that road up there, about a mile out.”

  Sam relayed the message.

  The Cessna was high up over the area. High enough to get a mighty good view. There was no way Ed would be able to hide the pickup.

  A few moments later Sam said, “Pinto says there are a couple of pickups, but none are yellow.”

  “It’s got to be there,” Frank said. “He was just there ten minutes ago. Tell him to look farther north and west.”

  Sam relayed the message.

  Frank said, “Turn this thing around. We need to follow Ed. We want to go out along that road you passed about a half a mile back.”

  Sam slowed to a stop and made a three point turn. Then they headed back the way he’d come. They traveled the half mile and came to the intersection where a road shot west of the one they were on.

  “Turn here,” Frank said.

  Sam turned onto the road and accelerated. “Where now?”

  “Just keep going.”

  They drove maybe another mile, and then Sam said, “They found a yellow pickup. Its windshield is all busted. It’s sitting in the shade of some trees. But there isn’t anybody inside.”

  “What?”

  “Pinto’s going to fly lower to get a better look, but he says there isn’t anybody in it.”

  “Anyone on foot? Any houses nearby?”

  Sam relayed the questions. A moment later he said, “No. Closest house is a few miles away and there isn’t anybody anywhere. Just some farmer moving some sprinkler pipe.”

  Frank was pretty sure that farmer hadn’t walked out there. Ed must have taken his truck or car. Frank’s heart sank. They needed to cordon the place off. Set a perimeter. He dialed 9 then 1. He was about to dial the other 1 when the phone rang.

  It was a number Frank didn’t recognize. He moved to press the cancel button, then stopped and pressed answer instead.

  Ed’s voice came through, but it was in the background. He was yelling at someone. Someone else shouted in Spanish, but Ed talked over him.

  What was this—a butt dial? Someone else in Ed’s car?

  Then it hit him. It was Tony.

  That was Jesus’s phone. Tony had hacked it. But why call Frank? He should have called 911. Then Frank remembered their conversation in the basement.

  Tony had called Frank instead. And now Frank had that number in his phone.

  What was he going to do with a number?

  He could do everything with a number. Bring the authorities in, and they could locate that phone. Triangulate it. The phone company didn’t even need GPS.

  Then Ed’s voice came in loud and clear. “What is that? What are you doing! You little—”

  The call ended.

  A moment later, Tony’s phone buzzed again and Ed’s number came up on the screen.

  Frank thumbed the answer button. “You’re a dead man, Ed. This is your last warning.”

  “Here’s the deal, Jockstrap.”

  “The cops are going to find that pickup,” Frank said. “They going to trace it back to the Gorozas. Then they’re going to have a lot on their hands. And they’ll blame that on you.”

  “The cops will trace it, all right,” Ed said. “And the registration will lead them to some old couple, or some kid that died five years ago somewhere in Arizona or Mississippi. Same with names on the house. The Gorozas aren’t stupid.”

  Frank covered the microphone on the phone and said to Sam, “Tell them to look for any vehicles heading west from the pickup.”

  Ed continued, “We caught your boy making a call. Now I wonder why he’d do that? You ready for another goose chase?”

  So much for triangulation. Frank had to hand it to Tony; he was trying.

  Ed said, “They want the girls. They want that whore we were bringing back to them. And they want you, Frank. You’ve suddenly become popular.”

  “Geez, maybe I’ll run for mayor.”

  “Give us the threefer, and we set Tony free.”

  That lie was about as big as they came.

  Frank thought about Carmen. He said, “Maybe I’ll just take the woman myself.”

  “That would not be wise.”

  “The Matanarcos; I bet she’s worth a pretty penny to the right people.”

  A pause. “You do not want to jump my claim.”

  Claim, like he’d found gold in a stream. But Carmen wasn’t a victim. Victims had nervous breakdowns and freaked out with fear. Carmen was all business. She was some kind of operator. Which meant this wasn’t a ransom. There was a bounty on Carmen’s head, and Ed was bringing her back to collect the money.

  But upon what kind of person did a cartel put, not a hit, but a bounty?

  Someone they wanted to torture before she died. Someone from whom they wanted to wring information. Or someone they wanted to rescue.

  Was Ed going all noble on him?

  Naw, you didn’t beat the people you rescued, zip-tie ‘em, and throw them into the trunk of your car.

  Bottom line: Carmen, which Frank knew wasn’t her real name, was someone who had eluded those who sought her. She might be a sicaria herself. A hired killer. One that had perpetrated a few too many hits on the Gorozas or someone friendly to them.

  “Looks to me like you need a new partner,” Frank said just to see what information he might shake loose. “Team up. And we can split the reward.”

  “Right,” Ed said, but Frank knew his twisted brain was turning, trying to scheme a way to use this to his advantage. However, he must have come up with dead ends because he said, “The reward for you, Jockstrap, is a Tony that hasn’t been mutilated in some awful fashion. Don’t lose your focus.”

  “You just bought your grave.”

  “Keep your phone charged. You don’t want to miss the next call. And just so you know, this phone I’m using now, it’s going out the window. The next call will be coming from a different device.”

  Frank listened in the background of Ed’s call for anything that might help him with his location, but Ed hung up.

  Frank looked over at Sam. “They find anything?”

  “Nothing.”

  Frank closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. These people were ugly, tiny-eyed eels.

  They wanted him, did they? They wanted to play tough?

  They had no idea how tough Frank could play.

  The only problem was they currently held all the cards. They had all the aces and kings. They had the deck stacked.

  18

  Sugar Beets

  FRANK SAID, “I need Pinto to circle round to the burning house. He’ll see a track through the field going south. He’s looking for a bunch of children piled on a snowmobile like circus clowns.”

  Sam relayed the message. A moment later the Cessna wheeled in the sky and headed south. Sam asked, “I assume we’re going to follow?”

  “That’s right,” Frank said. “We need to turn Silver here around.” He also needed to make a call. He opened Tony’s phone and brought up his contacts. He found Nurse Ratchet and dialed the number. It rang and rang, and then Kim answered. “Hey, baby.”

  Finally. “Don’t you ever answer your phone?” Frank asked.

  “Frank?”

  “You need to listen to me, Kim. You need to get out of L.A. You need to do it now. Do not go home. Do not go to your office. You just head out.”

  A beat passed.

  “Kim?”

  “What’s going on, Frank?”

  “I told you what was going on. You’re in danger. And now it’s worse. I’m tracking Ed right now, but I think he’s going to be sending someone your way.”

  Her voice took an angry edge. “And Tony?”

  “Tony’s okay.”

  “Put him on.”

  Frank took a breath. He could hear people talking in the background around her. “He’s not here right now.”

  “Frank.”

  “He’s fine, Kim. But you need to get out of Dodge.”

  She sighed. “You’re a wre
cking ball. Do you know that?”

  He thought of Tony’s face in the back of that truck. “Oh, I’m well aware of the burdens I bring. Look, I’m going to take care of it. I’ll explain it all later. Right now you need to move.”

  “I’ve got work.”

  “Tell them you just got a goiter. No client’s going to want to see you with Voldemort’s head growing out of your neck.”

  She sighed again in annoyance.

  “Don’t you have a friend up in San Jose?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then tonight’s girl’s night out. If you leave now, you just might be there in time for the late show.”

  “You’re lying to me, Frank. I know when you lie. For example, I know you are in Colorado, not Rock Springs. At least, that’s where Tony’s phone is. What are you doing in Colorado?”

  “Kim, you’re getting side-tracked. Ed has made a threat, which I will handle. But until I have him wrapped up, I need you in a safe place. The most important thing you can do for Tony right now is put yourself beyond Ed’s reach.”

  Frank cringed at his last sentence.

  “What does Tony have to do with this? Sweet Lord, something has happened to him. I knew it. Frank!”

  He could see her in his mind’s eye. Worry, anger, alarm all rising up in her face.

  “I’m not going to San Jose, brother. I’m coming to Rock Springs. And when I do, we’re going to sit down and have ourselves a come-to-Jesus.”

  Rock Springs was actually . . . a perfect place. At least for now. “The spare key is under a rock in the back corner of the yard. Actually, I’m pretty sure the house is unlocked.”

  “Frank.”

  He could hear the worry in her voice. “Tony’s fine, Kim. But you cannot go to your place in L.A.” He slowed down, put as much everything’s-fine-we’re-having-a-picnic-with-strawberry-cake in his voice as he could muster. “Love you. You’re the best sister ever. We’ll have a big barbeque when you arrive. Maybe you can bite the head off a rattler.”

  “Oh, I’m going to bite somebody’s head. That’s for sure.”

  “Gotta run,” Frank said and ended the call.

  Frank put the phone down. That had gone swimmingly. When this was all said and done, she would probably drive a steak knife through his heart. But, hey, what was family for?