The Last Quarter (A James Bishop short story)

by Jason Dean

  Bishop closed his eyes at the mention of his name, knowing they would be looking at him. Spurgeon continued. ‘At least the old boy went without any pain. And I even found his stash in a locked suitcase at the bottom of his clothes cupboard. Jesus, and him an ex-cop, too.’

  Opening his eyes again, Bishop moved his wrists and decided they were probably bound with flex cuffs. And if they were official police issue, they’d be impossible to cut through. But why hadn’t Spurgeon just killed him outright? Unless he was being primed to take the fall for Eric’s murder. That was possible. It didn’t matter right now, though. What mattered was that he was still breathing, which meant there was still a chance.

  ‘And so now I’m next,’ Eric said.

  ‘Can’t be helped, old buddy. I wish it didn’t have to be this way, you know. I really do. Especially as you kind of helped put this final piece into place for me.’

  ‘What are you talking about now?’

  ‘Well, I already told you IA was on my back, didn’t I?’ Spurgeon was saying.

  ‘Yeah,’ Eric said in a disgusted tone, ‘and I actually believed you when you called and said they were closing in, and that you wanted to hide your share with mine for safe keeping. Man, I should have known something smelled wrong.’

  ‘Your problem is you’re too trusting, old buddy. No, the other three shares are already in a safe place, and very soon I’ll be adding yours to it. But I wasn’t actually lying about the pressure I’m under . . .’

  As Spurgeon spoke, Bishop got himself into a foetal position with his thighs pressed up against his torso, hoping the cop wouldn’t look over again. If he did, it was all over. But that part was out of his control. He slowly slipped his bound wrists over his butt and under his legs towards his knees, his pounding head close to exploding from the effort.

  Spurgeon went on. ‘See, I recently got word that they been checking into my old cases and talking to witnesses who said they saw me and my partner taking payoffs. I knew it was only a matter of time before they were gonna throw me to the wolves, so I decided to make everything simple by killing myself off and starting again. I’d already planned to blow the propane tanks in my utility room and make it look like a gas leak had taken me out. And I was also planning to grab a dead junkie with my general proportions from the local morgue to play me when the time came. Not that there’d be much left of him when the blast took him, but a body’s a body. The whole plan was a pretty risky proposition, though, and I wasn’t sure I could pull it off.’

  Bishop finally got his wrists over the heels of his shoes and straightened his legs again. He took a deep breath, then another, willing his headache to recede a little. He was doing his best to stay conscious, but it was hard. Everything was going round and round, and the dizziness and the wooziness were threatening to take over. But he had to hold it together for a little longer.

  Had to.

  Spurgeon said, ‘But then you called this afternoon and said this pal of yours wanted to come and talk to me, and I couldn’t believe my luck. I knew I could blow the tanks remotely just after he left, then this Bishop could tell the authorities that I’d been in the house for sure when it happened. The investigators would just figure my body got vaporised in the blast. Only problem was, I was watching and Bishop didn’t wait around for them, which kind of put a spanner in my plans. I just gotta hope the investigators will assume the worst and put me down as deceased anyway, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.’

  ‘Except kill me and take the last of the money.’

  Still lying on his side, Bishop slowly brought his cuffed hands around and felt his left jacket pocket. It was still there. Spurgeon hadn’t found it. Another starburst lit up his vision and he forced his eyes closed, just for a moment.

  ‘A new identity and a new start takes money, Eric,’ Spurgeon said. ‘A whole lot more than two hundred grand, I figure. That’s just the way it is.’

  ‘And that justifies murdering your friends?’ Eric said, taking a step forward. ‘You’ve known me for over twenty years, Gene. And some part of you is still a cop. Are you seriously gonna put a bullet in my brain for a few lousy grand?’

  When Bishop’s vision had cleared a little, he placed both hands in his jacket pocket and carefully pulled out the little Beretta Bobcat he’d taken off that crazy woman. And forgotten to give back. He hadn’t bothered checking the magazine, so he could only hope she’d kept it fully loaded. There was a safety catch to the left of the hammer, and he made sure it was in the off position. Then, gripping the little shooter in both hands, thumbs down, he aimed it at the figure on the left. The one with the gun. He was even more blurry than before. Bishop could feel himself slipping away and forced himself to stay on the ball.

  Just a few seconds more. That was all.

  ‘I stopped being a cop the moment I died in that blast,’ Spurgeon said, extending his arm. ‘Sorry, Eric, but all friendships gotta come to an end sometime.’

  Not all of them, you psychotic piece of shit, Bishop thought.

  His left index finger was already squeezing the trigger when he saw Eric suddenly dart forward for the other man’s gun. Bishop couldn’t stop himself. His reflexes were too dulled. He kept his aim on the original target as the little Beretta fired once, twice, three times, the reports deafening in the small space. The gun kept firing and empty shells flew straight up in the air, and before he knew it, the piece was empty.

  There was a moment’s silence. Then Bishop saw a large two-headed figure slump to the floor in front of him. He had enough time to think, I’ve just killed the man who saved my life, before he finally lost consciousness himself.

  FIFTEEN

  Bishop woke up in a bed. Not a hospital bed, but a bed in somebody’s house. He could tell the difference. For one thing, the pillows under his head smelled too damn good. And for another, the room itself was too spacious. There was a large window to his left and he saw that it was now daylight. The view showed a section of a tree in the foreground, while further back he could see part of a slatted rooftop.

  But he could make out everything in detail. Every leaf, every branch, every shingle, every slate was as plain as day. His head was still pounding like a son of a bitch, and there were bright haloes around everything, but the blurred vision was gone.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and heard a door opening to his right. He opened them again and saw Cassandra Stepanovich enter the room.

  ‘Hey,’ she said.

  ‘Hey.’ Bishop’s mouth felt dry. And he was ravenous. He had no idea how long he’d been out for. Or how he’d got here.

  ‘How do you feel?’ she asked.

  ‘Okay, I guess. One hell of a headache, but I’ll live.’ Then he remembered emptying the gun, and Eric and Spurgeon both going down in a heap. Fearing the worst, he said, ‘Eric?’

  ‘Right here, buddy.’ A familiar voice came from the doorway and Eric appeared at his wife’s side wearing a black polo shirt and jeans, looking none the worse for wear. ‘Mainly thanks to you.’

  Bishop felt the relief wash over him like a wave. Even the pounding headache didn’t feel so bad any more. He gave his old friend a lazy smile.

  Cassandra raised an eyebrow at her husband. ‘Just thanks to him? Nobody else?’

  Eric kissed her on the cheek. ‘How could I forget you, babe? Without you watching my back, I wouldn’t be here at all. I know that.’

  Bishop raised himself a little and leant back against the headboard. He spotted a tumbler of water on a small side table and picked it up and drained it in one go.

  ‘Want some more?’ Cassandra asked.

  ‘Please,’ Bishop said, and she left the room. He looked at his old compadre. ‘It’s good to see your ugly face again. What the hell happened? I saw you go both down, then I passed out. I thought I’d killed you.’

  Eric smiled as he sat on the edge of the double bed. ‘Ha. No such luck. As soon as I heard that first shot, I knew it was you so I made sure Gene was between us. You put fou
r in him, by the way, including one in the head. The bastard was dead before he hit the ground. And good goddamn riddance is all I can say. I mean, what kind of asshole kills what few friends he’s got for the sake of a few extra bucks?’

  ‘The desperate kind, I guess. How long was I out?’

  ‘Almost thirty-six hours. Cassie wanted to drive you to hospital, but you didn’t look too bad and there was no bleeding, so I thought it best if we took care of you here.’

  ‘What about Spurgeon’s body?’

  Eric lowered his voice. ‘Up in smoke, which is pretty ironic when you think about it. I drenched the house with gasoline and lit the place up, then called the fire department and watched them put it out while you were unconscious in the back seat of my car. The police came round yesterday and said they found the toasted remains of a wino inside and figure he started a fire to keep himself warm and it just got out of control. I told them that sounded about right and that I’ve been having a lot of trouble with squatters recently. So it looks like it’s case closed on that score at least.’

  ‘Good. And what about the other three shares?’

  Eric shrugged. ‘Who the hell knows? Gene said he’d already stashed it all in a safe place, but I couldn’t begin to guess where. He sure as hell didn’t have it on him.’

  ‘It’s probably for the best anyway. Let it lie. How’s Cassandra taken all of this?’

  Eric winced. ‘Be grateful you were unconscious for that part. We made peace, but it wasn’t pretty. Cassie’s a hard woman.’

  ‘And a good one,’ Bishop said. ‘You’re luckier than you know.’

  Cassandra picked that moment to come back. ‘And don’t think I won’t be reminding him of that on a regular basis,’ she said, handing the refilled glass to Bishop. ‘You must be hungry. Do you feel up to some Polish sausage and scrambled eggs?’

  ‘Do I,’ Bishop said, his mouth already watering at the prospect. Cassandra gave him an approving smile and left the room again.

  Bishop drank some more water, then said, ‘Want some friendly advice?’

  ‘If you’re gonna warn me not to try anything this dumb again, I’m way ahead of you.’

  ‘You got away with it once, but I might not be around to pull your fat out of the fire next time.’

  Eric sighed. ‘I know it. Hey, look, I owe you, man.’

  ‘No you don’t. It may have taken me twenty years, but we’re finally even.’

  ‘Well, as far as I was concerned, we already were.’

  Bishop smiled at his old friend. ‘Then it’s a good job I was around to make sure.’

  Loving James Bishop? Read on for an exclusive extract from the third, upcoming novel

  Previous Bishop titles, THE WRONG MAN and BACKTRACK, are out now in paperback and ebook

  THE HUNTER’S OATH is out in hardback, audio and ebook on 5th June 2014

  ONE

  Amanda Philmore looked down at her stainless steel Rolex and saw it was 11.07 p.m. The kids would be in bed, but Gerry would probably still be up. At least she hoped so, because they really needed to talk. And it couldn’t wait until morning.

  She was still the only pedestrian on Fort George Hill. Hardly any vehicles, either. This late on a weeknight the normally attractive tree-lined street looked intimidating, with few visible reminders that you were actually in Upper Manhattan.

  Pulling her coat collar up against the crisp October air, Amanda gave a small sigh and began walking south. Towards Audubon Avenue and home. She could make out the top floors of an apartment block behind the trees on the other side of the street, with a few lit windows to remind her there were still a few people awake.

  The thought of home pushed Amanda to walk faster. But then she heard the sound of a vehicle coming from behind and slowed a little and turned. It was a silver Ford sedan. Worse, it was the same one that had gone by a few minutes before. She was sure of it. It contained the same three shadowy shapes, and from within the same indistinguishable dance music thumped away like a giant’s heartbeat.

  It was all one-way around here, so the driver must have circled round via Fairview, then Broadway, then Hillside. That single thought made Amanda pause. Because this time round the car was moving a lot slower. Almost cruising. She watched it pull into the kerb fifteen yards away and stop.

  Amanda stopped, too. Not good, she thought.

  She heard the engine tick over, then die. The driver’s door opened and a man slowly got out. The front and rear passenger doors opened and two more men joined him, at which point Amanda knew she was in trouble. Or would be very soon.

  But one thing Amanda didn’t do was panic. It just wasn’t part of her DNA. Instead, she used what little time was left to quickly think through her options. There weren’t many.

  The men barred the way north, so that was out. She could keep going south for the junction to Fairview Avenue, and then it was just a couple of blocks to her apartment building. But the interesection was over three hundred yards away. Too far. She kept herself in good shape and knew she could run fast, even in the ankle boots she was wearing, but she was also forty-four years old. And the men looked at least fifteen years younger.

  And with a seven-foot-high chain link fence barring access to the trees and residences on the other side of the street, that just left the open wooded area immediately to her right.

  So only one option, really.

  Without further hesitation, Amanda turned and sprinted into the foliage. Her messenger-style shoulder bag slapped against her back as she ran through the trees and up the shallow hill. She controlled her breathing and kept moving as she heard one of the men shout something, followed by a faint rustling of dead leaves somewhere behind her.

  Without looking back, Amanda kept pushing up the hill. A few seconds later she found herself at the top with Highbridge Park surrounding her on all sides. The area ahead was dense with trees, but she knew it was less than two hundred yards to Dyckman Street on the other side. Even at this time of night, there’d be traffic there. And help.

  She could hear the men behind her and continued running east. Stray branches snagged her coat as she reached into a pocket and pulled out her stun gun lipstick. She gripped the tube hard in her right hand, thankful she’d recharged it yesterday. It was metallic pink and looked incredibly real, which was the whole point. But it also claimed to deliver a million volts when activated. Still running at full pelt, Amanda reached into another pocket with her free hand and pulled out her keychain alarm. The hard plastic felt good in her hand. Like a shield. But she knew she could only set it off as a last resort.

  Then something caught her foot and she tripped and fell to the ground with a grunt.

  She shook her head angrily and got to her feet, her heart hammering in her chest. She was about to take off again when she detected a movement at her left. Like a shadow or something. But before she could process it, something large suddenly erupted out of nowhere and cannoned into her right side.

  Amanda fell to the ground again. Quickly, she rolled onto her back and saw a human shape above her. She could smell the sickly sweet scent of marijuana. Without thinking, she flipped the top off the lipstick, jammed the end hard against the man’s hand and pressed the second button down.

  There was a sharp z-z-z-t sound and a brief sliver of light. The mugger cried out and fell onto his back. He’d be out for a minute, at least. But she also knew that if he was up here already, the others would be close by.

  Amanda got to her feet again. It was now or never. She pressed the keychain alarm and threw it far into the shrubbery to her left. As its shrill, piercing sound echoed through the park, she began running in the same direction as before.

  She’d covered twenty yards when another shape thumped into her, knocking her off balance. In an instant, an arm snaked around her neck and dragged her upright.

  She smelled hot pizza breath on her cheek and felt a hardness at her back. Which told her these weren’t just muggers.

  Closing her eyes, Ama
nda Philmore focused all her thoughts on her children sleeping less than a mile away. As her attacker plucked the stun gun from her grip, she wondered if she’d ever get the chance to see them again.

  TWO

  Approximately three hundred and fifty miles away, in western Pennsylvania, James Bishop was standing in an old warehouse that had long ago fallen into disrepair. Whole sections of the walls were missing, as well as parts of the roof. The only illumination came from the dipped headlights of an SUV parked at the open entrance a hundred yards away.

  There were three other men in the vicinity. Two wore dark off-the-rack suits similar to Bishop’s. The first was Seth Willard, a frail-looking blond man with a wispy beard. The second was Hector Doubleday, a stocky Latino with short spiky hair and a three-day growth of stubble He was standing behind the rusted husk of a sedan that had been left there to rot years before.

  The third man was called Darryl Foland. He had longish brown hair and wore a dirty black leather jacket and faded green combats. He was kneeling in front of Bishop with his arms wrapped around his head, scared out of his mind. As well he should be.

  ‘Okay, you, on your feet,’ Bishop said, motioning with the Micro-Uzi in his hand. The faint smell of gunsmoke still hung in the air.

  Foland pulled his arms away and stood up shakily, his eyes watching the gun. Bishop noticed there was a damp patch in his pants that hadn’t been there before. Good.

  ‘This is a one-time only deal,’ Bishop said, ‘so listen very carefully. Forget Ellen Meredith exists. Forget that bank exists. You are never to come within a thousand miles of here, understand? Because if anything happens to disrupt her day-to-day life and affect the long-term case we’re building against that bank, we will track you down and deal with you. That’s a guarantee. Also, if she ever comes to us with the slightest suspicion you’ve shown a renewed interest in her, same thing applies.’