Coffin Dodgers

by Gary Marshall

  Amy looks up and hits the window button. "Hey," she says. "You look like crap. Where've you been?"

  "Long story."

  "Jump in, then. You can tell me over a coffee. You look like you need it."

  In any other car with any other driver I'd have talked about the meeting I saw, but I'm in the Dentmobile with Amy and I'm far too scared -- and feeling far too ill -- to attempt conversation. Even by Amy's standards the drive is terrifying. She's driving faster, braking harder, taking corners even later and with more force than she usually does. Eventually I realise: she's doing it deliberately. She keeps looking over at me, watching me as my face becomes increasingly green.

  "Oh, I got your message," she says, hauling the car round another ninety degree bend. "You think I should punch you?" She raises an eyebrow. "Where's the fun in that?" The poker face cracks and Amy grins the biggest grin I've ever seen. My lunchtime fry-up is dangerously close to putting in an appearance.

  Against all odds we arrive at the coffee shop without mishap. I stagger out of the Dentmobile like a shipwreck survivor encountering dry land for the first time in months.

  Amy pays for the coffees while I grab a seat.

  "Sorry," she smirks. "So, what's up?"

  I explain about the audio, Sleazy Bob's demands for a meeting and the rendezvous at the drive-through.

  "Did you hear what they were saying?"

  "Too far away. I managed to get some photos, though."

  I reach for my phone and bring up the pictures, flipping through until I find a decent shot of the gangster-looking guy. "Any idea?"

  Amy frowns. "Nope. I don't think I've seen him before."

  "Me neither." I flip again, this time to the man with the cropped grey hair. "What about him?"

  "Looks familiar," she says. "From where, I don't know. Customer, maybe? One of the high rollers?"

  "Could be. I thought the same. I'm sure I know his face."

  "Send them to Dave. He'll know."

  "You think?"

  "Knowing people's his job. If either of them are customers, he'll know who they are."

  "True." I send the pictures with a brief note: "Recognise these guys? - M".

  We talk about work for a while, although we're both thinking about the mystery men. Amy gets another pair of coffees and I fiddle with my phone.

  "Anything from Dave yet?" Amy asks, putting the coffees down. She's got some cake too, which means I'm definitely out of the bad books.

  "Nope," I say. "I think he's on day shift today. Hopefully he'll check for messages at his next break. If not, it won't be until the end of the shift."

  "Do you think the guys in the photos are the ones we want?"

  "Absolutely. You could tell by the body language, and the way Bob was talking on the phone to them. The guy with the silver hair's the man in charge, Sleazy Bob's Sleazy Bob, and the other guy is some kind of hard man."

  "So all we need now is to work out who they are."

  "Yep. It's just as well that Dave Is Great."

  Amy laughs.

  Just after five, my phone rings and an unflattering mugshot of Dave tells me who's on the other end. "I'm just finishing up," he says. "Where are you?"

  "Coffee shop."

  "Usual one?"

  "Yeah."

  "Okay. I'll be there in ten," he says, ending the call.

  I gesture towards Amy's plate. "Better finish that," I suggest. "You've got about ten minutes."

  Amy makes a scared face and shoves the remaining bit of cake into her mouth.

  When Dave says he'll be somewhere at a certain time, he always is. Sure enough, exactly ten minutes later he walks into the coffee shop. He does the "drink?" thing with his hands and orders three large coffees and a bit of cake.

  The cake is finished before he's even properly sat down. Amy's trying not to smirk.

  "So how's it going?" Dave asks, wiping crumbs from his chin. "God, I'm starving. Want to go somewhere to eat after this?"

  "Sure," we both say.

  "Cool." Dave reaches into his pocket for his phone. "Got your message. Where did you get the photos?"

  I give him the edited highlights. He doesn't say anything while I'm talking, but his expression becomes increasingly serious.

  "Shit," he says when I've finished. He shakes his head. "Shit," he says again.

  "What is it?"

  "Do you want the good news or the bad news?"

  "Just tell us what it is," I say.

  "Okay. The good news is that I know who the guys in the photos are. And the bad news is that I know who the guys in the photos are."

  "Dave..." Amy, like me, would prefer it if Dave just got to the point.

  "The younger guy is Lawrence McCann, but everyone knows him as Floyd," Dave says. "Ring any bells?"

  "Nope," I say. Amy's face is blank too.

  "He was in our year at school. He was the one who beat up Mr. Watt. Remember?"

  I remember Mr. Watt. He taught religious studies. He was a funny looking guy with a fat face and bowl-cut hair, which made him look like a monk in a suit, and he had a speech impediment that meant he couldn't pronounce the letter "r". He didn't get much respect. You know what kids are like.

  I remember him just fine, but I don't remember Floyd at all. "Sorry, Dave. I remember the teacher, but..."

  "He wasn't at school for very long," Dave says. "He was chucked out when we were in second year."

  "What does he do now?" Amy asks.

  "You name it. If it's dodgy, he does it. Smuggling booze, stolen car parts, soft drugs, internet fraud, all that stuff. He's a nasty bit of work. Watched too many gangster movies as a kid, I think."

  "Reckon he's capable of arranging accidents for people?" I ask.

  "Capable? God, yeah. He'd enjoy it."

  "If he's such a bad guy," Amy says, "why isn't he in jail?"

  "He's no genius, but he's street smart. He's never directly involved in things, and even when the police do manage to link him to something the cases fall apart. Witnesses decide not to testify, or change their stories, or just vanish off the face of the Earth."

  "How do you know all this?"

  "We've got a file on him as thick as your fist," Dave says. "A few years back he was involved in some scams, card counting and things like that."

  "So what the hell is Sleazy Bob doing palling around with him?"

  I'm asking Dave, but Amy answers for him.

  "He's the right man for the job."

  Dave nods. "And he's someone you really don't want to get on the bad side of. Whatever we decide to do from now on, we need to be really careful."

  "Careful is my middle name," I say. I can tell from Amy's expression that she isn't convinced.

  "Okay," she says. "So this Floyd is a hard man, and he's probably doing Sleazy Bob's dirty work. What about the other guy?"

  "You really didn't recognise him?"

  "If we did, we wouldn't be asking who he is."

  Dave raises his eyebrows. "He's Adam Everett."

  If Dave is expecting Amy and I to slap our foreheads and cry "Oh my God! Adam Everett!" then we'll have to disappoint him. The name doesn't mean anything to me, and I can see that Amy's none the wiser either.

  "Adam who?" I say.

  "Everett. You don't know who Adam Everett is?"

  "Nope."

  "He's one of the richest people in town. You really haven't heard of him?"

  "Nope. Amy?"

  Amy shakes her head. "Sorry. No."

  Dave looks as if he's waiting for a punchline. There isn't one coming.

  "Okay," he eventually says. "You need to get online and read up on him. Adam Everett is a serious, serious guy."

  We finish our coffees, jump in the Dentmobile and head for my apartment.

  Dave and I are sitting on the sofa playing video games, empty pizza boxes on the floor. Amy's on the computer. She kicked me off it after about ten minutes, arguing that she'd find stuff more quickly if Dave and I buggered off. For the last hour
or so we've been killing space monsters and eating pizza while Amy gets on with it.

  We're just about to kill the biggest, baddest space monster with a rocket launcher when Amy comes over and hits the off switch. We know better than to complain.

  "I'm beginning to understand what you meant about bad news," she says to Dave.

  "What have you got?" I ask.

  "Dave's right. This Everett is a serious guy. Made millions in computers, retired after some kind of health scare, been throwing his money around ever since," she says. "It'd be quicker to tell you what he hasn't done. He's a real pillar of the community. Fellow of this, chair of that, more honorary degrees than you can shake a stick at.

  "It looks like he's got more money than he knows what to do with. He's got a huge house, a big yacht, a garage full of classic cars and -- and I quote -- an exquisite collection of modern art. And he's big on charity. You name it, he's given money to it. Homeless shelters, sports teams, injured soldiers, little old ladies, puppies and orphans. He even paid for a new MRI scanner over at Mercy."

  "Mercy? Isn't that where Sansom works?"

  "Yep. But that doesn't mean he's connected to him. He gives money to everything. It's incredible."

  "I don't get it," I say. "If he's got all that money, why would he be involved in this thing? If he needed money he could sell a car, or a painting, or something."

  "I don't know," Amy says. "But if he's meeting Sleazy Bob in the middle of nowhere, he's definitely part of it."

  "But why?"

  "Why is the least of our problems," Dave says. "Accusing Everett of something is like saying the Pope has sex with chickens. Even if you're right, nobody's going to believe you -- and you're going to make a lot of enemies."

  "Okay," I say. "I get it. What's the good news?"

  Amy and Dave are both shaking their heads.

  "Any point in taking this to Burke?"

  "I don't think so," Amy says. "All we've got is photos showing the three of them individually. Everything else is from the bug, so the police can't use it. The photos don't prove anything. If the group shots had turned out we'd at least be able to show that three people were in the same place at the same time, but they didn't and we can't. We don't exactly have a smoking gun."

  "So how do we find one?"

  "We keep listening," Dave says. "Which reminds me. Has anybody checked the bug since this morning?"

  "Nope," I say. Amy shakes her head.

  We log in to the receiver. There's plenty of audio, but nothing interesting.

  "I still need to see Burke to give him a statement," I say. "Might as well tell him what's going on. It can't hurt, can it?"

  "I don't think so," Amy says. "What do you think, Dave?"

  Dave shrugs. "Can't do any harm. Maybe he'll come up with something."

  I visit Burke first thing in the morning, give him my statement and then tell him what we've discovered. If he's going to come up with a brilliant idea, I don't think it's going to happen today. Burke isn't the cheeriest person at the best of times, but today he seems even more fed up than usual.

  "This just gets better and better," he sighs.

  "No evidence?"

  "No evidence. Without the bug you've got nothing. Even with the bug, you've got nothing. A couple of pictures. You don't even know if the photos are of the same people you overheard."

  "I'm pretty sure they are."

  "Pretty sure isn't enough. It isn't enough if you're going after some low-life, never mind Adam Everett. Are you sure it's him in the photos?"

  "Yeah," I say. "I'm sure."

  Burke sighs again. "Christ. Why couldn't you have brought me something easy? A drug ring headed by the Dalai Lama, maybe. Hitler coming back from the dead with an army of zombies. Something like that. Something simple. Something people will believe." He takes a swig of his coffee. "Instead, you tell me that Adam Everett -- that's Adam Everett, who is apparently one of the nicest, kindest, most generous men the world has ever seen -- is somehow involved in a murder conspiracy, and the only evidence you have is inadmissible. You know what? I thank my lucky stars that I met you. I wake up in the morning so full of joy my heart could just burst."

  I try to speak, but Burke's raised palm tells me he isn't finished. "Even if you're right and Everett is doing very bad things, there's nothing to tie him to this. What you've got isn't enough. It isn't anything. We've no reason to suspect him, no crimes to suspect him of, and I don't think that's going to change. You want my advice? Leave it. Leave it and get on with your life."

  "But --"

  "But what?" Burke waves towards the office outside his door. "That board through there is full of names. Dead people's names. Some, we'll solve. Some, we won't. That's how it goes. Limited manpower, limited resources, a few of us doing the best we can."

  "But --"

  "You think you're going to find something that'll bust the whole thing open? You think you'll find proof that Adam Everett -- someone who's as close to untouchable as anybody round here gets -- is up to his neck in it? Good luck with that."

  Burke takes another swig. "There are some fights you can never win," he says. "Unless something big happens and they actually leave some evidence, this is one of them."

  He rises from his desk. "I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do."

  I don't realise how aggressively I'm riding the bike until a Toyota brakes for no good reason and I nearly go into the back of it. I realise that if I don't calm down I'll end up finishing off what my car crash was supposed to do, so I pull over to the side of the road. I take lots of deep breaths and wait until I've stopped shaking before twisting the throttle and rejoining the traffic. This time I ride more sensibly. Instead of tailgating I sit well back from cars, and rather than race traffic lights I stop on yellow. I'm probably going to be late for work, but I'd rather be late than stuff my face into the back of an SUV.

  I park the bike, stomp up the stairs to my apartment and flick on the computer. Might as well see what Sleazy Bob's been up to this morning. I grab a coffee and take greedy gulps as I click through the audio files. No pornography today -- at least, not so far -- but nothing particularly interesting either. Just the usual caring, sharing management style.

  I can't be bothered cooking so I nip down to the street and grab a BLT from the sandwich shop, munching as I head back home, trying to stop the lettuce from going everywhere. I get in, grab another coffee and double-check the bug before turning the computer off. Two new clips. I glance at my watch. I'm already running late for my shift. Another five minutes won't matter.

  The first clip is yet another of Bob's rants at someone or other. I think it's one of the admin staff. I don't bother listening beyond the first few seconds; I've heard so many of these I could probably predict every single word he'll say. The second clip is more interesting, though, because Bob sounds nervous.

  I can't hear the other side of the call, but Bob's apologising for something. "I know, I know," he says. "I was out of order. It's just --"

  Whoever he's speaking to is talking over the top of him. For most of the call Bob just grunts. Eventually, though, there's some kind of decision.

  "Okay. Yeah, I think so."

  Bob goes quiet.

  "Yeah, I know where that is. What's the boat called?"

  More grunting.

  "Yeah, that's not a problem. I've got a card. When?"

  Another pause.

  "Well, I was hoping it'd be sooner. You can't reschedule?"

  Bob sighs. That'll be a no, then.

  "Okay. No, I understand. Yes, Tuesday's fine. Yes. Okay. I'll call him."

  Bob hangs up and immediately dials another number.

  "It's me," he says. "Tuesday." A pause. "I know, but he says he can't before then. Yeah. I know."

  Bob is silent for a long time. The other person must be ranting about something.

  "Look, we can talk about that on Tuesday." A shorter pause. "Yeah, the boat. Yeah. No, I'll swipe us both in. Yeah. Ten."

 
; Another pause, another grunt and then Sleazy Bob hangs up.

  I'm on the phone to Amy before the clip has stopped, but I just get her voicemail. I try Dave. He answers on the second ring.

  "I think I might have something," I say. "Does Everett have a boat?"

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Adam Everett's boat is hard to miss. The Zen Arcade is twice the size of the other boats in Mariners' Cove, and while I know as much about boats as I do about ballet I'm willing to bet that it's very fast and very expensive. It looks as big as a football field, with an enormous white hull and a teardrop-shaped cabin. The combination of its gleaming white paintwork and black privacy glass makes it look like a giant killer whale. Where other boats float, the Zen Arcade lurks.

  Finding Everett's boat was easier than I expected. Dave and I found its name by going through the newspaper's online archive, which mentioned it a couple of times. We also found a press release from the manufacturer that mentioned Everett by name. Apparently he was delighted with the bespoke this and the hand-stitched that and the customised whatever the hell it was. The PR bumph was still useful, though, because it linked to a brochure for the same model -- albeit without whatever improvements Everett had specified. Thanks to that we know what the boat looks like, and we know how it is laid out. We're pretty sure where it is, too: Mariners' Cove is only two miles away from the town centre, and the nearest marina after that is a good hundred-odd miles away.

  It's just after six p.m. and Dave and I are in the marina car park, beside the restaurant, looking out at the boats. Now I've seen the marina and the boat I'm convinced that this is where Sleazy Bob will be having his meeting.

  "Do you think we could bug it?"

  "I think so," Dave says. "Unless it's pissing down, they'll probably sit on the deck at the back. It's not too noisy round here, so unless they go right inside and downstairs, we've got a pretty good chance of hearing them."