One Good Turn (A James Bishop short story)

by Jason Dean

  In this case two million had been set aside just to make Bishop look bad, an amount that would tempt any number of heist men just on its own. Which meant the vault must have held something more than that. A lot more. After all, Brennan must have had the vault built for a good reason. As a highly successful international arms negotiator, he must have had plenty of income lying around he couldn’t afford to declare.

  But Bishop wasn’t about to rule out revenge as a motive, either. His team hadn’t been hired as a status symbol to impress the neighbours. The family had been receiving threats. Serious threats. Brennan hadn’t reached the top of his game by playing by the rules and it was entirely possible he’d made a dangerous enemy somewhere along the way. Someone who’d do anything to achieve satisfaction and was more than willing to corrupt one of RoyseCorp’s men to get the job done. But that was always when Bishop hit the wall. Because why involve him?

  Even if he was just a diversion, why not somebody else? There had to be a reason good enough to want him locked up for life. It would have been a lot simpler just to add him to the night’s victims. And this was the part that really got him. Not everyone could set up an attack against New York’s top protection firm and bank on Bishop’s getting life for a triple murder charge. Which meant it came down to one of the three survivors from his team. Sam Chaney, Chris Tennison or Martin Thorpe. To influence the night’s events and arrange all the evidence against him, the man needed to be there. On the spot. Without a doubt.

  Along with Neary, all three had been a regular part of his team for years. Private security and close protection attracted more than its fair share of disreputable characters, so you tended to keep the ones you could trust close. Which was why Bishop insisted on handpicking his own crew when he was promoted to team leader less than a year into his RoyseCorp service. His immediate supervisor, perhaps sensing he would have walked otherwise, had consented to his wishes. Thorpe was the first to be picked, with Chaney and Neary following close behind. Tennison had just two and a half years on the team, with Oates the most recent addition.

  And although he had to sometimes reproach one of them for the occasional lapse, it was never for anything serious or they’d have been out. If anything, he’d gone out of his way to understand their idiosyncrasies. Like red-headed Tennison’s attitude, or Thorpe’s claustrophobia, or Chaney’s wandering eye when it came to little ladies in distress. So after spending his first week inside going through everything he knew about each of his men and getting nowhere, Bishop had decided that maybe he needed to look at it from their point of view.

  It was possible a mild rebuke from Bishop had stuck in one of the men’s craws, and grown until the idea of setting him up for murder seemed a fair revenge. Although Bishop hadn’t believed this angle he’d still evaluated every job they’d done together over the past six years. Another week later he was back to square one. Nothing flagged up. And the one thing he could rely on was his power of recall.

  Bishop never forgot anything. Never had. Not since school. Photographic or eidetic memory, they called it. Found in less than ten per cent of children and usually gone by the time they reach their teens. Usually, but not always. Bishop was living proof of that.

  So, by day fifteen of his sentence, he’d concluded he wasn’t going to find answers by concentrating on Chaney, Tennison or Thorpe. Which just left the guy he’d shot on the landing. The one who’d drugged him. Since the doctors who worked on Bishop had found no trace of any drug in his system, the cops claimed he and the raider had been working together. Which only fuelled Bishop’s anger and made him even more determined to find the guy. And he knew once he found him, he’d be able to trace everything back to the source. To the Judas on his team.

  And that was where Bishop had got his first small break. Just before he’d shot the man he’d caught a momentary glimpse of his lower facial features as he’d pulled down the ski mask. Cleft chin, lipless mouth, slightly sunken cheeks and long, almost patrician nose with a ridge along its centre. The image had buzzed around Bishop’s brain like a mosquito and he became certain he’d seen it before. Somewhere. And not too long before the attack.

  Unfortunately, a photographic memory wasn’t like accessing a hard drive with everything filed neatly by category or date. The mind didn’t work like that. Everything he’d seen was stored in there, but sometimes it took a while to find the right folder. In this case, it took longer than usual. Much longer. The mental torment of not being able to place the guy had actually been worse than the physical confinement. For months he’d chased the memory through his tour in the Marines, the two years spent in LA, and then the six years with RoyseCorp. But he hadn’t been able to pinpoint that face. It had almost driven him crazy, until finally, six months and two days after he’d been admitted into Greenacres Medium Security Prison in the picturesque south-westerly region of Ulster County, the answer flashed before him at an unexpected moment. He’d just stood there at the urinal, mid-flow, with a dumbstruck expression on his face.

  Randall Brennan’s Wall of Fame. That’s where he’d seen him.

  Slotted in amongst photographs of Brennan shaking hands with politicians, heads of state, and the odd sports celebrity had been a colour shot taken at a private aircraft hangar showing Brennan with King Saleh of Yajir. On the right-hand side the tail of a small jet just made it into the frame, while a smiling Brennan and the king shook hands in the foreground, surrounded by assorted flunkies. And in the background, partly obscured by the king’s bodyguards, had been a Caucasian face. Brown, wavy hair over a high forehead. Light-coloured eyes. Dark complexion. Small ears set flat against the skull. And the exact same long nose. The same sunken cheeks. Same cleft chin.

  It was the man who had chloroformed him at the house. He was certain of it. The killer was someone Brennan had known or worked with before Bishop’s team even entered the picture. He was the link to the traitor who set him up. All Bishop had to do was find him.

  Trouble was, his next parole hearing wasn’t for another twenty-seven years.

  Bishop glanced over at Jorge, who was reading an old letter and blowing smoke towards the ceiling, stinking the place out even more. Amidst the constant clamour of prison life, he heard the sound of approaching footsteps and knew it was a guard without looking. They were the only ones in here with leather soles.

  The footsteps came to a halt a few feet away and a voice said, ‘Visitor.’

  Harris, by the sound of it. One of the real mouth-breathers. Continuing to massage the spot on his clavicle where the 9mm Parabellum from Chaney’s Glock had passed through, Bishop watched Jorge put down the letter and crush the cigarette remains in a cup as he prepared to rise.

  ‘But not for you, Jorgey boy,’ Harris said.

  Jorge sank back onto the stool and threw a questioning look at Bishop, who frowned and swung his legs off the bunk. The short, burly guard stood outside the cell, looking down at him with his usual bored expression as he noisily chewed gum.

  ‘Yeah, you, Bishop,’ he said. ‘On your feet, let’s go.’

  THREE

  ‘The courier company they’re using is Bearer Logistics,’ Miles Pascombe said, facing Bishop across the table in the visitors’ area. ‘They’ll be making the delivery on September eighth. Three Sundays from now.’

  Bishop sat with his arms crossed and studied the overweight, badly dressed lawyer. He was surprised at the news. And seventeen days didn’t give him much time.

  He leaned back in his seat and cast his eyes around the visitors’ room. Most of the tables were occupied by inmates and their wives, girlfriends, relatives, kids or lawyers. Thanks to the high ceiling, the noise level almost equalled that of his cellblock.

  ‘They give a time?’ he asked.

  Pascombe dipped his head briefly to look at the legal papers in front of him, his chin instantly disappearing into his neck. Bishop studied his slightly shabby grey suit and wondered if he was the guy’s only client. It would explain why he was here when a simple phone
call would have been sufficient. Or maybe he just felt news like this should be delivered in person.

  ‘Says here it’ll be between midnight and six a.m.,’ Pascombe said, looking back up. He tilted his head slightly at Bishop’s neutral expression. ‘I thought you’d be pleased. We won the suit.’

  ‘Believe me, I’m smiling on the inside,’ Bishop said. ‘Anything else?’

  Pascombe rubbed his upper lip with a forefinger. ‘Well, you’re under a gag order like I guessed, but that’s usual in these early settlement cases.’ He frowned and said, ‘What isn’t usual is how quickly we got a verdict. I still can’t quite believe it. I mean, in my experience these things usually go on for years. I was thinking five or six, maybe. Not two.’

  Bishop stroked his beard. He’d been wondering the same thing.

  Just two years since he found that weak spot in the system he’d been searching for. Followed by three weeks in the prison library going through the pitiful selection of law books to find the precedents he needed. Finding a lawyer hadn’t been a problem, with Pascombe more than willing to actually file the suit and wait for his fees at the back end. He’d said he knew he was onto a winner, and he’d been proved right yesterday when the judge handed down his verdict. More important to Bishop, however, was the tiny clause he’d insisted on. The one that legally bound the defendants to notify the plaintiff immediately of the exact time and date of delivery.

  ‘What’s your take on it?’ he asked as Pascombe began putting his papers back in his briefcase.

  ‘Not sure,’ the lawyer said, pausing. ‘All I can think is maybe our suit caused a few ripples within the system and they wanted it wrapped up quietly.’

  ‘Before inmates in other prisons started getting ideas.’

  ‘Could be.’

  Bishop nodded. It made as much sense as anything. He rose from his seat and said, ‘Good job, anyway, counsellor. Thanks.’

  Pascombe stood up as well and shook the hand Bishop held out with a grin. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said.

  Bishop gave him a final nod, then began walking towards the door. The lawyer had done his part and Bishop hoped the success gave him better paid jobs from now on. Enough to buy a new suit anyway. His thoughts then shifted to his preparations and the two weeks he had to work with. It really wasn’t much time. But not impossible. It was just a challenge, that’s all. Probably the first real one since he’d been in here.

  Keep up with James Bishop with the flawless first chapters of the second novel

  ONE

  James Bishop put on his sunglasses and got out of the silver Toyota Camry. He didn’t say anything to the driver. There was no need. He shut the door, adjusted his leather jacket and checked his watch. 09.12. Then he turned and headed north along Main Street at a steady stroll. Neither fast nor slow. As though he had some specific destination in mind, but wasn’t in any rush to get there.

  Which was true enough to a point.

  It was a warm Tuesday. Warm for early May, anyway. The sun was out, but there was also a cool breeze to take the edge off. Good spring weather. Even better when you were experiencing it outside a prison cell. Almost nine months since Bishop had gotten out and the novelty of walking around in fresh, pristine air still hadn’t entirely worn off.

  Parked vehicles already lined both sides of the street, but Bishop saw little actual traffic. Scratching his beard, he looked around as he walked and counted six other pedestrians. The town of Louisford, here in eastern Pennsylvania, was still in the process of waking up. Most of the stores were either still closed or just opening. That was one of the things Bishop liked about small towns. That casual indifference towards scheduled hours.

  But there were also plenty of places that opened on time, day in, day out. Banks. Post offices. Franchise stores. Especially the franchise stores. They took customer care a little more seriously. Like the small Starbucks over there. Bishop could already see a small queue of people inside, waiting at the cash register for their morning caffeine fix.

  But it was a franchise of a different kind that Bishop was heading towards. The one situated at the end of the street about two hundred yards away.

  Bishop saw an elderly local coming his way, led by a black Labrador on a leash. The guy nodded a ‘good morning’ to Bishop, who smiled and nodded back. Once they’d passed each other, Bishop immediately lost the smile and carried on walking until he reached his destination seventy-two seconds later.

  The cheque-cashing store was one of hundreds operating under the Standard Star umbrella. Most offered cash advances, too, but Bishop knew Pennsylvania was one of fifteen states that had either outlawed payday loans or capped the excessive interest rates to such an extent that there was no profit in it. Which probably made the banks happy, at least.

  Bishop stood looking through the windows for two seconds before turning back to the street. Long enough for the interior to be imprinted on his mind in every detail.

  It was still the same.

  This branch had a row of four partitioned counters behind bullet-resistant glass and an ATM near the entrance. Closed circuit cameras in the ceiling covered each counter. A pair of customers – a bald, middle-aged guy and a young blonde woman – were being served at two of the counters. Following a rash of cheque-cashing store robberies over the past six months, the owners had obviously felt the need for a uniformed security guard, too. He’d been standing next to the ATM. Bishop figured late fifties. Overweight with a prominent pot belly. Probably a retired cop. Holstering an old service Walther 9mm and clearly bored beyond belief.

  Bishop used a hand to brush the dark hair away from his eyes and checked the street. Empty of traffic now. He looked at his watch again. 09.14. Time to go to work.

  He removed his sunglasses before pulling a pair of thin leather gloves from his pocket and slipping them on. As he reflected on how it had come down to this, he recalled a lesson that had been drilled into him more than once in the Marine Corps: that anybody’s life can turn on a single event. It was true. He’d experienced one of those events already, and wondered if he was about to again. If he did, he’d have nobody to blame but himself.

  Well, too late to worry about it now, he thought. Besides, I’ve got no other choice.

  Then he walked over to the entrance, pulled the door open and stepped inside.

  TWO

  Bishop paused just inside the door. The guard watched him and gave a welcoming nod. Public relations at work. You can wear a gun, but be nice to potential customers or you’re gone.

  Bishop walked over. He put a frown on his face as though he wanted to ask a question, but wasn’t sure whom to ask. The guard watched him approach. Once he’d closed the distance, Bishop turned so the cashiers couldn’t see, leaned in and pulled the .357 Smith & Wesson from his waistband. Jamming the five-inch barrel into the guard’s ample midsection, he said, ‘You know what this is, so don’t do anything dumb. They don’t pay you enough.’ At the same time, he used his right hand to unlatch the guard’s holster and pull out the Walther.

  ‘Hey,’ the guard said, wheezing. ‘Are you crazy? You can’t do this.’

  ‘I am doing it,’ Bishop said, sliding the magazine out one-handed and stuffing it in his pants pocket. He also ejected the chambered round and saw it land on the floor. ‘Relax and keep your voice down. A couple of minutes from now, this’ll all be over.’ After checking to make sure the guard carried no extra ammo, he placed the Walther back in the guy’s holster and said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘My name?’

  ‘Yeah, your first name. What is it?’

  The guard looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but Bishop noticed he’d stopped wheezing. ‘Randolph,’ he said.

  ‘Is that Randolph or Randy?’

  ‘It’s Randy to my friends. To jerks like you, it’s Randolph.’

  Bishop smiled. ‘Okay, Randolph. Now I figure you’re the one holds the keys to the front door, right?’ Bishop already knew this was so, but wanted Randolph to get in
the habit of answering his questions. Simple psychology, but it made things easier in the long run.

  ‘Yeah,’ Randolph said.

  ‘Good. What say we go over and lock it so nobody else walks in. Right now.’

  Still keeping his back to the cashiers, Bishop walked slowly with Randolph to the entrance and watched him pull a key chain from his utility belt. The guard picked a key, inserted it into the lock and turned it a hundred and eighty degrees clockwise. ‘It’s locked,’ he said.

  ‘Not that I don’t believe you,’ Bishop said, ‘but try pushing the door for me.’

  Randolph pressed a hand against the frame. The door didn’t move.

  ‘Good,’ Bishop said. He took the keys from the guard’s hand while he studied the street outside. Still empty except for the occasional vehicle passing by. ‘Okay, Randolph. Let’s go over to the counters now.’

  Randolph turned and Bishop stayed at his back as they walked towards the rear of the store. Bishop quickly stooped down to pick up the extra round he’d dropped as he passed. He didn’t want Randolph getting any ideas. When they were a couple of feet away from the counters, Bishop said, ‘Walk over to the first counter and just stand there.’

  He waited as Randolph did as he was told, watching the two cashiers’ faces. The woman serving the bald guy was the first to notice something was wrong. The eyes behind her glasses grew wide when she saw Bishop. She said something to her male colleague, who was in conversation with the woman customer. The man immediately stopped talking and stared at Bishop with his mouth open.

  ‘Okay, everybody,’ Bishop said. ‘Hands where I can see them. I’m here for the company’s money, not yours. So no heroics.’