Black Joint Point wm-2

by Jeff Abbott

  Big Ugly and Helen stopped, a round-faced man greeting Big Ugly with a call of ‘Gooch!’ Big Ugly starting to chat, introducing Helen to the old man. Now ten feet away, Helen’s back still to him, Alex stood at the corner of the aisle where the bakery fed into the beer-and-wine section, trying to hear.

  The old man must’ve been part deaf or just one of those old guys who likes to talk loud. Alex heard him say: ‘You take me out next week. I got two buddies from Dallas want to come down and get tight lines. You open on Wednesday morning?’

  ‘Might be busy, let me check.’ Big Ugly had a low rumble of a voice.

  Two kids arguing over a chocolate doughnut passed, their mother chiding them, and he missed what was said but then Big Ugly – Gooch? – said, ‘I got a hot spot for red drum, over on the south side of the bay. I’ll take you there, but you got to keep it secret, Fred.’

  Fred roared. ‘Yeah, I’m your man for keeping secret fishing spots. I call you tomorrow, we set it up? And think about where maybe we land some big tarpon?’

  ‘Fine,’ Big Ugly said.

  A fishing guide, Alex thought. He heard the conversation end, held his breath, glued to the floor, waiting for Helen and this Gooch to turn into the beer-and-wine section and see him. Ten seconds. He risked a glance around the corner. They had moved past the baked goods, Helen holding a big bag of bagels, moving off into the milk and dairy, sticking close to Gooch, turning to smile up at him. He knew the line of her jaw, the slant of her smile. Her.

  What to do? Suddenly the huge grocery store felt cramped as a cell. He moved past the registers, out into the lot. He hurried back to his car, scrambled inside.

  How? Think it through. Someone made a connection to Helen Dupuy and brought her to Port Leo, how, who… Jimmy Bird. Jimmy had called him twice at that motel when he was in New Orleans, in his room, nervous about the several nights they planned to spend on Patch’s land, searching with the metal detectors to find the buried cache. Giving him the motel number in New Orleans was a mistake. Jimmy dead, his phone records must have been searched for some reason. Found the calls to his room at the Bayou Mee. Why would a fishing guide bring Helen to Port Leo?

  He fumbled for his cell phone, dialed Stoney at the fishing cottage. ‘There’s a whore I met in New Orleans here. At the freaking grocery, Stoney.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I met her when I was taking care of Danny, you dumb shit. She knows what I look like.’

  ‘Get rid of her.’

  ‘She’s got a six-six musclebound bodyguard with her. I think he’s a local fishing guide.’

  ‘You must’ve made a mistake.’

  ‘She blew me nine times in four days,’ Alex said. ‘I know what she looks like, man.’

  ‘What exactly do you want me to do about it, Alex?’

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me, asshole.’

  ‘I got my own problems. They have got my picture all over the news this morning. Christ, what Ben must think of me.’

  ‘Like you care.’

  ‘He’s my brother.’

  ‘But he was too heavy, wasn’t he, Stoney?’

  ‘You’re not funny,’ Stoney said.

  ‘If I were your brother I’d shoot you in the knees for what you did,’ Alex said. ‘I’m coming over there. I got a couple things I need to do, but I’ll be there soon.’

  He hung up, weighed the options. Run. The mess had gotten deeper; it was now time to get the hell out of the entire situation. He thought about following this Gooch and Helen – and risk she’d see him? She might be even more dangerous than Stoney. No, it was too much right now; he needed to act but go on the defensive. He waited, saw them return to the truck, holding cups of coffee and a small plastic bag. They pulled out of the lot, drove down the street past the harbor to the curve of Port Leo Beach. He followed, four cars behind. Big Ugly’s truck turned in, parked. Alex drove by, did a U-turn, drove by again. Big Ugly and Helen walked to one of the picnic tables near the beach, sat down, pulled bagels out of the bag, a little plastic knife, cream cheese. A breakfast picnic by the bay.

  He couldn’t get closer without parking near them, and he couldn’t risk it. He turned and drove off from the park, scared now for the first time and feeling mad. Stupid Stoney. Stupid Jimmy Bird. Alex went back to the motel, scarfed down his breakfast without tasting it. He went through the Encina County phone book, going through the yellow pages for the fishing guides. Most had pictures of sun-squinting men smiling next to gargantuan fish. No picture of Big Ugly. But one ad, small in the corner, was for Don’t Ask Fishing Services, just listed a phone number, and in little quotes below read: Go with Gooch. Alex dialed the number. A machine answered, ‘You’ve reached Leonard Guchinski and Don’t Ask Fishing. I’m probably booked, but leave a message and I’ll give you a call back.’ Alex hung up.

  Leonard Guchinski. Now he had a name.

  Alex applied the blond hair coloring, forcing himself to be consistent and careful, and while he waited twenty minutes to shower it off before finishing the treatment, he checked and rechecked the clips in his gun. He suspected he would need several. It was just shaping up to be that kind of day.

  ‘I got some business to tend to today,’ Gooch said. ‘Whit’s arranged for you to meet a guy who does criminal sketches. Describe Alex to him. He’s driving in from Corpus. Then the folks on the boat next to us, they invited you to sail with them while I’m gone.’ He slathered cream cheese on his bagel. ‘They’re friends of Whit’s, too.’

  ‘Business. About Alex?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Gooch said.

  ‘Do you know where Alex is?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘But you know something, Gooch.’ She frowned.

  It was a little crazy. This girl could read him easier than most people, whom he presented the blank page to, and he’d only known her a couple of days. ‘I just think you’ll have fun with Duff and Trudy on their boat for a few hours.’

  ‘Duff? Trudy?’

  ‘Don’t hold their names against them. They’re bankers. They got to have names like that. FDIC requirement.’

  ‘Did Whit tell them what I am?’

  ‘What are you, Helen?’

  ‘I’m a…’ She stopped, as though the word had gotten harder to say.

  ‘See. It’s a blank. Fill it in with what you like.’

  ‘Do you not want to have sex with me because you think you’re gonna fix me?’

  ‘I haven’t known you long enough to have sex with you,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘You’re a strange man, Gooch.’

  ‘You’re not the first to notice.’

  30

  This fake kidnapping isn’t going to work, Stoney thought.

  He had hardly slept, and he picked up the phone once, to call home, to talk to Ben. But then he thought the phones might be tapped. And maybe Ben was at the hospital.

  Facing the walls of the cottage, he wondered if prison would be so very different. He thought of his friends, the little social-climbing debs he got to bed, his house. He was a deal maker – it was how he made his money – and the long night made him think that perhaps he should cut a deal. The odds were shifting. Lucy was unstable. Alex was cracking. And if there was a woman in town who knew Alex from the time in New Orleans, well. He thought Alex was jumping at shadows.

  He tried to construct a series of lies that would cover his ass more thoroughly, but could stitch nothing credible together that left him clean enough. He picked up the phone to call the police; no, he couldn’t do it. Not the police, they weren’t deal makers. A lawyer, yes. A lawyer to negotiate the deal. A high-powered lawyer.

  He paced back and forth, trying to work up the courage. The worst was Danny. If he could convince people Alex had killed Danny, well, then… but the thought of not haying the gold, the Eye, made his chest hurt. Take it for the value, maybe, just leave the country and The knock at the door made him jump. Alex. The door had no peephole, and the small windows meant you couldn’t easily
peek out of the curtains without giving yourself away.

  So Stoney Vaughn opened the door. Not Alex. A big, ugly hulk of a guy stood there and he belted Stoney hard in the chest, landing him on his back on the floor. Breathing was a memory. He stared up at the ugly guy.

  ‘Mr Vaughn? How you doing? No, don’t get up. Don’t talk.’ The man closed the door behind him. ‘Catch your breath. You gonna puke? That’s a nice rug. Let me find a bucket. No? You okay?’

  He picked Stoney up by the neck, like a schoolboy hauled by the scruff to the principal’s office, dumped him on the couch, pulled a wicked, fat black foreign gun out of the back of his pants and let Stoney see it.

  ‘Puh… puh…’

  ‘Please? I admire politeness. Are you asking me to please not shoot you?’

  Stoney managed a nod.

  ‘I won’t. At least not yet. Not for the next two minutes. But we’re gonna talk – you understand me?’ The ugly man leaned down close. ‘My name’s Gooch. I think you’re trying to fuck around with friends of mine. You see this gun? That kills you in a second. Easy. You see this fist?’ Gooch held up a big, thick-fingered, closed hand that looked more like an oversize hammer than a fist. ‘That kills you slow. It takes its time. After about, oh, twenty or thirty punches, when the bones are all broken up and starting to stick out the skin, and I’m still pounding on you and my knuckles get abraded and I get in a fucking foul mood.’ Gooch smiled. ‘You don’t want the old fist of death, do you?’

  Stoney shook his head, got the force of his breath back with a shudder. ‘How… how…’

  ‘Did I find you? That’s what I want to talk about. You and Lucy Gilbert.’

  Stoney’s mouth moved.

  ‘And why you’re holed up in a cottage when lots and lots of folks are missing you right now.’

  ‘I… I didn’t do anything wrong,’ he managed.

  ‘Who knows you’re here?’

  ‘Lucy… that’s all.’

  ‘How about a guy who likes first names beginning with A?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Alex. Albert. Allen. What’s his name this week? Asshole?’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about-’

  Gooch cocked the gun, jammed it into Stoney’s temple. ‘This is a Soviet-made Shootyadickov-69. Very sensitive. It misfires a lot.’ He pressed it harder, as if trying to reach Stoney’s brains. ‘Are you willing to put that much trust in Soviet engineering?’

  ‘Alex! His name is Alex Black. Oh Christ.’ Stoney’s eyes bugged.

  ‘Is the treasure here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘I… I don’t know. Alex has it.’

  ‘Where’s Alex?’

  ‘He moves around a lot,’ Stoney said. ‘I don’t know where he is.’

  ‘I don’t believe you, Stoney. The Shootyadickov doesn’t believe you.’

  ‘I don’t have it – please, mister.’

  Gooch studied him, seemed to think about it. He dragged Stoney over to the phone, placed a call, waited, hung up, called another number, waited, said, ‘It’s Gooch, call me,’ hung up. He pushed Stoney back to the couch.

  ‘C’mon, we’re leaving.’

  ‘You… can’t kidnap me…’

  ‘Don’t whine. You’re already kidnapped, right?’

  Gooch hauled up Stoney, pushed him through the door. He pulled him away from the cottage, into a dense grove of twisted live oaks beyond the thick grasses above the beach. A beaten red pickup, a big Ford, was parked there.

  ‘This is how it is,’ Gooch said. ‘I have absolutely no compunction about shooting you. You bug me, I’m firing. You’re going to sit on the floor, hands where I can see them. You behave, you’re going to be fine. I’m kind of the opinion you’re not the big bad shark in the sea, is that right?’

  ‘Alex… Alex is bad,’ Stoney said. ‘He’ll fucking kill you.’ He wanted to say, Yeah, well, I killed a man, but suddenly saw it wouldn’t intimidate this guy. Wouldn’t make him blink.

  Gooch shoved him into the truck, revved the engine, tore out of the grove of oaks onto the road. He was a quarter mile from the highway when a beige van turned in hard, headed toward them.

  ‘What does Alex drive?’ Gooch asked Stoney, still crouched on the floor.

  ‘Beige van,’ Stoney said.

  ‘Hello there,’ Gooch said. He leaned out the window, opened fire. Gravel and crushed shell exploded from the road near the tires, sparks flew from the end of the van.

  ‘Jesus!’ Stoney yelled.

  Gooch floored the truck and despite its beaten appearance the engine roared into sweet, precise power. The road was rough – part of the rustic charm – and Gooch left the highway, tearing through a grassy field, taking a hard right, careening down a rocky swath of weed and stone and roaring out onto a thin strip of beach itself.

  ‘Did you know it’s legal to drive on the beach in Texas?’ Gooch said. ‘Fascinating. Against the law most places.’

  ‘Yes,’ Stoney managed. He wondered if he could grab the steering wheel, wrench it, stop this guy long enough for Alex to shoot him.

  Gooch gave him a long glance. ‘I can smell stupid thoughts, man. Don’t do it. I’ll kill you.’

  Stoney stayed put, his face buried in the worn upholstery of the truck, feeling it rumble off the beach, back onto grassland, then back onto the smooth road.

  The van couldn’t navigate down the long spill of rock to the sandy wet of the beach, and Alex drove back to the road, the van heaving like a horse, and peeled back toward the main highway – his only hope of cutting the guy off.

  Gooch in that same red truck, leaving Stoney’s hideaway, shooting at him, the gun in the hand rock-steady. He worked his own gun out, kept it in his left hand, steered right-handed.

  The van rumbled onto the main highway, narrowly missing a Mercedes with an older couple. The driver laid on the horn. The woman lifted a manicured middle finger in salute and Alex nearly shot it off. Instead he swerved around them, bolted south to where the beach came closer to the main road. He kept glancing at the rearview mirror, thinking the red truck might burst from the trees or from another feeder road.

  He drove all the way down to where a curve of beach came close to the road – no sign of the truck. He patrolled up and down the stretch of highway for a half hour but the only red truck he saw was new and had two women in it, pulling a horse trailer.

  Finally he returned to the fishing cottage. Front door closed but unlocked. No sign of Stoney. No sign of a struggle.

  So – Stoney had been kidnapped for real? Maybe Gooch was a partner Danny Laffite had that no one knew about. Or maybe Stoney had switched sides, decided to get out from under Alex’s thumb, gotten himself a new partner to take care of Alex. He swore. Screw worrying about getting the emerald, he should have killed Stoney the moment he figured out Stoney betrayed him. He felt the sting of his own greed.

  Where the hell do I start looking for them?

  He tried to calm his thoughts. Say Stoney decided to bolt, decided to hire muscle to cut out Alex. He’d have to call. Did Stoney have a cell with him? Alex went to the cordless phone in the cottage. There was a redial button. He pressed it. An answering machine clicked on, a low, comfortable drawl: ‘Hi, you’ve reached the office of Justice of the Peace Whitman Mosley. Office hours are nine a.m…’

  Alex clicked off. Whit Mosley. That young judge in the loud shirt who came looking for Stoney to ask about the murdered old people.

  So what the hell did a gun-happy Gooch have to do with a judge? He paced the floor for a minute. Maybe Stoney cracked. Decided to cut a deal and called the judge.

  No. Police cars and sirens and Miranda rights would have been involved. Judges didn’t hire mercenaries to kidnap people.

  But maybe it was even worse… maybe they knew about the emerald, the treasure. Maybe the judge and Gooch were just chasing it for themselves. Alex could see it: Stoney, babbling that he knew where a fat emerald was and knew a guy
who’d hid millions in rare coins and could they help him cut a deal? Maybe a cop or a judge would think, Well, I’d like me some of that Even assuming Stoney hadn’t cracked, Gooch had already found Stoney here at the cottage. They must know enough. And nothing on the news yet about the treasure. No one else knew.

  But they had Stoney, who had the Eye, and could completely ruin Alex.

  PART THREE

  The Edge of the World

  ‘For thirty years,’ he said, ‘I’ve sailed the seas and seen good and bad, better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out, knives going, and what not. Well, now I tell you, I never seen good come o’ goodness yet. Him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don’t bite; them’s my views – amen, so be it.’

  - the life philosophy of Israel Hands, pirate, in Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island

  31

  The lunchtime heat wasn’t unbearable, the breeze a cool comfort. Whit met Dr Parker and a bookish, attractive woman on the waterfront dock of a small restaurant near the Port Leo harbor for Saturday lunch. Dr Parker introduced the woman as Dr Iris Dominguez with Texas A amp;M Corpus Christi. Pronounced her name the Spanish way, Ee-res.

  The bones from the dig are in Iris’s car trunk,’ Dr Parker said. ‘I can sign custody of them back over to you after lunch if you like.’

  Whit saw the waitress approaching for the drink order keep her smile frozen in place at the mention of bones.

  ‘He’s really not a maniac,’ Whit told her.

  ‘The day is young,’ Iris Dominguez said. She had a beautiful voice, soft but forceful, and a cool, unfussy elegance. Whit liked her immediately. They ordered hamburgers and onion rings, Parker asking for a Salty Dog, Iris and Whit ordering beers.

  ‘So you want to know about the coins and you’re bribing us with lunch.’ Parker scooped a tortilla chip with salsa and popped it into his mouth.

  ‘Yes, sir.’