“The only business interests I know up there don’t do any kind of contract I would want.”
“You think it’s that bunch in Atlantic City?”
“Probably.”
“That’s what I thought, too.”
“While I’ve got you,” Bob said as he leaned closer. “There was a break-in last night at Vinnie’s house. Patsy was there. Two masked men broke in…”
“I heard,” Stansky said, stone faced.
“Somehow I thought you might. She put three bullets in one of them. He was DOA. She might have winged the second one, but no one’s sure. I saw the dead guy. These weren’t amateurs. It was Patsy they were after. To everyone’s surprise, the local cops can find absolutely nothing on the dead guy. Civilian, military, there’s no record of his fingerprints anywhere. They’re trying a DNA match on the blood from the other guy, but that isn’t getting them anywhere either. They think they’re getting stonewalled.”
“And you want me to see if I can do better?”
“Can you?”
Stansky looked at O’Connor who was sitting in the front seat and nodded. “Perhaps. I don’t like it when someone messes with one of our women any more than you do, so we’ll see. I’m a little bit harder to bullshit than the Fayetteville Police Department.”
By that time, the sedan had swung back around to the front door of the conference center and Bob knew his time had expired. As he opened the door and started to get out, Stansky said to him, “You be careful up there, Bobby, and remember what I told you about hound dogs and fleas. Pretty soon, they’ll take a bite out of your ass.”
After the general’s sedan dropped him off and pulled away from the conference center, Bob reflected on how much Stansky could cram into a ten-minute meeting. Obviously, he had a lot of experience with these base tours of his, Bob thought. But what was he to make of what Stansky told him about Randy Benson? Obviously, thirteen million dollars was a lot of temptation for anyone; and as the man said, “Who knows?” He turned back toward the building’s front door and saw Linda and Patsy stroll out, arm in arm with their new pal Dorothy. Ace and Ernie followed close behind, and the rest of the “rat pack” — Chester, Koz, The Batman, Lonzo, Bulldog, and a few other of the “old hands” — took up the rear.
Linda took the lead. “All right, Stud, what now? Inquiring minds want to know.”
“Tell them I’m working on it.”
“What was it you once said? The only two places that teach leadership are the U.S. Army and the Boy Scouts?” she pressed, her hands on hips. “Well, I’ve got all the merit badges I want; so lead, follow, or get out of the way.”
He shook his head and smiled. “Impressive. Something must have rubbed off.”
“You and I can discuss close-body contact later. What are we going to do?”
“For the moment, we’re going to go back inside and get back to some serious partying,” he answered her. “But if you want to take Donatello Carbonari on, we have a lot of work to do; and the parking lot of the Fort Bragg Conference Center isn’t the place to do it. How about the group reconvenes at the hotel for lunch, noon tomorrow? I’ll get a room.”
“Lunch?” Ace laughed. “What happened to Ops meetings at 06:00?”
“06:00? I’ll be lucky if you’ve even stopped drinking by then, much less gotten sober. That’s why I said noon, after everyone’s had some sleep. Ya'll got that?” he asked as he looked around from face to face, took Linda by the arm, and turned back toward the conference center's front door.
“That casino complex in Atlantic City has a wicked security system — cameras, alarms, motion sensors, guards, the whole nine yards,” he said. “So, we’ll need some really good tech people to pop it open,” he told her. “Last time, I had Charlie. He could crack any digital system anywhere, any time; but with him gone, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. Do you know any contractors who are good at that kind of stuff?”
Linda thought for a moment and then chuckled. “This may come as a surprise to you, but we have a couple of incredibly sharp new hires of our own in the tech department.”
“You don’t mean those two kids Charlie talked me into hiring?” Bob frowned. “Barker and Talmadge? One looks like he’s fifteen and the other looks like his younger brother.”
Linda laughed. “You really are an idiot, you know.”
“What? Coke-bottle-bottom glasses with taped frames, superhero T-shirts, and Garfield calendars. I thought they were summer interns from Schaumburg High School.”
“Haven’t you learned by now that when you really have a serious computer problem, you call in the youngest, geekiest nerd in the smallest cubicle in the back corner of the tech department? Charlie knew exactly what he was getting when he hired them. And I hate to tell you, but for the last six to eight months, they were doing most of his work for him.”
“Those two? You’re kidding me? How old are they eighteen? Nineteen?”
“More like twenty, twenty-one, with advanced degrees from Berkeley. Every big firm in town wanted them.”
“Really? The only thing missing was a shirt-pocket full of Bic pens.”
“Bic pens? I doubt they know how one works. Today, everything uses a joystick, stylus, audio dictation, the tip of the finger, or a virtual reality helmet.”
“Hmmm, I can think of two or three things their joysticks can’t do,” Bob mumbled as he patted her on the butt.
“Promises, promises, but do you know how Charlie got them? It wasn’t the salary or the benefits — they don’t have a clue what a benefit is to begin with. No, he promised to buy them the hottest, latest, fastest, biggest gaming computers on the market.”
“Gaming computers?”
Patsy stared at him. “You have no idea what kids like that do, do you?”
“Well… no,” he admitted, “but I saw them drag themselves in on Monday mornings. I've watched enough enlisted men do the same thing over the years, and I figured tech kids were party animals just like the others.”
“Boy, are you wrong. From the time they get home on Friday until the crack of dawn Monday morning, they’re online playing in massive, role-playing, simulation games.”
“Role-playing? With their ‘joysticks’?”
“You are incorrigible.”
“If I knew what that was, I’d probably be insulted, wouldn’t I?”
“Probably, but they’re another generation. They have the day jobs to pay for new weekend toys. And on the weekends, they wouldn’t know The Chicago Bears from the ones in the Lincoln Park Zoo. You just don’t understand them.”
“Them? I barely understand you.”
“You really are Neanderthal, aren’t you?” she said as she squeezed his arm. “So tell me what you want them to do, and I’ll give them a call.”
“For the moment, I need some serious research on that Bimini Bay building complex.”
“Do you want them to fly out here?”
“Sure, but I figure they need to be near those big computers Charlie bought.”
“You dolt. These days, really big is really small, which is why Charlie bought them laptops. They can work anywhere.”
“All right. The meeting’s at noon. Get them out here.”
Casinos work 24-7, and so do the people who run them. At 10:15 that night, Martijn Van Gries was at his “other” desk, below the Bimini Bay Casino in the "Maintenance Building," when he picked up his cell phone and speed-dialed Shaka Corliss.
Corliss could see who the call was from, so he let it ring half a dozen times before he answered. “Yeah? Wuz up?” he asked brusquely. The Dutchman outranked him in the casino pecking order, but neither of them was a member of the Sicilian brotherhood and Corliss didn’t work for him. They both worked directly for Donatello Carbonari, which forced Corliss to cooperate with Van Gries, but he didn’t have to act as if he liked it. In fact, he could be as rude as he wanted, knowing the Dutchman wouldn’t dare run to Papa.
“The boss has a job for us, for both of us,”
Van Gries began. “Meet me on the loading dock and bring the ‘muscle twins,’ Gerald and Phil, with you.”
“They’re busy. Whadaya want ’em for?”
“Some heavy lifting, so stop arguing with me, Shaka. Ten minutes… unless you’d rather do it yourself,” he shot back and hung up. “Damn that black bastard,” Van Gries muttered between clenched teeth. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out his .380-caliber Walther PPK automatic. It was the iconic James Bond model and Martijn loved it. He screwed on an SSG silencer, slipped its 7-round magazine into the butt, and seated it with a firm blow from the heel of his hand. He jacked a round into the chamber, slipped the Walther into his rear waistband, and headed for the door.
The Bimini Bay’s loading dock sat on the rear facade of the building, well screened from the casino’s driveways and parking lots by a tall retaining wall and by the complex’s large trash compactor. For security reasons, all the perimeter and parking lot lights remained on all night long, including three spotlights high on the building’s rear exterior. It was also covered by overlapping video cameras. Van Gries knew he would have to deal with the cameras later, but that would be no problem for him. The video recordings were his exclusive domain.
This late at night, the loading dock was always deserted. Tonight, however, a white, unmarked panel truck was parked at the far end, with its rear door rolled up. Van Gries had been there for twenty minutes, pacing back and forth, but Corliss still hadn’t arrived. He knew Corliss was late on purpose, trying to provoke him, as usual. The Dutchman grinned. This time, there would be retribution. Finally, the door at the far end of the dock opened and Corliss sauntered out, followed by his blond muscle. Van Gries was convinced that he hired those two precisely because they were big, blond, pink-faced, and dumber than he was. He probably carried their photos on his cell phone, so he could show his street pals that he could slap these two dumb farm boys around anytime he wanted.
“You’re late,” Van Gries seethed. “I told you ten minutes.”
“Like I give a damn. I don’t work for you, and neither do they.”
Van Gries bit his tongue. “There are four file cabinets full of accounting reports that Carbonari sent over from Tuscany Towers. He wants them locked up in the basement here.”
“What? They’re too heavy for you and your ‘little pals’ in bookkeeping?”
“No, he wants Risk Management to do it. The auditors are coming and those reports would be bad news if they fell into the wrong hands. For some strange reason, he trusts your people more than mine. Is that good enough? Of course, he can call Philly and ask them to send some people down, if you don't want to do it; but if he did, he wouldn’t have much use for your insolent ass, would he?”
Shaka glared at him, not sure if he had been complimented or insulted. “Yeah, yeah, okay. Just checkin’. All right, show these two dummies what you want moved.”
Van Gries led them into the dark cargo compartment of the truck. There was a small light bulb in the ceiling. He turned it on and pointed toward the file cabinets along the front wall. To the side stood two 55-gallon chemical drums, a pile of concrete blocks, some iron pipe, steel chains, and a large dolly. “Just the file cabinets,” Van Gries said. “They weigh a ton. Once you get one on the dolly you can walk it to the elevator.”
As the two big white men bent over and grabbed the first of the heavy cabinets, Van Gries stepped behind them. He pulled out his Walther PPK from his rear waistband and shot Phil in the back of his head, and then turned and did the same to Gerald. With the silencer attached, all that could be heard inside the truck was a soft “Phap, Phap!” and the two security guards were dead before they hit the floor.
Corliss took a step back, wide-eyed, stunned. “What? Whatchu doin,’ man?” he screamed as the Dutchman leaned forward and shot each of them in the head a second time. The second bullet wasn’t necessary, but Van Gries did what he was told. He then turned around and faced Corliss. The big black man must have thought he was next, and was trying to draw his big .44-caliber revolver from his shoulder holster, but it slipped out of his sweating hands and clattered on the floor.
To Van Gries, the terrified expression on Shaka’s face was worth it all. Corliss looked down at his big revolver, but before he could bend over and pick it up, Van Gries pulled out his cell phone, speed dialed a number, and pushed it in the black man’s face.
“Here!” Van Gries snapped. “Shut up and listen!”
Corliss wasn’t the brightest bulb in the pack. It took a long moment for him to understand what Van Gries said. His hand shook as he took the phone and raised it to his ear.
“Hey, Shaka, is that you?” he heard Donatello Carbonari speaking to him.
“Uh, yeah, yeah, Boss. Uh, he…” Corliss stammered.
“I told Martijn to do that. Do you know why?”
“Uh, yeah, yeah, I… uh, no, I…”
“Those two knew too much,” Carbonari said. “Our lawyers called me. The Illinois cops are headed here with more warrants, and those two were headed back to jail. I couldn’t have that, because they aren’t like you or Martijn. They’d flip on us as soon as they got behind bars again, so they had to be eliminated. You understand now, don’t you?”
“Uh, yeah, Boss. I do, but if you’d ’a told me, I…”
“No. You might have said something or done something without thinking, and tipped them off. That’s why I told Martijn to keep you out of the loop. That’s how it had to be.”
“Uh, yeah, I guess I see that now, I…”
“Good! Now go with Martijn and do what he tells you to do. My old man’s fishing boat is up at Brigantine, and you two are going to make them disappear. Understand?”
“Sure, sure, Boss,” Shaka answered as he felt his old confidence beginning to return. “Sure, I’ll go with…” he started to say, until he realized Carbonari had already hung up. Slowly, he handed the phone back to Van Gries. “I, uh, well…” he tried to explain, his hand still shaking as he bent over and picked up his .44 revolver.
“Come on,” Van Gries told him as he put his automatic away, led him back out onto the dock, and rolled down the rear truck door. They went around and got in the truck's front seat, with Van Gries behind the wheel, and drove slowly away.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The small town of Brigantine is located five minutes northeast of Atlantic City via a long, elevated boulevard that spanned Absecon Inlet and its surrounding marshes. While Atlantic City had captured all the casinos and pawnshops, Brigantine took pride in having the nice new beach houses and townhouses. It also had a police department that might actually stop an old, beat-up, white van driving through their town in the middle of the night. Donatello had docked his father’s old thirty-five-foot wooden fishing trawler in Brigantine after the Feds packed “Crazy Eddie” off to the Federal pen a few years before. He found a cheap slip on one of the older, run-down piers at the far, landward side of the small island, and left it there.
“We gonna jam them boys in them oil drums?” Corliss finally asked.
“If they’ll fit, but I doubt it,” Van Gries answered.
“You got that right. They didn’t miss too damned many meals, did they?” Corliss offered with a nervous laugh. “I gotta tell ya, I never did get rid of no body like this. We’d bury ’em out in the Pine Barrens. I heard the Philly and New York boys use oil drums like this, but they bust up the legs or cut ’em into pieces. Whadjou think? We gonna chop ’em up?”
“Jeezus, Shaka! Do you have any idea how much blood a human body holds, especially big ones like those two? Maybe you’d like to clean out that truck tomorrow and hose down the boss’s boat, but not me. No, we’ll get most of them in the drums, weigh them down with those concrete blocks, and tie them in with some chain. That should do.”
“Yeah, and now I see why you needed me. Them boys is all beef.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. After that screw up in Chicago, there could have been three drums back there; but I told the Boss we
needed to keep you around.”
Shaka looked over at the Dutchman, surprised. “You told him that?” he asked.
“Yeah, because there’s no way I can lift these two bastards.”
Shaka laughed loud and hard. “You okay, Van Gries. You know, you okay.”
The private dock where Carbonari kept the old boat was at the end of a short, dark road on the north side of the island. There was only one dim light at the foot of the dock, so Corliss got out and directed as Van Gries backed the truck to the boat. Pausing to be certain they were alone, Van Gries walked around to the rear, climbed onto the tailgate, and rolled the rear door up. “Let’s get them in the drums, then we’ll roll the drums to the boat.”
Corliss joined him inside. They grabbed Gerald under his arms and dragged him over to one of the barrels. “Jeez, he heavy,” Shaka groaned as they shoved his head and arms inside. “Grab dat other leg, and we’ll bof lift.” Together, lifting, pulling, and pushing, they got Gerald’s gut over the rim and pushed him in head-first. As his heavy body crumpled inside, his legs buckled at the knees, but they still stuck out the top of the drum.
The two men backed away to survey their work. “It sho ain’t no thing of beauty,” Corliss huffed as he leaned his elbows on the drum.
“No, but it will do,” Van Gries answered.
“You want me to bust his legs and get them in too?”
“No, no.” The Dutchman cringed, bending down to take a closer look at the drum. “There are two holes up here near the top. We’ll throw a couple of those concrete blocks inside with him and run the chain through. That should hold him in.” Fortunately, the rear tailgate had a power lift. Corliss got the drum onto the dolly and lowered it to the dock. Together they rolled and muscled the first drum onto the aft deck of Carbonari’s boat.
“Ah could use a beer, man,” Corliss said, as they paused for a moment.
“There’s a whole case in in the galley. After we’re done you can drink your fill.”
They went back inside the truck, stuffed Phil in the other drum, and muscled it onto the deck of the boat next to the first one. “Tell you what,” Van Gries said. “You go down to the galley and grab a couple of beers for us, while I move the truck.”
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