“Your daddy’s gun will be a little heavier.”
“That could help with accuracy if we have a shootout.”
“Could.”
Mildred was over-the-top glad to see us. She insisted that we stay for lunch. Rosey and I were willing to take our time with leaving since our future was uncertain anyhow. We still had a few days. We could use the time to come up with a plan. Thus far we had only a philosophic underpinning.
Aunt Mildred had a garden twice the size of my entire apartment and raised everything from carrots to corn, to potatoes and green beans. Her appearance fit the rural scene. After so many years, no one would ever suspect that Mildred was a transplant.
Lunch was vegetables on top of vegetables. Mama fixed cornbread for an army and we forgot all about the large country breakfast of just a few hours ago. Rosey ate like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.
Rosey volunteered to help Mama wash the dishes. I took Aunt Mildred outside to walk around and tell her enough of what was happening so that she would have her wits about her. I wanted her prepared for the worst-case scenario.
“Sounds dangerous, Clancy,” she said.
“It is.”
“Think we should stay here until we hear from you?”
“For now, that would be best. If you don’t hear from me in week, then go somewhere. Go west or south. Don’t come east. And certainly don’t come to Norfolk.”
“Your mother doesn’t like to travel. What if she resists?”
“I think she’ll travel this time. Besides, you’re devious enough to come up with something that could motivate her.”
“Thanks for the confidence, kid.”
Mid-afternoon Rosey and I left the farm and headed back to Clancyville. He wanted to go by Joe’s place before we headed east to Norfolk. It was my first time to see the little house since I had graduated from college. There was no change, except the principal occupant was no longer there. The personality of the small house and his very green yard were changed. It would be have been grand if Joe had come out to greet us.
“You own the place?” I said.
“Yeah. Inheritance.”
“Cows?”
“You kiddin’?”
“No ancestors of Bessie Mae still around?”
“Unlikely. She died the same year Uncle Joe died,” he pointed to her cowbell hanging over the archway that separated the small living room from the small kitchen. Keepsake.
He left me in the living room and went to the back of the house. I walked over to the bell and made it ring. The sound stirred some stuff I hadn’t remembered for many years. I could even see Bessie Mae grazing in her fields around the place. I had milked her while Joe was in jail. I rang it again and enjoyed the sound it and the memories attached to it.
“You want it?” Rosey said, entering the kitchen carrying a large, rectangular wooden box that could have been used as a small coffin. It looked heavy for me, not for him.
“No, I think it goes with the place. If you ever sell the house, then you can offer me the bell.”
He placed the box on the kitchen table. It was padlocked in three places.
“Precious stuff?”
“Can’t be too careful around wild animals.”
He opened the box and took out several rifles, two shotguns and boxes of ammunition. He removed a camouflaged colored vest and handed it to me. It was heavy.
“What’s in this?”
“Hand grenades.”
20
The box was like a portable gun case. Each gun had its own grooved section and the box was three levels deep. He removed all of the shotguns and rifles from the first two sections.
“Pick out a shotgun and a rifle.”
“This Winchester 70 with a scope looks like it was made for me. Super Shadow. Great name.”
“Shoots well, too.”
“Might help.”
“Here, take this 12 gauge Remington,” he handed me one of those Matte gray guns with synthetic stocks. I preferred the walnut grains. It was Model 1100 called the Competition Master.
“You buy these things for their names?”
He flashed a Michael Jordan grin.
“Not likely. Eight rounds in the magazine plus one in the chamber. Good for high speed shooting. Might need it to save my life.”
“Or mine.”
I watched him pick up each of the other guns and gently hold them. I thought that maybe there was some silent communication between Rosey and his weapons.
He laid a Weatherby SAS Field 12 gauge shotgun on the sofa in the living room. I watched him pick up another Remington. It had a black synthetic stock. I picked it up and read the side – 7400 Weathermaster.
“I don’t know much about these,” I said.
“The Remington 30-06 is for any kind of big game in any kind of weather. We be prepared. The Weatherby is my baby. Sweet.”
“Glad I didn’t try to come between you two.”
“Wouldn’t let you.”
“You must be expecting something like the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.”
“No, ma’am. Trying to avoid something like that.”
“If it’s your baby, then why does it stay in a place you seldom visit?”
“I have lots of children. Some more special than others.”
“So these are backups?”
“Had to leave D.C. in a hurry this time. Couldn’t bring along the other kids. I have a couple of handguns in the Jag, but nothing precious like my Weatherby and the Remingtons. But…”
He moved to the box and removed another board revealing a third level compartment. This contained handguns and boxes of ammunition. Each handgun was secured to the bottom of the box by a wooden form shaped for that particular handgun. The boxes of shells were sandwiched tightly between the wooden forms for the guns.
“You make this box of goodies?”
“Woodworking 101,” he smiled as if pleased with himself.
“Well, if the world comes to an end, there certainly is going to be fireworks from our team.”
“Here,” he handed me two 9mm handguns. “Choose the one that suits you the best.”
I had the Vector SP 1 in my right hand. It felt heavy for a small gun.
“From South Africa. I acquired it on a trip there a few years ago. Fifteen rounds, double action. Accurate weapon.”
“Buy it?”
“No. Took it from the man who tried to kill me with it.”
“Apparently not accurate enough.”
“Accuracy lies within the shooter’s prerogative.”
I laid down the Vector and took the other handgun in my right hand. It was a Glock Model 34. It felt better than the Vector. Rosey handed me a magazine for the Glock.
“Nineteen rounds. Accuracy and longevity.”
He took two more Glocks from his handmade cabinet. One was the Model 30. It was a .45 ACP. He informed me that it held ten in the magazine and one in the chamber. The other was a Model 33. It was a .357 and fired nine rounds.
“And your handgun of choice?” I asked.
“The 952 by Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson. I also keep a .357 magnum on hand as a backup.”
“But the 9mm is your choice.”
“Hands down.”
He kept out two boxes of ammo for each piece we had taken from his collection. He then safely secured each handgun we had not chosen. When he had finished putting the rifles and shotguns back into the box, he padlocked it and left the room carrying his treasure. He returned in a few moments with some camouflaged fatigues.
“Just in case we get caught out in the cold.”
“Well, it seems to me that we’re as ready for Armageddon as we shall ever be.”
“Save one thing.”
“That being?”
“A plan.”
21
We were heading east in his Jag on Highway 58 quickly moving towards Norfolk. Our arsenal was neatly stored in the trunk. We were still formulating our plan.
“They want to k
ill me because they think I know something I really don’t know.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How do we stop them from killing me?”
“Kill them first.”
“There’s a lot of them. I would assume that this gigantic corporation has a major-size payroll. Only two of us.”
“But you have me on your side.”
“I’m grateful. Two against the world.”
“A lot of them will die,” he said without smiling.
“We could die, too.”
“Imagine we will. One day.”
“I think I’d like to postpone this two-against-the-world as long as possible.”
“Okay. Plan B?”
“Let’s go see Big Daddy,” I said.
“Craven Malone himself?”
“The same.”
“Never met the man myself.”
“Well, that verifies what I already knew,” I said.
“Which is?”
“You work for Joey Malone.”
“I never said that.”
“I know. Research.”
“You haven’t had time to do research. You’ve been to Michigan, to Washington, and then to Clancyville. Now you’re on the road to Norfolk with me.”
“Before our second meal together,” I bent the truth just a tad.
“Still a stretch, Missy. Nothing on my resume about Joey Malone or Craven Malone Industries. How’d you find this out?”
“I have a search program that runs when I’m not there.”
“But you had to know something to search.”
“The night after you drove me to the large edifice outside of Norfolk I began to search Malone Industries then.”
I could feel that he was suspicious of my sources. No way I could divulge the abilities of Rogers. I trusted him, but not that much. Not yet anyway.
“It’ll be supper time when we arrive in Tidewater. Let’s gamble that Mr. Craven Malone will be home,” he said finally.
“Fewer obstacles at home, I imagine.”
“Fewer.”
“You know the way?”
“Only know that it is in the Princess Anne Country Club section of town. Linkhorn Park. Joey likes to brag about the family. I listen.”
Rosey told me that Craven Malone had two homes in Virginia Beach. One was an older mansion in the Princess Anne Country Club section of town, while the other was a beachfront cottage that looked more like a hotel than a house. He lived in Linkhorn Park and played at the beach. Money to burn.
“Shall we call him and ask for his exact location?” I said.
“No, but we can look him up in the phone book.”
We had just entered Virginia Beach from the expressway. He pulled into a gas station.
“You pump and I’ll check the book,” he said.
“I’m hungry.”
“Pump and then get us some sandwiches inside.”
He walked towards the outdoor phone booth some two hundred feet in front of the Jag while I filled up the car. I paid for the gas, two ham on rye and a couple of sodas.
Rosey was still flipping through pages in the rugged looking phone book barely attached to the shelf. I called Rogers and told her I needed the address. She gave it to me and I slid my phone into my pocket before I climbed into the car. Never trust the phone company with up-to-date vital info.
“No chips?” he said after he got back into the car.
“You buy next time.”
“I will.”
“So where is the big man?”
“2278 Bay Colony Drive.”
It was the same address that Rogers had provided.
He pulled the Jag away from the pumps into a parking place beside a trash can next to the phone booth.
“Here’s the plan,” he began. “No rifles or shotguns this time. Give me your Smith & Wesson. I’ll take my 9mm and the Glock .45.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’ll make him think you’re my prisoner,” he said as he removed two shoulder holsters from a suitcase in the backseat and got out of the Jag.
I got out of the car and walked around to his side.
“I don’t like this plan.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re taking my gun and I’m vulnerable.”
“Trust me.”
“I don’t know you. How can I trust you?”
“I drove to Clancyville to warn you,” he said.
“You’re smart enough to lead me right into a trap. Sell me some story about a contract, tell me that you are going to help me, then take me to your employers. I don’t like it.”
“Hey, this was your idea to come to the lion’s den and confront Craven Malone.”
“Yeah, but you’re smart enough to lead me right into this scheme.”
“Okay, okay. What’ll it take for you to trust me in this?”
“Let me carry a gun.”
“They’ll search you when we enter.”
“Everywhere?” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“Complete body and cavity search?”
“Well,” he thought for a moment. “No, I doubt that. Just the usual places – underarms, back … and lower legs, since you’re wearing slacks.”
“So, I’ll wear a thigh holster. You have anything in this Jag smaller than the .38?”
“No. But I don’t have a thigh holster.”
“You have a holster for a .38?”
“Sure, but I don’t have anything small enough to attach it to your leg.”
“Give me what you have,” I said.
“You’ll never hide a gun inside those slacks.”
“I have a dress in the suitcase. Give me the holster.”
He reluctantly took out his holster and leather strap. I put the .38 Smith & Wesson in the holster. I took the leather strap and put it around my right leg until it was a snug fit, then I took my knife and cut the strap. He groaned, but said nothing.
After I changed into my dress in the restroom of the gas station, we were on our way. I didn’t like working in a dress, but I felt much better having a gun on my body. The dress gave me just enough room to have the gun strapped to my left thigh and not show. Stylish and dangerous.
Rosey was wearing a Navy blazer to cover his three weapons.
“Assassins don’t usually bring their prey in alive,” I said.
He drove to Bay Colony Drive without comment.
I couldn’t imagine the other Virginia Beach playhouse of Craven Malone being larger than this one. Rosey had said that Joey bragged about the size of all their houses. Joey had three houses. Lap of luxury.
Craven’s dwelling was three stories with a large balcony in the front at the third level. It had four massive columns supporting the tiny porch as well as the balcony. The driveway encircled a flower and shrub garden. Several cars were parked in front of the house. The yard on both sides of the house was filled with several sculptured flower gardens of mixed varieties. I could probably retire on what they were paying the gardener just for upkeep. There was an ivy-covered wall around the entire place.
Rosey stopped the Jag near the iron gate that permitted entrance to Malone’s world. It was closed. Locked.
“Probably has an intercom or speaker phone built into that wall at the gate,” he said.
“And the butler will come out and let us in?”
“Probably not. I’d guess that two armed heavy weights will come out and talk mean to us. Then they might escort us cautiously inside.”
“No butler? How middle class.”
“Probably has a butler. He never leaves the house.”
“How many heavy weights?”
“Don’t know. My guess is three to five. Remember, you’re my prisoner. You might try to act frightened and upset.”
“I’ll whimper now and then. So, enlighten once more as to your thinking here. The plan, as it were.”
“He’s the big man. He has the power to stop the contract.”
/> “And if he refuses?”
“I’ll shoot you and collect my twenty thousand.”
“I think it’s too late for that. The heavy weights will likely shoot me.”
“I’m not losing you and the twenty thousand,” he said.
“How noble.”
22
Rosey pushed the talk button at the gate to the entrance of Craven Malone’s estate in Virginia Beach. It didn’t take much for me to get into character. I was apprehensive about walking into the inner sanctum of the head of the corporation that wanted me out of the way. I stood behind the post and adjusted my thigh holster. A fast draw was simply out of the question. A sexy draw might be possible.
“Roosevelt Washington to see Mr. Malone.”
“What’s your business?” the voice in the intercom said.
“It’s a matter that concerns Mr. Malone’s son,” Rosey answered.
There was a pause in the communication. Negotiations were at play.
“Take that up with Mr. Malone’s son. Mr. Malone does not wish to be disturbed.”
Rosey gave me a desperate look. I had nothing to offer. He was doing the talking and thinking.
“This is a life and death matter that only Mr. Malone can resolve. We have to see him tonight,” Rosey said.
Another long pause.
“We?”
“Clancy Evans is with me.”
Long pause.
The automated gate began to slowly slide away from the stone post. I walked ahead of Rosey as we entered the estate.
“Apparently the power of my name got us entry,” I said under my breath to him as we walked up the drive to the house.
“Doubt it,” he said.
A little more than halfway to the front door we were met by two heavy weights who could easily have been bouncers for some of the local clubs in Norfolk. They tried to act as tough as they looked. One of them wore sunglasses and a red sports jacket. The other one was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. Sunglasses took the lead and Hawaiian shirt followed us from the rear.
We followed Sunglasses into the library of the mansion.
“Mr. Malone will be in shortly. Sit over there,” he pointed to two leather chairs in front of an elegant but small mahogany desk. He left the room. The Hawaiian shirt stood at the door with his arms crossed. Good posture.
One Lost Soul More: A Clancy Evans Mystery (Clancy Evans PI Book 1) Page 8
