Still River

by Harry Hunsicker

“They’d already left. Roger had to go to the committee meeting so they couldn’t stay long.” He paused for a moment. “They just walked in the front door.”

  “Tell me what happened exactly.”

  “These two men came in. Henry was in the kitchen and Carla was upstairs, passed out. Roger and I were in the foyer since I was getting ready to leave for the day. They just opened the door like it was their house. One of them said, ‘Hi, Roger,’ and Roger said, ‘Who the hell are you?’ and then they said, ‘We need to talk to you.’” Dirk paused for a breath. “It was t-t-terrible.” Delmar rolled his eyes.

  I said, “Let’s get to the terrible part, huh?”

  Dirk whimpered but managed to continue. “Roger went over to them and talked alone, where I couldn’t hear. After a couple of minutes he turned to me and said he was going to go with them and that it would be okay. Then he winked at me.” Dirk started to cry. “But he didn’t smile. He always smiles at me when he winks. Always.” More sobbing.

  I looked at Delmar again. “You want to fill in the blanks for me? So far all I’ve got is Roger leaving with a couple of strangers, and Kato here doesn’t know who they are.”

  Delmar drained his beer and crushed the can. “Doesn’t sound like a big deal to me either. He said the guys were average-looking white dudes, bad suits. The only thing off is that the one talking had a funny accent.”

  Dirk let out a caterwaul. “Roger just didn’t do that kind of thing. He would never have gone away with someone he didn’t know.”

  I sighed. “Isn’t it possible that he might have known them?”

  “No. I would have known who they were. Besides, he had the committee meeting.” Dirk fluttered his eyelids and waved one hand to make the point. “Roger never misses a committee meeting.”

  Nolan said, “What’s Carla have to say about it?”

  Dirk quit sobbing long enough to sneer. “Carla? I couldn’t wake her up. One too many of Henry’s potions.”

  I felt the bandage on my calf, making sure it was in place. The wound was beginning to itch. “How exactly did you end up here?”

  Delmar answered for him. “His mother’s neighbor’s brother is an old friend of mine from college. He and I keep in touch. When Dirk moved here from Baton Rouge, he asked me to look after hi—”

  Olson piped in. “And this is what happens. He ends up hysterical on our doorstep once every couple of months. Remember last time, Delmar? He got in a fight with that hairdresser and runs here, with that idiot following him. The fucker drove across our lawn right after we sodded, then—”

  I whistled and held up my hands. “Uh, fellows? Little more info than I need.” I turned to Dirk. “Tell me about the accent.”

  “I dunno. They just didn’t talk American.” If Dirk were a dog, he’d be a cocker spaniel: dumb with fluffy hair.

  I scratched at my chin and tried to look serious. “Let’s see if we can pin down what kind of accent it was, huh? Was it Mexican?”

  Dirk shook his head. “Uh-uh. They weren’t Mexicans. They were white guys. Real pale, with funny accents.”

  “Scandinavian mobsters,” I said. “Who would have figured?”

  Olson shot me the finger.

  “What do you mean funny accents?” Delmar scratched his head. “German?”

  Dirk hesitated a minute then shook his head. “They had … bad teeth. You know, lots of fillings.”

  Olson and I said it at the same time: “Russians.” Delmar slapped his head. “Of course, that makes perfect sense.” Dirk jumped like we were going to hit him.

  “Russians?” Dirk said.

  “Russians,” I said back.

  “What does that mean?” He sniffled and rubbed at his nose with the palm of his hand.

  I drank the rest of my beer and stood up. “I have no idea.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Delmar gave Dirk a handful of Xanax and a bottle of Chardonnay. He warned him not to take all of the pills with the whole bottle of wine, and to call if he heard anything from Roger. When Delmar left the room for a moment Olson told Dirk to go ahead and take all the pills with the wine, and here are a couple of dozen Valium, go ahead and pop those too and you’ll sleep real well. Nolan shot Olson a look that could peel the paint off the walls, grabbed the Valium, and told Dirk to just drink the wine. I told him to do what Olson had said.

  “What exactly did Olson say?” Delmar had snuck back in the room.

  “Oh nothing,” I said. Olson got very interested in his gun barrel.

  Delmar handed the young man a wad of cash. “Why don’t you stay at a hotel tonight. Just to be careful.”

  Dirk started to whimper and asked if it would be all right if he stayed there. Olson pointed the .50-caliber barrel at him and began to make gunfire noises. Dirk scampered out, money and wine in hand. Delmar scowled at Olson. Nolan and I laughed.

  Then, because they asked, and because Delmar went and got two more beers, I told them about the events of the morning. Delmar looked attentive and Olson quit fiddling with his gun barrel while I related how Clairol Johnson had kidnapped me and we had ended up at the bar on Harry Hines. I finished up with our conversations with Roger Strathmore and Davis Howell.

  Delmar leaned back in an easy chair. “So what’s your next move?”

  “Fagen Strathmore, Coleman Dupree, and Aaron Young all tie in together somehow.” I pondered my next words. “And the guy who snatched me this morning says Coleman and Aaron Young are brothers. Maybe that’s why Aaron hates drugs. Which brings up the problem of that package I took off the guy on Gano Street.”

  “Gotta have a game plan,” Olson said. “And stick with it.”

  “Thanks, Coach Landry. I’ll get right on that.” I turned to Delmar. “The best thing to do is to leave the stuff somewhere and tell Coleman’s people to pick it up.” I finished the beer and put the can down. “’Course, I’ll also let a couple of cops know about it too.”

  Everybody chuckled. Delmar said, “You’ll lose your leverage.”

  “Better than losing your life,” Nolan said. “Being dead won’t bring back Charlie Wesson.”

  I nodded slowly but didn’t say anything. She was right.

  “When do you want to do the drop?” Delmar said.

  I looked at my watch. “It’s almost ten. I’ll set it up for tomorrow. You guys got any ideas about how to get in touch with Coleman Dupree?”

  “Let me make a call,” Delmar said.

  He left the room, and Olson flipped on the news. The fire and subsequent deaths at the bar on Harry Hines was not the lead story. I was surprised. The first segment was live at the scene of a triple homicide at a vacant warehouse. On Gano Street.

  The police spokesman theorized it was a drug deal gone bad.

  Delmar came back into the room right as they wound up the report. “That’s another thing you’re responsible for.” He was speaking to me.

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  He waved at the television before handing me a piece of paper. “That shit there. The ‘drug deal gone bad.’ That wasn’t any deal. There aren’t any drugs to sell on account of the supply’s dried up. Seems a real big shipment has gone missing, stuff that’s promised to a lot of different people.”

  “Way to go, Hank,” Olson said. “That’s not very nice of you, making people miss their deliveries.” He talked without looking up, intent on reassembling his rifle from the dozens of pieces he now had scattered on the coffee table.

  “How do you know that’s my fault?”

  “From the same guy that gave me that phone number. Mr. DEA.” Delmar plopped back down in his easy chair. “Two guys got whacked in Richardson too. Didn’t make the news yet. They were supposed to make a delivery to a retail guy in Plano.”

  “I think I’d stay away from the house and office until you get that stuff back to them.” Olson spoke through clenched teeth, holding a screwdriver in his mouth while he whacked a metallic piece into the rifle.

  I looked at the
slip of paper. One phone number. “What’s this?”

  “That’s the cell number of Coleman Dupree’s personal bodyguard,” Delmar said. “Don’t ask any more questions about it. Tomorrow, find someplace safe but public and drop that shit off. Call me and I’ll call my guy. Then ring that number.”

  I stood up to leave, and Nolan followed suit. Olson banged one more time at something with a soft rubber mallet and held out his toy for us to see.

  I sat back down. “What the hell is that?”

  “It’s my new rifle,” he said proudly. “I call her Miss Clarita.”

  I blinked a couple of times to see if my eyes were okay. Miss Clarita was an oversize, bolt-action .50-caliber rifle, and about four feet long. The muffler-looking thing on the end of the barrel was a muzzle break, designed to mitigate the recoil. There was a scope mounted on top that looked like two wine bottles cemented neck to neck. But the really strange part of the firearm was the stock, the nonmetal part where the barrel and action fit in. It was painted neon pink and splattered with white. Something sparkly had been embedded in the finish.

  Miss Clarita looked like a deer rifle on steroids. With sexual orientation issues.

  “You name your guns?” Nolan said.

  “Just this one.” Olson wiped down the barrel with a cloth. “I got Miss Clarita back today from the gunsmith.” He stroked the twinkly pink fiberglass lovingly. “I designed the stock myself. Got it lacquered over at a body shop on Ross Avenue. Neat, huh?”

  I leaned over to examine the paintwork. It was pink and glittery up close too. “That’s real cool. You gonna get some curb feelers next? Maybe a pair of fuzzy dice to hang off the barrel?”

  Delmar and Nolan tried not to laugh. Olson made a growling sound. Nolan got ahold of herself and said, “I know I’m probably going to regret asking this, but where did the name come from? Miss Clarita?”

  I looked over at Delmar. He was sitting in the easy chair, eyes closed, shaking his head.

  Olson stood up and shouldered the rifle. It must have been heavy because his arms trembled with effort as he held the weapon. After a few moments he put it back down on the coffee table. “I named it after my third-grade teacher, Miss Clarita Sue Dawson. She encouraged my artistic side.” He said the last part with a certain smugness on his face.

  I’d had enough of artistic third-grade teachers and pink sniper rifles, so I stood up for the second time. “I bet she’d be proud to know that you named a gun after her. We need to be going, it’s getting late and tomorrow is looking busy.” Nolan and I walked to the door.

  Delmar said good night while Olson let us out. We walked to the car and he said, “Good luck tomorrow. Call if you need any help. I’ll be around.”

  I cut through Highland Park on the way back home, feeling good that at least I could get the bad guys off my back for a little bit, until there was a chance to regroup. I didn’t really pay attention to the BMW until it was too late. The driver and his two passengers were white, and Coleman Dupree and his thugs were black, so the Beemer didn’t raise any alarms until they started shooting. That’s what racial profiling will get you, I guess.

  We were on Preston Road, headed north, when Nolan screamed at the same time as a shotgun blast took out the passenger-side front tire. I jammed on the brakes and slid into the oncoming traffic. The back side of the Mercedes connected with a Cadillac. We spun around again and the front window disappeared in a cloud of glass fragments, the boom of a shotgun sounding strangely distant.

  The front tires connected with a curb and something exploded in the interior of the car. Nothing like a couple of gun blasts directed your way followed by an air bag to the face to disorient a body.

  Sirens.

  Two more shots.

  Screeching tires, more gunfire.

  Nolan screamed, sounding far away.

  I got the knife out of my waistband to cut away the bag, but it deflated on its own. A hose gave way under the hood and the odor of a hot radiator wafted through the passenger compartment.

  I rolled out of the car onto the pavement, dropped the knife and pulled my gun. Kneeling by the ruined Mercedes, I held the pistol pointed out, not sure what I was going to shoot since I couldn’t see anything.

  I felt hot rain on my face and tongue and smelled something coppery and metallic. Warm, sticky. Tangy. I wiped blood out of my eyes and could see. A shape appeared at the back side of the Mercedes. White guy, wearing a pair of sweatpants and a dark shirt.

  A pistol materialized in his hand. He pointed at me and pulled the trigger. A millisecond later someone hit my stomach with a two-by-four. My knees wouldn’t support my body anymore and I fell, squeezing the trigger of the Browning one time as I went over.

  Darkness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I became aware of lights and movements and sounds, somewhere far off, like the world was covered in a layer of gauze. My stomach hurt.

  I debated with myself the possibility of opening my eyes. A voice that sounded like Charlie Wesson’s told me to go back to sleep, everything would be okay.

  When my lids parted a few seconds, minutes, or hours later I could not have been more surprised. What a lovely sight; a pair of perfectly formed breasts dangled a few inches above my head. Larger than most, and all natural judging by their … fluidity; they were tightly encased in a sheer silk cloth, beige and cut low. The tanned flesh contrasted nicely with the smooth material.

  They wobbled and began to speak. “I think he’s awake.” The arms attached to the breasts finished fussing with the pillow under my head and moved back. It was Sandra Jo Delarosso, wife of my attorney, Bertrand Delarosso. She moved another few inches and stood beside her husband. They were on one side of my hospital bed. I shifted my eyes the other way and saw Olson. Delmar was at the extreme edge of my vision, leaning against the far wall, murmuring into a cell phone.

  “How are you feeling, sugar?” Sandra Jo said.

  In my mind I wanted to say something witty and urbane and end it with “—and I’m feeling better now that you’re here.” With my mouth I said, “Urrgh.”

  Sandra Jo stroked my arm. “There, there, Hank. It’s okay. How about a drink of water?”

  I managed to nod.

  She held out a plastic tumbler and guided the straw to my lips. I drank, suddenly aware of a deep thirst. When I was finished, she put the cup down and resumed her place next to Bertrand.

  “Where am I?” My voice was a croak.

  “Parkland Hospital,” Olson said. “You were hit, right after leaving our house. Two BMWs. Don’t know how they tracked you down yet.”

  I was aware of something on my face so I moved one hand that way. Bandages on my forehead. “How bad?”

  “The doctor’ll be back around in a minute and give it to you in Latin terms.” Olson rubbed his eyes and looked tired. “You took a nine-millimeter to the side. Passed through the fleshy part, grazed the large intestine but no penetration. Exited out the back. Full metal jacket so there wasn’t any expansion. You were extremely lucky.”

  “I feel lucky. Or something.” I touched the bandages on my face.

  “That’s from glass fragments and where you banged your head on the curb,” Olson said. “They hit you with shotguns, front wheels and engine compartment. They were trying for another snatch.”

  A thought blasted in my mind. “What about Nolan?”

  After an eighth of a second too long of a pause, Olson continued. “They were out-of-town guys, Russians, just off the boat. Didn’t know that doing a job in Highland Park is close to suicide. Two patrol units going opposite directions saw the whole thing go down. They said—”

  “Where’s Nolan?” I put what little strength I had into my voice. It was loud in the small hospital room.

  Delmar appeared by the bed, snapping shut his cell phone. “Nolan is … missing.”

  “WHAT?” I tried to sit up but a wave of nausea hit me. “Whaddya mean? Is she all right?”

  Delmar pulled up a chair
and sat by the bed, at my level. His voice was low and firm. “We don’t know. They snatched her.” He and I locked eyeballs.

  He continued. “She got two rounds into the first car, the one that shot out your tires. They wrecked too. Coming from the other way was the second BMW. They stopped and grabbed her. She didn’t appear to be wounded.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We’ve seen the police video,” he said. “They were there almost immediately but didn’t realize there were two cars involved.”

  I started to ask how he could have seen the tape but realized it must have been through his DEA connection. The fog began to lift from my head and I realized where this was headed. The drugs for Nolan. A trade. “Have you heard anything from them?” I kept my voice low.

  Delmar understood and looked up at Bertrand. “Counselor, would you mind stepping out of the room for a moment?”

  Bertrand didn’t so much as twitch a facial muscle. “Of course. Sandra Jo, let’s get some coffee, shall we?” When the door opened as they left the room I was aware of a commotion outside, in the hallway.

  I could see that Delmar heard the activity also. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “LEO is wanting to talk to you in the worst way.”

  “Yeah, I would imagine.” LEO is an acronym Delmar and Olson often use for a law enforcement officer. “But why’s Bertrand here? I didn’t do anything except get shot.”

  “That and nail one of the bad guys in the chest.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, you, Mr. Pistolero, you popped one of the bad guys. Dead center.”

  I remembered the crash and the air bag. Then the gun was in my hand. The act of pulling the trigger danced around the edges of my memory, like fireflies in the yard on a warm summer’s evening.

  The door opened a few inches and then slammed shut. We heard raised voices.

  Delmar spoke again. “Listen. We don’t have much time. You killed a guy. No ID, no nothing. Fingerprints don’t show up anywhere. The only thing is that he had stainless steel fillings, which means he’s Russian. They have gotta go through the investigation on this. It’s the second time in as many days that you’ve used your piece. Even if it’s a legit shoot, they still don’t like it.” There was hesitation in his voice. “And—”