Reverse Metamorphosis book one of the Irrevocable Change trilogy

by R. E. Schobernd

  “Yeah, I don’t see anything wrong there. There’ll be some screaming from the guy’s at the top because they’ll want to continue using you on the lower to mid level hits. Go for it.”

  “Good, then put the word out about the new minimum and I’ll plan to spend more time in the antiques business. The shops doing so well I have a difficult time just buying enough stock to keep the store full. With the holidays approaching soon I'll need to make several runs out east again on buying trips.”

  “Keep’s a fella busy doesn’t it; but isn’t success great. I’m getting my fingers in so many ligit businesses I feel stretched too.”

  Clay was busy preparing for the Christmas Holidays. The post holiday slowdown would give him a chance to take it easy for a while. He had developed a routine of dropping in at least once a week to have lunch with Margaret. Two weeks after Thanksgiving, on one of those visits, a heated conversation developed between them.

  “Two men from the FBI came here last Friday. They were asking questions about you and your involvement with Tony Giliano.” Margaret was grim, wringing her hands.

  Clay stood and put his arm around Margaret, “I’m not surprised Mom, I spoke to them several weeks ago. I guess I should have told you about it so you wouldn’t be caught off guard. It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”

  Margaret pushed his arm away and stepped away to face him, “What do you mean it’s nothing Clayton? The FBI is investigating my son because of his involvement with a gang of murderers and you think it’s nothing?”

  “Mom, my involvement with Tony is social. I attend parties at his house; we go fishing, out to dinner and to ball games. We’re friends, not business associates.”

  “Anymore I don’t know what to believe about you Clayton. I never thought I would say this about one of my own children, but I don’t trust you anymore. I’m not sure what your involvement with Tony is, but I don’t like it, and I don’t like you having dragged your family down to being investigated by the federal authorities.”

  “I think I had better be going. This is just going to get worse if I stay.” As Clay reached for the door he said, “I’ll call you before Christmas to give you a time to come on the 24th. If you’re still coming. Are you coming for Christmas Eve?”

  “Yes, Clayton. Walt and I will join the rest of the family at your house, but you need to think about your involvement with criminals. It’s not just your name being dragged through the muck, now your family is being embarrassed by your actions.”

  Clay stepped through the doorway and pulled the door shut behind him just as Margaret finished her tirade. Instead of staying and arguing with her he had decided to leave and ignore what had been said until later when he wasn’t angry.

  Mickey called the shop and left a message in mid January, 1976. His message said he just wanted to talk. Clay knew exactly what it meant. It meant someone, somewhere, was through talking and wanted action.

  Chapter 26

  “I had a personal visit from the consigliere of a major New York family over the week end. There’s a job if you want it. The pay is good, but it’s out of the country; up in Canada. You want to look at the package?” Tony slid a manila envelope over to Clay.

  “Sure I’ll look at it, but this is a hell of a time to go to Canada. It’s got to be colder there than it is here, and it was only three degrees at my house this morning.”

  “Before you open the envelope, let me tell you a few things to tie together what’s you'll find.” Both men were eating ham and beans and cornbread and Tony spoke between mouthfuls. “This guy’s a banker, lives in Quebec and owns a string of banks all over the Quebec and Ontario provinces.” Tony paused to lick his lips and swallow, “He’s been laundering money for the New York operations for several years. The major families pool their money and send it to him monthly. He charged a fifteen per cent fee and funneled the rest back to the families through fake corporations he helped set up. Two months ago he announced he was raising the fee to twenty five percent and he’s holding a million dollars to ensure they go along. As you can guess the heads of the families aren’t real happy with the new arrangement or the cockiness of this guy. They prefer he die accidentally, if possible. But it might not be possible because he’s got two full time body guards with him at all times. The consigliere says the banker fancies himself as a real tough guy. They say in business he’s a cut throat bastard and he believes he can get by with anything on anybody. After all, it’s not like the New York guys can go to the cops and complain. But they’ve found a way around him. His only son is a wimp and he’s the old man’s partner and main heir. So if the old man croaks, the kid takes over and the consigliere is sure he can be convinced to revert to business as usual.”

  “What’s the fee?”

  “How did I know the money would be your first question; what’s it worth? They want it done in the next three months, and the fee is one hundred grand. The guy seldom ever comes to the States, so you’ll have to go to Quebec to hit him. Another problem is they all speak French, and you don’t. You don’t, do you?"

  Clay shook his head, “No, I don’t speak French; hell I’m like you, I don’t even speak good English.”

  Tony ignored Clay’s smart assed remark and continued, “You’ll have to sneak your guns through customs and try to find a break in the guy’s routine where you can hit him. Oh, and the body guards; there’s four total, are all ex-Canadian Mounted Police; I hear they’re good. Also, during the winter he fly’s out to Alberta once a month and spends a week skiing, so you’ll have a three week window each month to get him. The rich bastard has his own plane and pilot and a big lodge someplace out in the mountains. I’m jealous!”

  Tony left to get a refill and Clay opened the package in front of him. But he was preoccupied, thinking about things he knew about Canada. He and Dan had gone there fishing the previous year. It had been his first time on Canadian soil. The fishing had been great; they netted bass, trout and walleye and threw back more than they kept. What he remembered most about the trip was how Dan had talked endlessly about a new thing he had tried in Wisconsin; snow mobiles. Gas engine powered machines designed for traveling on the snow. They allowed riders to travel for miles into areas otherwise inaccessible during the winter. All of his information and experience about Canada pertained to the less populated areas west of where his target lived and wouldn’t be of any use in a major city; especially a city where they spoke French.

  The report consisted of a five inch by seven inch black and white photo of Charles De Grand, a personal sheet, and long distance shots which were slightly blurred, of all four guards. The paper listed his age as sixty one, his home and office addresses, his lodge, etc. A twenty three page report, apparently put together by a private investigator, gave a very detailed account of a seven week period in the life of Mr. De Grand beginning the first week of October 1975.

  Tony returned and sat across the round table from Clay, eating in silence.

  Clay made a cursory review of the paperwork and promised to give Tony an answer by Friday, four days later. When he left the saloon he went to the club for his afternoon workout. He learned it was not a good idea to workout after a big bowl of Mickey’s hams and beans. Midway through his third set on the stair climber Dan stopped by to chat. Clay mentioned snow mobiles and Dan instantly launched into the same dissertation Clay had endured the year before. Dan had been to Wisconsin three times in the current season and was hoping to get away at least twice more while the snow was on. He was eager to enlist another convert to the new sport and gladly provided the name and phone number of the lodge where he stayed and rented the machines. Clay also learned he could rent all the cold weather gear for riding, or buy it onsite.

  Back at the office he phoned the Tri Lakes Lodge in northern Wisconsin and spoke with the assistant manager. She was sorry to inform Clay lodge was booked solid for the upcoming weekend, but was pleased to convey the fact there were vacancies until then. He reserved a standard room for Tuesda
y through Thursday and a snow mobile for Wednesday and Thursday. A travel agent was used to reserve a round trip seat on a regional carrier from O’Hare to Wausau and a rental car for the sixty plus mile drive on to the lodge.

  Tuesday afternoon he walked down the motorized stairs onto the tarmac at the Wausau, Wisconsin Regional Airport, zipped his coat tighter around his neck, picked up his rental car, and drove north on Highway 51 to Hazelhorst.

  Snow covered the entire landscape all the way to his destination. North of Rhinelander he got a taste of what he was in for. Along a ridge to his left he caught sight of a blizzard of snow thrown up by three people on snow mobiles. Finally he understood Dans’s love affair with them as the trio changed course and drifted down a hill to the road and ran along side him for half a mile before they swerved to the left and followed a trail up and over a ridge, out of sight. The sounds of oversized bumble bees slowly faded from his hearing until they were gone. The machines looked too fragile to be running at the speeds at which he clocked them, but he was game to try it.

  The following Friday afternoon Clay sat down beside Tony with a beer in his hand. “I’ve been looking at maps and I have a loose plan forming in my head. Call your contact and tell them I’m in for the fee plus all expenses, which will probably run ten to twelve thousand dollars.”

  “So you’ll be going to Quebec soon. Take some time to enjoy the sights, you might even pick up a French girlfriend while you’re there; I hear they give great blow jobs.”

  “Thanks for the advice Tony, but I’m not going to Quebec, I’m going to Montana. I heard Montana girls give even better head.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Clay laughed out loud at the confusion he had caused Tony. He was completely baffled and the expression on his face begged for an explanation. “I’m going to hit Charles at his ski lodge. It’s about thirty miles north of the border near the town of Crowsnest Pass. The town is in Alberta Province, near the British Columbia border. When he goes there Charles only takes two of the four guards along; two less for me to deal with. I can get to him from the Montana side by crossing where there’s no legal entry point.”

  Ignoring the skeptical look on Tony’s face he continued, “I just returned from Wisconsin where I spent two days playing in the snow on a machine called a snowmobile. It’s like a motorcycle only it can run on top of the snow. I bought one and a trailer to haul it on. And I’m getting all the clothing and everything else I’ll need to be out in below zero weather for more than a week. I’m driving back up to Rhinelander next week to pick up the machine and other stuff. There’ll be no record of me crossing into Canada to give anybody a clue as to who hit the banker. I have a small building rented for furniture storage and I can leave everything there in a back section until I head out. Then on my way west I’ll detour down to Kansas City, rent a motel room for three weeks on my own credit card, and go on up to Montana to do the job. I'll have an alibi for where I was when he gets hit.”

  “I’m glad this is a plan for you Clay, because you wouldn’t get me out in those damn mountains by myself on something like you’re describing. You’ve got balls kid. Just be careful and don’t get yourself killed up there.”

  Three weeks later Clay drove into Polson Montana on his way to Polebridge. He had been staying in motels and paying cash along the way but would switch to camping when he left in the morning. His driver’s license identified him as William A. Scones, from San Francisco, California. His two year old, white, three quarter ton, four wheel drive Ford truck had been stolen in Pennsylvania and carried Iowa plates. A camper shell over the bed would provide his next night’s lodging as he approached the Canadian border. The truck had new mud/snow tires, and food and water for two weeks had been bought and packed, just in case there were unanticipated problems and delays.

  The next morning he got up early and was driving north on Highway 93 before six thirty, on two inches of fresh snow. Light to heavy snowfall continued all morning to Kalispell where he fueled up with diesel and turned east on Highway 2 for sixteen miles. At Columbia Falls he manually locked the truck's front hubs and turned north on County Road 486. The dirt and gravel road was completely snow covered. Old snow was packed hard, making a solid surface to drive on, and the fresh snow simply slowed him down. On both sides of the road there was evidence snow plows had hit the back road intermittently, probably only when heavy snow fell. Running in four wheel drive he pushed the truck up past thirty mile an hour and felt comfortable in the handling on the treacherous surface.

  He had never been as deep into mountainous terrain as the back roads of Montana drew him. The view from every rise in the road was more thrilling than the last until his amazement finally ran out. Instead of thinking nothing could be more beautiful than the present panoramic view, he began to anticipate what lay ahead and expected it to be even more exciting.

  Since leaving Columbia Falls he had been looking at the Whitehead mountain range on his right and the Flathead National Forest to his left. On the east side of the road the North Fork of the Flat Head River could be seen, the surface frozen from bank to bank in the ten degree temperature.

  By the time he passed through the tiny town of Polebridge the snow had accumulated to eight inches thick, and deeper where drifted by the wind. Numerous times he had been forced to stop and knock packed snow out of the trucks grille, away from the radiator.

  Nine miles north of town he found a scenic pull off parking area the snow plows had cleared before turning around and heading back toward town. The stop provided a breath taking view of 10,000 foot high Mt. Kintla and he supposed the area would be full of tourist in the summer. The area had a slight upward slope and he backed the truck and small trailer as far up into the packed snow as he dared, hoping the slight grade would help him get back out. The road ahead had not been plowed since the start of the winter season; who but he would want to go any further toward the Canadian border in the dead of winter.

  He ran the snow mobile off the trailer and secured the equipment he would take, except for the rifle. Before dark he used a propane stove to warm food bought in Poison the evening before, and sat in the truck cab where it was warm and ate. A weather forecast predicted the next three days to have a thirty percent chance of light snow flurries with temperatures ranging from highs of twenty degrees to lows of minus ten. Fog was to be dominant in the morning, with overcast skies but allowing for the slight possibility of sunshine late on the third afternoon. To the west a storm was brewing and in four or five days it could dump a foot or more of new snow. Afterward, while watching the sun disappear, he sipped a half glass of bourbon before shutting off the diesel engine, and then crawled into his sleeping bag inside the camper shell. There was nothing else to do in the dark but sleep. But, before dozing off, he spent several hours reviewing his preparation as well as thinking about a tentative plan for the upcoming days. So far everything was proceeding satisfactorily.

  The white snow mobile and trailer had been bought for cash with fake identification different from the name used to rent motel rooms en route to Montana. The arctic gear he would wear had been special ordered out of New York for him; the Rhinelander dealer didn’t stock white. From the dealers stock he had selected a second set in navy blue. The equipment dealer had also suggested he should think about installing twin heavy duty batteries and electric block heaters in his truck if he was intending to stay long in cold weather spots; so he did. While the truck was in a mechanic friend’s garage he also had a second diesel fuel tank installed to double the fuel capacity. Before leaving Chicago the truck, machine and trailer had been washed and every inch wiped down. Since leaving he had not touched any of his equipment without wearing gloves. Even the $200 Canadian money he had picked up at a bank in Billings had been wiped down with a damp rag to remove prints. Only in the sleeping bag did he remove the brown jerseys covering his hands. Dried and concentrated food and supplies for his Canada run had been bought in Kansas; each individual item had bee
n washed and wiped to remove all prints before being stored in the truck. If the job turned out bad he didn’t need authorities to pick up a store clerks fingerprints who might possibly remember him. Nothing could be traced back to him. Even the illicit guns had been disassembled and wiped clean, and all ammunition wiped down.

  He had chosen his weapons carefully. His long range choice was a SIG-AMT auto rifle throwing a .308 caliber 150 grain soft point bullet. A primary reason for choosing it was the availability of the optional twenty round magazine. The barrel had been threaded to receive a long fat silencer and a Weaver ten power adjustable scope completed the rig. At best the report would be muffled as opposed to the loud and sharp crack with out it. The assembled pieces had been tested at Tony’s farm and consistently got five shot groupings within three inches at 300 yards with a factory load. For up close he carried a six shot Smith and Wesson Model 58 revolver firing a .41 caliber magnum soft point bullet of 210 grain. He had also packed an old .32 cal. Gilsenti semi-automatic with a fat silencer screwed onto the six inch barrel, but as things were developing he didn’t think it would be used. He was prepared for long range or short range; a quiet kill, or a sudden and loud flat out surprise attack.

  Even the Chicago Library System was involved in his planning. He had spent two full days at the main library downtown reading about wilderness survival methods and specific equipment he could possibly need in the winter. On the author’s advice he had forgone haircuts and stopped shaving to grow a beard and mustache as additional protection from the cold.

  An accidental death had been ruled out when he counted the minimum number of people who could be at the lodge as five; De Grand, the two ever present guards and two care takers who lived there full time. The number didn’t count guest who could be brought along. Tony had relayed that information to his N.Y. contact and received an approval for an assassination.