Jail Coach

by Hillary Bell Locke

  “Okay.” I stuffed the disposable gloves in my trouser pocket and picked up the attaché case. “I’m meeting Wellstein at his lawyer’s office in about twenty minutes to give him the gun. I should be able to get that done and be out of there before the rest of you show up for the closing at nine.”

  Proxy folded her arms across her chest. She walked a few steps toward the window, and then turned back to face me.

  “I want you to stay for the closing.”

  “Your call. But why?”

  “To keep Legal from wetting her pants. That speakerphone chat with Chaladian shook her up. She tried everything short of hysterical pregnancy to avoid this trip.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Putting the attaché case down, I crossed to the gym bag sitting on my bed where the rest of the stuff I’d brought was packed. Didn’t have to rummage inside because I knew exactly where to find what I was looking for. I hauled it out. Colt Trooper double-action revolver with a four-inch barrel, chambered for either .38 caliber or .357 magnum. All in a slick little hard rubber skeleton holster. Not an automatic, a revolver. Real retro thing, looks like it’s out of some ’fifties movie. Designed by Colt specifically for cops. One of my buddies from Iraq gave it to me when I was accepted into the training program for the Connecticut State Police. His idea of a joke. I bailed on CSP training about two weeks in, on the strong suggestion of a coordinator who said he thought there might be more of a future for me in Loss Prevention at Trans/Oxana. But I kept the gun. Not the kind of gun you’d use for a target shooting competition, but I can plink a silver dollar with it at twenty feet, and it’s never jammed on me—which is more than I can say for the first automatic I got from Uncle Sam.

  I clipped the thing on my belt at the back of my waist. Checked the mirror to make sure my sport coat tail covered it with some room to spare. Then I retrieved my attaché case and headed out.

  Wellstein’s lawyer had offices on the sixth floor of a building on A Street in downtown San Diego. Not elegant but functional—sort of like the skeleton holster. I handed Chaladian’s gun off to Wellstein without a hitch, then killed time in the reception area while I waited for everyone else to show up. By nine-ten I was sitting in a windowless conference room with Proxy, Galliano (“Legal” in Proxy-speak), Wellstein, Wellstein’s lawyer, Chaladian’s lawyer—and Chaladian. I got a bellydrop when I saw the SOB. He was smiling and jovial and full of patter, but I could tell the smile was strictly for the record. Made me glad I had that Colt.

  The closing seemed off to me. I felt like we should have been passing around shoeboxes full of hundred-dollar bills, maybe in a private room at a strip joint. After all, we were paying off an extortionist. He was going to use our money to do bad stuff to people. Best case, we wouldn’t be the people.

  But Proxy and company handled it like a straight-up corporate deal, all legal and aboveboard. The lawyers had something called a “closing binder” that they played with in a self-important way. Passed around multiple copies of documents to be signed. Sat there chatting while they waited for electronic confirmation from Wellstein’s bank that it had received $450,000 from Trans/Oxana. Punched some keys on a computer. Passed some more time while we waited for electronic confirmation from a bank for the escrow agent for whatever company Chaladian was using to front for him that it had received a wire transfer of $450,000 from Wellstein’s company.

  Then Wellstein opened his attaché case. I expected to see the gun displayed prominently inside. A little macho swagger. That could get awkward. But he’d stashed the gun somewhere else, or maybe he’d covered it with some legal papers that said BANKRUPTCY COURT on them. Bottom line: no drama.

  We were done. Everyone smiled. Everyone shook hands. I checked my watch: 10:12. By 11:15 we were wheels up in one of Trans/Oxana’s Gulfstream 450s, headed east at three-quarters of the speed of sound. Galliano pulled her Kindle out and looked over at Proxy.

  “ETA Hartford?”

  “Pretty close to eight-fifteen local time.” Proxy hadn’t even glanced at her watch. “Sorry we can’t drop you off in D.C. first, Davidovich, but a senior executive V-P has to pop down to help some K Street guys pat fannies on the Hill tomorrow, so he’ll be hitching a ride with you.”

  “No problem. Lobbying Congress helps pay my salary.”

  “Besides,” Galliano said, grinning, “someone has to eat an extra two hours.”

  “If it weren’t for the senior exec, you’d be the one eating them and you’d have them on toast. Davidovich is on my budget and you’re not.”

  Welome to the NFL, shysterette. As far as I could tell, though, Galliano didn’t notice Proxy’s little jab. She seemed flat out giddy. She was already on the phone, leaving a message for the significant other who’d be meeting her that night.

  “Due in about eight-fifteen. When I get home I’ll need a martini the size of a swimming pool. And you know those Cohibas we’ve been saving for a special occasion? This is a special occasion. See you then. Love ya.”

  “Deal high,” Proxy murmured for my benefit, shaking her head. “Anytime you close a transaction, unless you just got hammered, you get a rush out of it.”

  “You seem kind of up there yourself.”

  “Life is good. Trowbridge’s tour is officially considered a success. As of yesterday New Paradigm Studios still planned to release Prescott Trail on schedule. Estimates for the opening weekend gross have been revised downward, but that’s not his fault. We don’t have to dodge another bullet until his trial.”

  So I settled back, with nothing in particular to do but think. I thought about Rachel, mostly. Chaladian was out of the picture now. Which killed the rationale for Rachel staying in my apartment any longer. She had to go back to the house until she got whatever her problem with me was out on the table. This woman who freely confessed to me about sleeping with other men, and beat herself up about it but then went on doing it—there was something this woman was afraid to tell me. What could it be? What’s worse than I cheated on you while you were at war?

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The suit who shared the Hartford/D.C. jump with me called himself Chip Fleming. Still had a trace of Dixie in his voice. Said he was a West Pointer. By the time we had ten minutes of air behind us he’d explained that he’d gotten an MBA courtesy of our Army before Gulf War One started, and a career-shortening wound courtesy of the Iraqi Army while it was going on.

  “So what were you doin’ out in California that justified pulling this toy airplane out of the hangar?”

  I thought about how to answer that. Common sense said to just keep my head down, but he struck me as someone with a pretty low bullshit quotient.

  “Buying protection.”

  “I thought our business was selling protection.”

  “I’m in Loss Prevention.” I shrugged.

  “Loss Prevention?” The cabin was dark, but I could tell from the way he said the words that he was grinning. “Every now and then I get a memo about Loss Prevention.”

  “From Legal, I’m guessing.”

  “Mostly.”

  “They think we’re a bunch of cowboys.”

  “Hell’s bells, son, you are a bunch of cowboys.” This time he chuckled out loud. “Legal doesn’t like it when people color outside the lines.”

  “I guess you can’t please everyone.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about not pleasing Legal. Legal doesn’t produce. It consumes. Best case, Legal makes things get worse more slowly than they would without it.”

  We flew on through the night, over the continuous ribbon of lights that defines the Eastern seaboard. Fleming fired up a laptop and seemed to flip through graphs and tables on the screen. After maybe half-an-hour of that, he glanced back up at me.

  “This protection we were buyin’ out on the coast. Who were we buying it from?”

&n
bsp; “Guy named Chaladian.”

  “‘Guy.’ Not a company.”

  “Oh, he’s using a company. But what we were buying with it was Chaladian’s promise to be a good boy.”

  “In other words, you’re tellin’ me we paid off an extortionist.”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “This have anything to do with that movie star contract?”

  “It has everything to do with it.”

  “Damn. I’d like to get out of that damned business, but we can’t. Make too damn much money at it. You mark my words, though. Sooner or later it’s gonna bite us in the ass.”

  “No argument on that from me.”

  He went back to the laptop. We were getting set to land before he said another word.

  “Just remember one thing, son. Suits are like politicians. We talk a good game and use all the right words. But when we’re up to our eyebrows in serious shit we don’t call Legal. We send for the sonsofbitches.”

  Good exit line. I figured I’d better give Rachel a call while I walked to my truck to let her know I was on my way. I reached her voice-mail.

  “Hey. This is Jay. Calling at, what, after ten-thirty. Should be back to the shack soon. So don’t blow me away when you hear the door opening.”

  Less than ten minutes into my drive my phone buzzed with a text. I broke my rule against texting and driving long enough to sneak a peek at it:

  “Bk home. Cn tlk here. Pls. R.”

  “Cn tlk here.” As in talk? A little tingle ran through my gut. Could this be it? Fish-or-cut-bait time? And the Pls—please—that had to be a good sign. Or not. Was she really going to lay the big problem on me, whatever it was?

  I noticed a funny gut tingle, wondered what it was. Not fear. Fear I knew. Then I recognized it. Damnation! Butterflies! I was as nervous as a zit-specked freshman trying to work up the nerve to ask a girl out on a date. And why not? I might be on my way to divorce or back to a real marriage before midnight.

  I just had to live with the tingle for the thirty more minutes it took me to reach the house. When I turned onto her street I could see light glowing through the drawn curtains at every window I noticed. Pulled into the driveway, jumped out with my gym bag, hustled to the front door. I stood there for a second, sneaking a couple of deep breaths. Ring or knock? Hell no. This was still our house. I opened the door and went in.

  “It’s me.”

  I’m not sure I got the second word all the way out. I only felt the blinding pain for a second. Right side of the back of my head. Blackjack, as it turned out, but I wouldn’t learn that until later. At the moment I was too busy collapsing unconscious in the entrance hall to speculate about stuff like that.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  I wasn’t out all that long. Probably three or four minutes. But that was long enough for Marcus Plankinton to handcuff me and duct-tape my legs together from ankle to midcalf. The first thing I remember when I came to was the smell of shoe polish on his right boot. The next thing I remember was the boot kicking my left temple.

  “Sit up, white boy. NOW!”

  I rolled onto my rear end and brought my taped legs up in front of me. Quick inventory. Head aching something fierce. Concussion for sure. Hands hurting from the cuffs, but not numb. No ringing in my ears, no feeling of internal bleeding.

  I saw Rachel across the living room from me, roped to a straight-back dining room chair. Arms tied behind her back, and four coils of rope running around her torso, lashing her to the back of the chair. Not duct tape with Rachel. Regular rope. Hemp. Yellowish-brown. He’d gagged her with a sock. This was way more effort than needed just to immobilize her. Looked to me like Plankinton had some serious kink going on. I filed that away in case it might come in handy later.

  Once he’d made sure I was watching, he walked over to Rachel and backhanded her across the chops. I saw her face contort in pain as the gag stifled her scream.

  I might have thought a lot of things at that point. Like how could I have missed the risk of Plankinton grabbing Rachel and using her mobile phone to text me? Or why hadn’t I thought it was funny that she’d texted instead of calling? Or how damn stupid it was just to walk into the house. But I didn’t think any of that stuff. Saved the chewing out for the after-action report. Because right now I was thinking something else: I can’t BELIEVE this dumbass used handcuffs.

  Plankinton whirled around and flung himself in my general direction. He was limping a bit on his right leg. Cold hatred in his eyes chilled my gut.

  “I’m not going to kill you.” He leaned down over me, his face close enough to mine that I could smell the stale tobacco on his breath. “I’m going to take your eyes. Your eyes, man! I walk out of here, you never see again.”

  I kept my face blank. I was wondering how much it was going to hurt my cuffed wrists to force them under my fanny and to the other side. I inched them past the point of first resistance, all the while holding Plankinton’s attention with my eyes. Just like that I had my answer. It was going to hurt a lot. The metal dug into my wrists. Pain shot up my arms like sheet lightning. I figured I’d better say something to Plankinton so he wouldn’t notice my face flushing with agony.

  “You understand this is going to cost your buddy Chaladian a lot of money, right? Because I am definitely pissed off about this little stunt.”

  “Fuck Chaladian!” The back of his balled fist smacked my nose, lips, and right cheekbone. “He left me in that cracker town with my brain bleeding.”

  Speaking of blood, I had a mouthful of it right now. I spat as much as I could onto my shirt. Meanwhile I pressed my knuckles into the hardwood floor and pushed the handcuff chain forward. Green and scarlet lights went off right behind my eyes. I’d never seen the green kind before.

  Plankinton was busy showing me his Special Forces knife—real macho thing with three knuckle-rings built into the side of the hilt. This was apparently supposed to scare me. It did. It scared the hell out of me.

  “This is what I’m going to take your eyes with. But I’m not going to do it yet. Because first I want you to watch what I’m going to do to that!” He snapped his right arm back toward Rachel. “The last thing you will ever see on Earth is me having your woman.”

  He gave me another clop across the chops, just for luck. It hurt all right, but his heart wasn’t really in it. He now seemed pretty focused on his plans for Rachel. He stalked back over to the chair where she was tied, whimpering. I could see her face paling as she pressed against the ladderback.

  Plankinton’s knife flicked and sawed. After three or four seconds, the top rope in the coil fell away. I noticed a tiny speck of Rachel’s blood arc through the air as the knife snapped upward when the rope gave.

  Wiggling and twisting my butt, I tugged the handcuff chain forward. Hot, blistering bolts of pain shot through my wrists. I felt the temperature in my head drop. If I didn’t actually black out for a second, I came close to it. The kind of splitting pain that comes with stress fractures throbbed in the inside bone of my left arm. But my handcuffed wrists finally slid past my fanny.

  Plankinton sliced the second rope. He was taking his sweet time about it, indulging his rope fetish for all it was worth. I brought the handcuff chain up to the top of the duct tape lashing my legs together. He sliced the third coil of rope. There’s always a burr or a rough patch somewhere on handcuff metal. The things get abused in normal use, and you’ve got to make them cheap to start with.

  The fourth and last coil of rope dropped away from Rachel’s body. Grabbing the top and front of her blouse with his left hand, Plankinton jerked her out of the chair. I got the first, tiny notch cut in the top of the duct tape. Rachel’s torso arched backward as Plankinton swung her around about a quarter circle. I tried to find the notch again with the center of the handcuff chain. Missed. Plankinton flung Rachel to the floor. T
ried yet again for the notch. Missed it again.

  I suddenly caught a quicksilver reflection as the knife slashed down through the air. I caught my breath. The knife sliced through Rachel’s skirt, inches from her left thigh, and pinned the skirt to the floor.

  The notch! Got it! Gotcha, you sonofabitch!

  Plankinton squatted. He reached under Rachel’s skirt. I heard a long tear as he ripped her panties off.

  I sawed with the handcuff chain at the notch. My left wrist and now my left shoulder throbbed. Pain is weakness leaving the body. I pushed the metal back and forth, maybe half-an-inch at a time.

  Almost manically, Plankinton started pulling down his pants. Just forced them down to knee level.

  The duct tape was really going now. The sides tore from each other with a rippp! so loud I thought Plankinton had to hear it. He didn’t. Or maybe he just didn’t care. I sliced through the bottom of the duct tape. Three determined kicks and my legs were free. No hope of getting the cuffs under my feet and up in front of me. Not at six-four with a broken wrist. But all I needed was free legs.

  I pulled myself to my feet. Just as I thought I was going to pass out, the black and white dots dancing in front of my eyes cleared.

  Now Plankinton heard me. His head snapped around. An instant later he had pivoted and leaped with cat-like grace to his feet, grimacing as his right foot hit the floor.

  I was already moving by then. Three quick strides, and I launched myself into a horizontal dive, sailing through the air and aiming my head at the hollow spot just below the top of his ribcage.

  I nailed it. I paid for it as his fists smashed my temples, but the sound of breath exploding from his body made that pain worthwhile. Knocked off his feet and hobbled by the pants bunched below his knees, Plankinton flew backward. His tailbone smacked the hardwood a good foot past Rachel’s head.

  I had to clump over her thighs and belly to follow him. I managed it. Plankinton writhed as I landed on top of him, but my sixty-five pound weight advantage cut his writhing potential way down.