“I know your wife,” Conwright repeated. “And she pays a hell of a lot better than you do.”
He put the lid back on the pot of crabs. No feasting tonight.
Conwright turned off all the lights on the yacht save for one below deck. Then he went back to Nigroponte’s corpse. He had to get the wedding band off his bloated finger. No wonder Sheila wanted that as evidence that he’d completed the job—she knew he’d have to cut off the finger to get the ring. He couldn’t get the ring past the first knuckle. He found a filet knife in a tackle box in the cabin and used that to peel the flesh from the bone. Conwright tossed the bloody pulp off the yacht. With Nigroponte’s finger stripped to the bone, he had no trouble removing the ring.
Conwright pulled up the anchor and cut the rope. Using the rope, he lashed Nigroponte’s bulk to the anchor, then with great effort tipped him over the side. The fat man went to the bottom like a cannonball.
As he watched Nigroponte disappear into the dark water, he wondered how long it would take the crabs to find the decaying corpse. Welcome to the food chain, Nigroponte. He suspected they would come in with the tide and quickly discover the smorgasbord resting on the bottom of the bay. Conwright closed his eyes, imagining hundreds of crabs feasting on the rotting bulk. The larger crabs would come first for the soft tissues of Nigroponte’s open mouth and tongue. Several crabs manage to wriggle down his throat for the sweeter meat. In time, the smaller crustaceans would eventually find their way into other orifices, gaining access to the brain. Ah, there was the real prize! The constant pull and tug of their mandibles and claws would come to bear on the tougher optic nerves and muscles. Nigroponte’s eyes twitch and turn beneath the closed eyelids, giving the corpse the illusion of REM sleep. The eyes finally collapse into the sockets as the crabs feast from within. Conwright opened his eyes, looked up at the moon.
Nah, probably couldn’t happen that way.
He sighed, turned away from the water.
He then steered the yacht for the mouth of the Chesapeake. Once on the Atlantic, he headed north up the coast to Cape May. He’d already contacted Solly Ventura the night before, who’d agreed to take the yacht in payment for the gambling debt Conwright owed him.
The Magnificent Wharf was particularly crowded on Friday night, when Sheila decided to meet Conwright for their final transaction. She’d already ordered dinner before he arrived. He had no intention of staying. She did not know this.
Many men—indeed, most—would find Sheila alluring and irresistible. Albert Nigroponte certainly did, much to his misfortune. But Conwright knew her black heart, knew the ugliness inside. He’d known women like her throughout his life—probably went with the trade, he figured. Femmes fatales. He felt no attraction whatsoever to the recently widowed Mrs. Nigroponte.
“No thanks,” he said, responding to her proposal. “I’m sure an evening with you would indeed be pleasurable, in an animal kind of way. But I’m only here for the money.”
Her smile instantly dissolved and something darkened in her eyes. He’d seen it a hundred times before.
“Figures,” she said with disgust. “You men are all alike. Where’s the ring?”
Conwright pulled the wedding band from his shirt pocket and slid it across the table to her.
She picked it up and examined it. “How did you get it off his finger?”
“The hard way.”
“I bet.” Her grin was the definition of malice.
She pushed the manila envelope across the table to him—$50,000 in laundered $100 bills. “I suppose you want to count it?”
“No, I trust you.” If she’d shortchanged him, Conwright could find her. In that circumstance, she would not want to see him again. He imagined her sitting across the table from him with a shaved head. He imagined a car battery, jumper cables, and damp sponges, just to get the party started. Maybe, even if she didn’t stiff him, he’d come back for a visit, for a bonus round with her. The fat man paid him 10 Gs, after all—not the full contract, but enough. Conwright smiled.
A young waiter stepped up to the table with a tray. “Crab Imperial?” he asked, looking back and forth between the two.
“Here,” she said.
After placing the plate before Sheila, the waiter turned to Conwright.
“Would you like to order now, sir?”
“No, no. I was just leaving.”
“The Crab Imperial is superb, sir,” the waiter continued. “Sweet lump crab, fresh from the bay this morning.”
“No thanks,” Conwright said. “I’m allergic to shellfish.”
INSIDE OUT
BY AL BOUDREAU
CHAPTER 1
The faint click rousted Graham Pace as though he’d heard a blast from a trucker’s air horn. It wasn’t the sound that alarmed him; it was the timing. He’d heard it three times a day, seven years running, but never after midnight. The distinct groan of his Stateville cell door soon followed. He rubbed the fading dreamscape from his eyes to focus on two approaching silhouettes.
“Let’s go, Pace. Keep quiet and this might not involve any pain.” Warden Archer Frankel’s usual smirk accompanied the command. He nodded to his guard, who yanked the inmate to his feet. Frankel led the men past cages housing hundreds of criminals who would never again be free.
Pace balked, his nostrils assaulted more intensely than ever before by the fetid stench of incarcerated souls. Omnipresent body odor heightened his queasy unease as bile climbed the ladder of his esophagus. His hesitation earned a violent jab from the guard’s polycarbonate billy club. A bitter mix of pain and rage telegraphed vertically through angry vertebrae, causing clenched fists to form at the end of his fencepost forearms.
The march to Frankel’s den was all too familiar to Pace. His mind snapped back to the early days just after he’d been processed into the men’s penitentiary.
The guards were quick to single him out. At first he thought it was what all incoming convicts faced; beating here, a night in solitary there. The truth eventually came down by way of a snitch that felt sorry for him. Warden Frankel had ordered his guards to administer the biweekly doses of physical abuse. No one would say why, but it became painfully obvious—Frankel loved to watch him suffer.
Pace figured more of the same cruelty was in the offing, though the timing remained a mystery. Maybe the masochistic bastard couldn’t sleep and craved an early morning show.
As Pace trailed behind the balding, overweight jail boss, a deep hatred continued to grow, forged by the heavy hand of systemic abuse.
The men walked through the carved mahogany passage to the warden’s inner sanctum. “Take a seat, Pace” Frankel said. The guard doled out another violent jab. Pace fell headlong, his chin taking the brunt of Frankel’s rising heel. The warden stumbled, and then turned and kicked Pace in the rib cage. “Get this piece of shit up off my oriental.”
The guard, who dwarfed Pace’s prone five-foot-eight frame, grabbed the wiry inmate and slammed him into an adjacent armchair. Pace fought to control his heavy breathing, to lessen his pain and Frankel’s pleasure.
“Today’s your lucky day, Pace. You’re being granted a furlough.” Frankel threw Pace’s street clothes and sack of belongings directly at his face. “Don’t bother looking for your piece in the bag. It’s part of my personal collection now.”
Pace failed to react, drawing a subtle frown from Frankel.
“You’re going to do a little job for me. You’ll be dealing with Jared Jenks while on the outside. Consider him your temporary parole officer. He’s waiting for you at the gate. Get your ass dressed and get moving.”
CHAPTER 2
The prison access door slammed shut behind Pace. He stopped walking, the reality of being on the outside overwhelming. A double life sentence ensured he would never set foot on the far side of these walls again, yet here he was. The thought of making a run for it crossed his mind.
Two figures approached from the visitors parking area. “Graham Pace?” one of the men inqu
ired.
“You Jenks?”
“That’s me. Safe to say you wouldn’t turn down a decent breakfast right about now, isn’t it?”
“It’s a little early, but whatever,” Pace said. He glanced at the chrome pistol prominently displayed on the second man’s hip.
Jenks chuckled, neglecting to introduce the gun-toting stranger. He headed toward a late model sedan, parking lights ablaze. “Over here.” Pace caught up just as Jenks opened the passenger-side door and motioned for him to get in. Mister Pistol climbed in the back behind the driver’s seat.
Jenks wheeled onto the highway and headed south as the blown dash speaker rattled out a Dwight Yoakam threefer. No one said a word during the eighteen-mile drive to their first stop: Denny’s.
Pace wondered what the hell was going on as they left the vehicle, confident that laws and regulations were being broken. Jenks led them to a table away from other patrons. His associate occupied a separate booth. “Take a load off, Pace. I’m sure you’re a bit confused by all of this.”
Pace offered no reply.
Jenks, seemingly unaffected by the lack of response, reached inside his jacket and produced three envelopes. He flipped them onto the table one at a time as if he were playing solitaire. “We’re not eating,” he said to the waitress as she approached. ”Just two coffees.”
The woman gathered their unused silverware and walked away, no mention of the place setting with a missing fork.
Jenks slid the first envelope across the table. “Round-trip bus ticket to Chicago and a ticket to the Cubs’ season opener.” He grabbed the second envelope and tossed it in front of Pace. “A hundred bucks in tens and twenties.” Jenks took a quick look around before sliding the third one over. “This is a photograph of the guy who’ll be sitting next to you at the ball game.” He lowered his voice. “Consider him a mark.”
Pace felt Jenks eyes on him but gave him nothing, acting as if he were listening to the man blather on about his kid’s baseball card collection.
“Frankel and my friend with the gun over there will be seated somewhere behind you, each with a different vantage point. You’ll have a familiar audience while conducting your dirty work.”
Pace took a long sip of coffee then looked directly into Jenks’s eyes. “What’s my motivation here?”
Jenks gave a wide smile. “Look, Pace, I don’t really give a shit if you do it or not. I’ve got my marching orders. Archer Frankel has got something on me. I’m doing this to square things with him. He told me to hand the envelopes over, then keep an eye on you. In case you haven’t figured it out yet, the guy is off of his tits. Been on meds as long as I’ve known him. Anyways, he told me to send a slug in your general direction if you become uncooperative or if I see something that doesn’t look right. His exact words were ’wound that fake sniper real good,’ and that he’d ’take it from there.’ And if I know Frankel, he probably hopes you’ll try something stupid.” Jenks nodded to his associate and both men stood up. “He also said something about your kid sister, but I can’t quite remember the details.”
Pace remained calm, gathered the envelopes, and rose from his seat.
“Oh, by the way, Pace. The fork you have hidden in your sleeve? Best leave it here. A man could go to jail for something like that.”
CHAPTER 3
Jared Jenks turned the radio off and clicked the wipers on low intermittent as a mist ushered in the dawn. “You don’t say much, Pace. Any questions before I drop you at the station?”
“Sure, I have a question. Are you gonna give me a weapon or does the warden expect me to carry out his dirty work with Jedi mind tricks?”
“You’re not getting a gun. I hit Frankel with the same question. He told me you’d figure something—”
The automatic transmission shifted into passing gear as Pace stomped his boot down atop Jenks’s loafer. The man in the back looked confused, his hesitation giving Pace a split second to wreak havoc upon the unsuspecting pair. Though unable to pilfer a makeshift weapon from Denny’s, he’d managed to empty a half-full saltshaker into his jacket pocket. Now, using only his peripheral vision, a fist full of the gritty crystals left Pace’s hand and hit their mark.
A string of profanity came from the back of the vehicle as the man instinctively rubbed his freshly salted eyes.
Pace dove into the backseat.
“Don’t do this, Pace,” Jenks shouted as he stomped the brakes and pulled over.
It was too late.
Power had now shifted from two against one to two against eleven—Pace and a ten-round clip.
CHAPTER 4
Graham Pace leaned back against the rear passenger-side door, weapon trained on Jared Jenks’s skull. “Change of plans. We’re gonna take this little freak show on the road together. Turn around and head toward Chicago. Stay away from the tolls. Back roads only.”
Jenks maneuvered his vehicle back into the flow of traffic. “You know you can’t—”
“Okay, I don’t want to hear you right now, Jenks. Speak when spoken to. That goes for both of you.” Pace glanced over at Mister Pistol, who was breathing heavily, looking like a ten-year-old who’d been duped out of his lunch money.
Jenks pulled a quick U-turn.
Pace, caught off guard, lost his balance and reached forward to stabilize his body when a crushing blow to the temple altered his reality. Two strong hands clamped down on his wrist as he tried to shake off the stars that blurred his vision.
All at once, a horrific howl, squealing rubber, and a hot sticky spray filled the air as the firearm was inadvertently discharged in the struggle. Jenks let loose a string of obscenities in a bid to control his vehicle.
Pace wiped a sleeve across his face just in time to see the horizon go vertical through blood-tinted windows. Instinct took over. He pressed his palms tight up against the headliner as flesh and steel performed a synchronized cartwheel. The vehicle made one complete revolution and came to rest on its wheels. The engine continued to run.
Pace took stock of the situation with no time to hesitate. A quick glance at Jenks’s associate told of his condition—deceased. The massive amount of blood coating the interior made it obvious; the stray bullet had severed the man’s femoral artery. Jenks, though banged up, didn’t appear to be critical. Pace reached over and released his seat belt, and then shoved Jenks into the passenger seat so that he could get behind the wheel. He used his sleeve as a makeshift squeegee to remove layers of coagulated blood from the cracked windshield, only to discover the approach of would-be rescuers.
Their jaws dropped in unison as the damaged vehicle sped off.
CHAPTER 5
Pace rolled all four windows down. Chips of safety glass cascaded from the vehicle like a cache of blood diamonds. “Hand me your cell phone, Jenks.” Seconds ticked by with no response.
“Jenks!”
The man’s head swiveled like an electric Christmas mannequin, with a lifeless expression to match. Pace grabbed a fistful of collar and shook him, adrenalin fueling his aggression. “Yeah, okay,” Jenks said, remaining motionless a bit longer before reaching down toward his ankles.
Pace saw leather as Jenks lifted the cuff of his slacks. He lurched toward the passenger side of the car and yanked Jenks’s leg up over the center console. Eyes back to the road ahead; he had just enough time to brace for impact as the front fender sideswiped a telephone pole, sending the vehicle into oncoming traffic. He jerked the wheel to correct his course, tore the weapon away from Jenks, and swung the palmed piece directly into the man’s forehead. Jenks slumped forward against the dashboard.
Pace needed to find a spot to lay low, to make a call. Signs advertising a multitude of businesses lined both sides of the commercial strip. He spotted an adult bookshop and wheeled into the parking lot. It looked to be closed, judging by the absence of vehicles. He pulled around to the back and positioned the car so he’d be aware of another vehicle’s approach. He then searched Jenks’s pockets for a cell phone. He found
the device and dialed a number.
A weary greeting followed half a dozen rings. “Janine, this is Graham. Listen to me. I need you to get in your car and drive to Stateville. I’m out on a furlough and need your help.”
“What? How did you—”
“There’s no time to explain. Meet me at Stateville Truck Stop. Leave now. Call this cell when you’re about a mile out.”
“Okay, okay, I’m on my way.”
Pace knew his on-again, off-again girlfriend of seven years was nearly twenty minutes out. He’d stay put until she was close, the rendezvous spot just two miles east. He slapped Jenks’s cheek hard a few times, causing him to stir. “Wake up, you stupid prick.”
Jenks moaned and brought his hand up to his bruised forehead. “What did you … why would you—”
“What’s Frankel’s game, Jenks? You know what’s going on and you’re going to tell me, right here, right now.”
“I … don’t … know.”
Before Jenks could say another word, Pace thrust the barrel of his handgun into the soft hollow just beneath Jenks temple and pinned his head against the jagged remains of the passenger-side windowsill. “You just initiated your own funeral proceedings, Slick.” He ground the barrel deep into the man’s skull and clicked the safety off.
“All right, wait.”
Pace pressed harder.
“He hates the fact you consider yourself a sniper, okay?” Beads of sweat zigzagged down Jenks’s cheek as he trembled. “He was an Army Ranger sniper. There’s a deep resentment in his gut. Says you’ve got no honor and that your actions disrespect his military career.”
Uncommon Assassins Page 25
