“They don’t pay us enough to do this shit,” the big man said.
“Dark as hell in here. Don’t suppose you got a light on you?”
“I don’t smoke.”
* * *
Marty stepped out from behind the rear door of the open food truck, removed his borrowed hardhat, and tossed it in the bed of a nearby pickup with the clipboard. He strode to the Mercedes and climbed behind the wheel. The car keys were still in the ignition. He started the car and drove it a few feet, crashed down the sawhorse barriers, and parked directly over the manhole.
Several workmen who witnessed the act, glared at Marty and rushed over to him as he slid out of the sedan. A man with “Leo” penned in black marker on his white hardhat planted himself in front of Marty.
“Hey, bub, what do you think you’re doin’?” Leo said. “Practicin’ your parkin’?”
“There are men down there. They have guns. They mean to kill me.”
“Oh, sure, pal,” another worker said. “They’re terrorists. We get ‘em here all the time.”
The workmen laughed.
“I’m Martin Dimino.”
The workers stopped laughing and stared at Marty. Other people from the street trickled into the gathering.
“That’s Martin Dimino, the State’s Attorney,” the woman from the flower shop said. “He’s the guy in all the news. He’s running for senator.”
“I’ll be damned. It’s him,” Leo said.
“I need your help,” Marty said. “Two men just went down that manhole looking for me.”
“There’s only one other way out of there,” Leo said, then turned to the workmen. “Get some of that short pipe over there.”
The men jogged over to a stack of 3-foot lengths of galvanized pipe and each grabbed one.
“They have guns,” Marty said.
“Hell, Mr. Dimino, these are real men here,” Leo said. “A couple of assholes with guns’ll barely be a few minutes entertainment for my guys. How do ya want ‘em? Dead, maimed, dismembered?”
“Just turn them over to the police,” Marty said as he got in his car. “And thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Leo said. “You go on about your business, sir. Okay, boys, let’s get on down to number seven junction and take us some battin’ practice. Keep the tunnel lights off. Two of you hang back here in case they pop up under the Mercedes. God knows, they ain’t gettin’ out that way.”
The majority of the workmen charged down the street whooping and hollering like cowboys on a cattle drive.
* * *
The two hit men trekked aimlessly through the sewer. Overhead drain grates offered a few rays of broken light as they appeared every twenty yards. They came to a large, open area where several huge pipes intersected. Dark passages gaped in several directions. They considered making a change of course, but dismissed the idea and continued plodding on straight ahead.
“I can’t see shit,” The big man said.“I think we lost the sonofabitch.”
“I think we’re the ones who’re lost,” the small man said.
The small man felt a cold, hard object at the back of his neck. He froze where he stood.
“But we’re not,” a voice behind him said. “Drop the guns.”
Two splashes echoed in the tunnel. One of the workmen pointed a flashlight in the hit men’s faces.
“If you dudes are lookin’ for the Bronx subway, it’s east of here about three thousand miles,” a workman said.
The small hit man began to make out the faces of four workmen in the scant illumination from the flashlight. He saw that they only had pipes for weapons and nodded at his larger cohort. They both dropped low and made frantic stabs for their submerged pistols.
“Big mistake, pal,” the nearest workman said.
It was the last thing the small man heard before the intense pain in his head blacked him out.
Chapter 17
Frank sat in a director’s chair on the deck of the Dimino beach house with his back against the building. Near him on the deck’s top rail was the Humana trap with the captive mouse. A coffee cup and a cordless phone were on a side table next to Frank as he stared fixedly out at the horizon where the ocean met the sky.
The phone rang and Frank picked it up.
"Hello."
"Your man gives great evasion, Detective Dugan,” the voice of Rico Guzman said. "I like competence in an opponent."
Frank kept the phone to his ear, but gave no response.
"To get where I am I had to use a measure of competence, myself."
"Spare me the success story, Guzman. What’s on your twisted mind?"
"I can tell from your tone you’re not going to make this easy. I spend a lot of money convincing people to make wise choices."
"I’ve been doing the same thing ... for free."
"I’ll get to the point," Guzman said. "Tomorrow is going to be a big day. A muy big day. I want to make one last appeal to you to get your candidate to withdraw from the senatorial election. Name your price and I’ll pay it."
"Now you’re talking. That shoot-’em‑up stuff’s for Wyatt Earp."
"Agreed. So what’s the number?"
"My price is simple. I want every one of you felonious goons safely out of reach. Can you cut me a check like that? The day you pay that price, I’ll get Martin Dimino to retire from politics."
"In that case, Dugan, I’ll see Dimino in hell."
"Save yourself some time, Guzman. Look for him in Washington."
Frank ended the call and ambled over to the mouse.
"Okay, Willie Sutton, I just got an idea what to do with you."
Frank lifted the trap and peered at the mouse at eye level.
"If I was going to continue to give you room and board around here, I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble to capture you, would I? By the way, you are going to vote for Mr. Dimino tomorrow, aren’t you?"
* * *
The setting sun glistened off the ocean as Frank powered Marty Dimino’s eighteen-foot center console boat toward one of the numerous small islands off the coast of California near Long Beach. Oil well pumps operated steadily on several of the islands behind wooden facades made to look like buildings from the perspective of the shore. Other islets only contained high grass and shrubs with an occasional palm.
Frank gently beached the boat and jumped out carrying the mouse in the trap and a filled grocery bag. He put the mousetrap on the island’s grassy bank and dumped out the contents of the bag. Packs of vegetable seeds, a water bottle with a drinking spout like ones sold in pet stores, and a variety of grains and vegetables, such as oats, corn, carrots, and potatoes were strewn on the ground. Three ceramic doggie food bowls lay among the other items and Frank gathered them up and placed them at different spots on the islet. Frank taped the water bottle to a pointy stick that he shoved into the moist earth to support it and spread out the vegetables. He stabbed numerous holes in the soil and made furrows, opened the seed packets, and distributed the seeds everywhere he’d created openings in the ground. Finally he opened the Humana trap and released the mouse. The mouse didn’t scurry off, but sat and looked up at Frank.
"Well, Willie Sutton, this is home now. Enjoy the food and the crops when they come up. When the water runs scarce, eat these dandelions that are growing all around here and you’ll be okay. When it rains, the doggie bowls will capture fresh water for you."
Frank clambered back into the boat and pushed himself off with an boat hook. When the boat drifted to a safe depth, he cranked the outboard. He took a long thoughtful look at the beautiful red sun setting behind Santa Catalina Island, then turned back to the mouse before he revved the 125 horsepower Evinrude to full throttle and sped away.
"Have a good life, Willie Sutton."
The trip back, with only the drone of the motor to insulate his thoughts, Frank launched into a bit of introspection. He wondered if he was, quite simply, going crazy. He had just placed a mouse on an islet with food provision
s for a year, and given it instructions and helpful hints intended to make its solitary life survivable. He chatted with the mouse as if it were a person or a beloved pet. Never before in his life had he done such a thing. Truth be known, he was aware that a hawk could swoop down and make dinner of Willie, and that would be that. Am I losing it? he thought. Has the death of my family put me over the top? Frank wasn’t sure of the answers to those questions.
Time, the healer of all concerns, would have to tell.
* * *
Frank opened the garage door of the beach house with the remote and entered the unoccupied cavity in darkness. He shuffled toward the door to the kitchen and fumbled for the light switch on the wall next to the door, but nothing happened. He made his way back to the garage doorway and surveyed other houses in sight to determine if the electric outage was throughout the neighborhood, but every house he saw had illuminated windows and full arrays of lit outdoor lamp posts and floodlights.
Concern swept over him. Frank cautiously moved to the kitchen door and stopped to listen for any telltale sounds coming from inside the house. Nothing.
From the light coming in the garage from outside, he could see a small flashlight lying on the workbench. He picked it up and flicked it on. Its batteries were on their last legs, but it cast enough light to be useful. He slowly turned the brass knob of the kitchen door and pushed the door fully open. Dark and quiet inside. The circuit breaker box was in the pantry off the kitchen. Frank decided to go there and see if any breakers had tripped.
The four strides it took to reach the pantry passed across the wide opening to the living room. Frank swung to his right to aim the weak yellow beam from the flashlight toward the larger room. The flashlight flickered and went out. Frank smacked the light against his palm, but the batteries had given all they were going to.
Frank knew there was another flashlight in the end table by the sofa. A single soft ray of light from a neighbor’s outdoor floodlight spilled into the room and weakly projected a thin amber line on the carpet. Frank used it to guide his way toward the sofa.
"You’ve made this all so complicated, Frank," a man’s voice said from the darkness.
Frank quickly turned toward the voice. A deeply shadowed figure sitting in a chair in the living room stood up. The beam of light from outside fell across his face. It was the face of Mike Graham.
"We wasted all that time and energy on that stupid cobra and those two morons from Jersey," Graham said. "If you want to get a job done right, do it yourself, eh, detective?
Frank thought of making a try for his Glock, but he knew old school police tactics, and was certain Graham had him covered with an untraceable firearm.
“What do you want from me? Marty Dimino’s going to get elected whether I’m alive or not. In fact, you’d be stupid to make a martyr of his biggest promoter.”
“That’s not what Mr. Guzman thinks.”
“And you figure he’s the brain of the century?”
“I’m pretty sure he’s a millionaire and the rest of us are not.”
“So life’s merely based on a bag of dirty money? You were a good cop, Mike. Got a nice pension coming, and you could easily get cushy work consulting after you retire. Why throw it all away like this?”
“I can be Guzman’s number one man. Have anything I want now, not years from now.”
Frank shook his head. He realized the hard sell to get Graham to accept a legitimate rationale was circling the drain.
"You covered up everything, didn’t you, Mike? The murders, the break‑in here. I never suspected."
"Rico pays so much better than the police department."
"Now what?"
"Don’t be naive, Frank. I gotta take you out. You’re starting to cause us problems. I was gonna zip you and your campaign manager the other night, but you got away too fast and she got the drop on me. Bitch. Very paranoid broad, that one."
Graham stepped fully into the ray of light, revealing a pistol pointed at Frank.
“Let’s leave your hardware here on the sofa.”
Frank removed his Glock from his belt and tossed it on the sofa.
“Both pieces,” Graham said.
Frank bent over and removed the small .38 caliber revolver from an ankle holster and tossed it near the Glock.
"Now let’s take a ride over to the marina," Graham said.
"Same place you had Senator McAllister shot?"
"Not far from there. Senators are powerful people, but it can be a dangerous profession when they get too tough."
Graham motioned to the door with a waggle of the gun. Both men went out through the door to the garage.
"You drive," Graham said. "And should your driving get reckless, I’ll take you out earlier than planned."
“Where to?”
“The marina.”
“Where in the marina?
“Your boat.”
“My boat?”
“Guzman’s idea. Wants it to look like an accident. Sure as hell ain’t my idea. I hate water. I don’t even drink the shit.”
“I haven’t used the boat in a while. Batteries may need a charge.”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. Got your boat keys?”
“Always,” Frank said and jangled the set in his pocket.
* * *
Frank and Graham parked at the marina, climbed out of the car, and marched down the pier toward Frank’s boat tied at the deep end of the pier. They arrived at Frank’s twenty-nine-foot Boston Whaler Outrage and jumped aboard. Frank removed the mooring lines, shoved off from the dock, and cranked the twin Merc engines.
“How much power does this boat have?” Graham asked.
“Four hundred fifty horsepower from twin Optimax Mercs.
“Head out to sea. And keep it steady,” Graham said, clutching the gunwale.
Frank wanted to get the boat going fast as it could to keep Graham’s attention constantly on his anxiety while on the water. But he could make it appear to be a polite concession.
“I’ll put her on plane to keep the ride smooth.”
The boat pulled away from the marina and made way to the open Pacific. Frank pushed the throttles forward to attain the boat’s full speed of nearly fifty-five knots. Frank saw Graham nervously studying the rapidly diminishing land, and soon, he knew only the lights of the shoreline would be visible. Frank noted Graham’s preoccupation with the dwindling coast and watched him steady himself by clutching the transom. While Graham concentrated on his nervous footing and darted glances sternward, Frank availed himself of the opportunity to secretly pull out the engines’ choke. The motor began to sputter and, in seconds, stalled.
“What’s wrong?” Graham said.
“We’re out of gas.”
“What? You didn’t check it before we left?”
“Hey, pal, I’m just the victim here. I leave planning to geniuses like you and Guzie.”
“Jesus,” Graham said, panning the shoreline. “We gotta find another boat with gas. Maybe the Coast Guard.”
Frank pulled back the throttle. The boat glided to a rocking stop.
“The Coast Guard? What are you going to tell them you’re doing out here?”
Graham swiveled his head to look out into the darkness to the west. “How the hell am I supposed to get back in?”
“We’re drifting out to sea, man,” Frank said. “How’s your backstroke?”
“I don’t like this. I don’t like it one fuckin’ bit.”
Frank sidled to the bow gunwale while Graham gripped the rail near the transom, continuing to survey his nerve-racking situation. Then Frank dove overboard into the black water and swam toward the shore.
“Stop, you sonofabitch! Stop!”
Frank slipped underwater. Four shots popped from the boat and small splashes hit the surface near Frank.
“Don’t you leave me here alone on this fucking boat, goddammit!”
Frank surfaced and backstroked a distance away and watched Graham
frantically search the aft area of the boat and finally grab a flotation ring from the side of the cabin. Graham hugged the ring and jumped into the water. Frank rotated to the crawl position and gently stroked shoreward, twenty yards ahead of the audible thrashes of Graham.
The distance widened as Frank smoothly swam on. Graham fired two more shots at Frank’s bareley visible wake, but the bullets plunked into the water wide of their mark.
Shore light spilled out onto the breakers and Frank could make out the definition of the marina and the business signs on the shore. Screams coming from the sea behind him broke the quiet of the night.
Frank looked back to see large sharks breaking the surface and attacking Graham. His body tossed into the air like a wet mannequin. More screams, then Graham was violently yanked under the surface as the big fins swirled all about where he’d been. In seconds, the water quieted and the only evidence of the violence was a drifting flotation ring on a patch of sea foam.
Frank dragged himself onto the warm dry sand of the beach and rested. Once again, Frank pondered why the sharks had avoided him, only yards away from a man they’d just shredded into bite-size chunks.
Later, Frank planned call the Harbor Police and have then retrieve his drifting boat and bring it back to the marina. Unless Graham took them, the keys would still be in the ignition and the boat had plenty of gas. He would contact Judd Kemp and file a report on the incident with Graham. There would be an investigation and the media would be all over the story like fire ants on a honeycomb. But the upsides might be the increased public awareness of murderous acts perpetrated by even those sworn to uphold the law, and the added support voters might give to Marty Dimino’s anti-crime senate race.
Almost dying can have its plus sides, Frank thought.
Chapter 18
Large posters taped to the walls around the office of the Dimino political headquarters depicted their candidate and his popular campaign slogans. Charly Stone tried to hear on the phone over the din of loud cheering and rowdy crowd noises that boomed into the room from beyond the office door.
Resort Isle: Detective Frank Dugan begins (Detective Frank Dugan series) Page 7
