Slice dje-5

by Rex Miller

  It was this need that had him putting the baby to sleep in its mosquito-netted bassinet and surveilling the traffic at a remote construction site there on the outskirts of monied Lake Buckhead.

  Chaingang saw the man get into the van and pull out from the construction site. The van said Catton Construction Co., Inc., on the side of the door and he pulled out a half a block behind it. They went through a newly planted line of scraggly tulip poplars and small, spreading yews, and passed under a huge sign saying Welcome to Something Vista a New Something Village. The two something-words had portions of banner stuck to them and Chaingang couldn't make the words out. At the bottom of the sign that spanned the entranceway and exit to the new project it boasted that this was New from Concept Environments, whatever that was.

  They went by a vast work site of cats and backhoes and diggers and scoopers and haulers and movers and shakers of every description. Water sluiced down into the muddy earthen pit from a half a hundred pipes and hoses and lines. The lake was about twelve feet deep at the finished depth, and appeared to be five or six acres in overall size. Catton's job would be limited to the construction of the lake, which would ultimately be stocked to keep the standing water from becoming stagnant, at least until they got the place filled and paying for itself.

  Concept Environments, Inc., was a work name for the Bernard Grossman Co., who had designed, sold, and erected these “villages” all over the South and Midwest. The man driving the Catton van was on his way to discuss a problem with Mr. Grossman, and the problem was occupying his thoughts when a loud, metallic crunch and a slamming jolt whipped him back and forth in the seat as a vehicle had come from out of nowhere and rammed the van from behind.

  “You STUPID son of a bitch,” was all he could think as he heard that awful and unmistakable crunch that most motorists end up hearing at some point in their lifetimes, and Bob Byrd came out of the van hopping mad and ready to kick some ass.

  For most of us tame citizens, jumping out of our company van with our schedule our precious time schedule tampered with in this unexpected way, our mindset rudely altered, our busy life now more cluttered by some inept motorist's stupidity, a pile of forms and phone calls and ennui, added to an already hectic life and workload, there is the moment of anger, understandably, but when we see the man coming out of the other car is a fierce, gigantic six foot seven inch 320-pound scarred, sunburned, tough-looking hard case who looks like he might be able to tear us in half, the moment of anger has this way of suddenly vanishing. Not Bob Byrd. Not this hothead.

  “Whyn'cha look where the FUCK you're goin'?"

  “Ahhh, hey, man” Bunkowski is saying, the face crinkled with sincere remorse, “I feel like a fucking IDIOT,” he says even as Byrd is going, “Why didn'cha hit cher BRAKES when—"

  “STUPIDEST damn thing I've ever done.” The head about to come off he's shaking it so hard, so abject in his apology, looking all around like he just can't believe it, the big head bobbing around as he admits his stupidity,

  “Jeeeezus,” Byrd says as he looks at the damage to the van.

  “I just can't tell you how sorry I am,” Bunkowski is saying, that face in constant motion, that head going all over the place, what he does—he looks around as he talks, looking for a curious passing motorist, looking for the cop car, the rod out of nowhere, the interested construction worker leaning on his shovel a block away drawn by the impact of the vehicles, and moving back up to the van to get a clear view of the front seat, moving the body, the arms, the hands, the face, that huge shadow of bulk in sudden, constant motion. “I just hope I can make this up to you, buddy,” he's saying to Bob Byrd, who is still irritated but how the hell can you keep cussing out a guy who admits he's wrong, says he's stupid, and it's all his fault, he's going to make it up to you.

  “This is going to cost me—"

  “Not to mention fuckin’ up your busy schedule,” he's telling the guy what he was about to say, he knows just how this man feels, he is genuinely SYMPATHETIC—well, hell. accidents happen—and Byrd is still mad but he's beginning to see there is nothing to be gained by flying off the handle.

  “Man, I just wish my foot hadn't slid off that damn brake.” And all the time with the body language and the hands, now, HANDLING him so very gently, he couldn't really tell you how it was happening, this big guy TOUCHED him somehow, just a light rap really a pat on the shoulder but the unwanted intrusive familiarity makes you back up and that is how he HANDLES you, MOVES you, MANIPULATES you like a human chess piece.

  “I'm always having to drive defensively because of some IDIOT,” he's saying, “and now to go and be one of the idiots—well, I tell you.” He keeps up the flood of words, always words coming out at you as that huge head bobs around, the expression constantly changing, so much to took at, to hear, to contend with, to assimilate, the flow of information coming at you so rationally, the words coming in the exact cadence of your own speech pattern, because this is CHAINGANG, who practiced the art of vocal camouflage as a SURVIVAL SKILL.

  And 99 percent of the time all the bullshit and the sudden waves of input overload your ordinary thought processes and it's just too much for you, but Bob Byrd is a hothead, you see, and something about the guy, the bigness, the familiarity, the unwanted intrusion on his life just hacks him off and he bristles and PULLS AWAY from the immense man, almost as if he was going to RUN, and the plan, which was to get hold of him with those hands, snap his neck, toss the rubbish back in the van, and get what there was to take and be gone, the plan is changed and Chaingang pulls out the Colt Woodsman and drills the hothead right in the pelvis with the first one, but it's only a .22 long rifle Super and the hands come up as Chain triggers another one, making a nice perforation in the left palm, but by then, as Bob Byrd slips and goes down, Death is right on top of him and he lets him hold one up close and personal the ABC way and pockets the weapon and with one hand the sack of shit is being hauled up off the blacktop and packed back into his van with one of the nasty little chunks of lead in his gray matter, Daniel Edward Flowers Bunkowski having just permanently revoked and canceled Bob Byrd's birth certificate.

  The long, strange-looking leather wallet thing is attached to a small chain that is locked to a thick leather belt and for most of us it would take wire cutters to snip through it but Daniel just puts a little crimp in the chain and wraps the slack around a couple of steel cigars on either hand and WHAP the sucker is in two pieces and he is back in the car and moving away from the scene. And a dirty van with Catton Construction Co., Inc., on the door is sort of in the way of the traffic but you can get around it so it will be a few minutes before a semi tries to pull around it, going down on the shoulder a little, the driver sitting high up looking into the van seeing the man who obviously had a heart attack or something slumped down on the floorboards and taking time to signal to a passing scout car.

  Even as Daniel drives away the on-line terminals are filing the information away and his bizarre but impressive mind tells him “two men in front of bank” and all the other ones he's shot, from the Horas on going back to the kid in the shallow grave down by the river. Even though he is linked to these deaths in other ways he knows the unpredictability of the law and as a precaution he brakes and fires the rest of the .22 rounds in the magazine, and holding the gun in his open door ejects the spent brass into deep weeds beside the road, and the first small creek he drives over Daniel tosses the Colt over the railing. Just a feeling he has.

  How does he know to take just that one car in his guard hat and shield in front of the bank's night depository? How does he know a meat market will have $15,000 in cash on hand? How does he know to hit this dirty construction-company van with money for a payroll deposit in a long, beat-up leather pouch? He's “lucky.” He goes with his vibes. Whatever.

  Daniel has a plan, an involved plan involving a computer hacker he's read about. He can kidnap the boy. Terrorize him. Make him do a certain thing. Bunkowski can walk away with $50,000 MINIMUM. It will be enough to
give him a fresh start somewhere. First things first. He has to get the police off his back.

  But he still has a day or two before the family returns home to find a very deadly houseguest filling up their clothes hamper and garbage pail with befouled diapers, a newborn boy nestled in a hammocklike bassinet made of voluminous sheets of camouflaged tarp and mosquito netting.

  He will go “home.” Drink a little Wild Turkey. Work on his next move. Play with the little monkey boy. Count his score.

  Daniel will squint those hard black pig eyes and take a close look at the next penetration problem. It will be a simple exercise in rudimentary character analysis. The ring of steel that surrounds this cop Eichord—is it organic? Is it made from a single block of impenetrable metals, vulnerable only to a burning bar or a recoilless rifle? Or is it a ring with a welded join, a point of weakness, and if so, where is that point on the ring?

  A man or woman who is all policeman or policewoman inside, they have a common trait. It can be perceived as a strength or a flaw, depending on your viewpoint, and what it is, is the peculiar vein that each of them has at their center. That rich core of pure copper in there. Jack Eichord is one of those curiosities. And copper is not an impenetrable metal.

  So Daniel Bunkowski takes equal parts of copper, and ego, and that thing he knows so well—the desire for retribution—and a dash of anger, and a pinch of confidence, and a tablespoon of Duty, and a few shakes of impatience with bureaucratic rules, and he stirs all of this in his mind and he sees bow utterly simple it will be to reach out for this arrogant irritation. How pleasurable it will be to finally pluck the thorn once and for all.

  And now he knows precisely when and where he will take him down, and a barking cough of amusement escapes his throat at the sheer appropriateness of it.

  VIP LOUNGE—BUCKHEAD AIRPORT

  “I'm gonna get awfully lonesome for you guys.” You guys included the little kitten. Tuffy lay peacefully at Donna's high-heeled feet, asleep inside a white fiberglass carrying cage.

  “We're gonna miss you,” she said, with her softest voice, and whispered, “Wish we could stay here with you."

  “Me too, see.” The cat stirred. “How's our little pal there?"

  “He's okay.” She looked down and in her cat voice purred, “I'm not gonna be real purrrrty for a while, but when I get my stitches taken out I'll look just as good as new."

  “Yeah. Absolutely."

  “They said there's no idea how long—"

  “No"—he knew what she was going to say—"it's totally unpredictable. Can't take any chances though,” he said with a smile he didn't feel.

  “I know."

  “We can't call either. Won't talk to you until this is all over with, so it might be a few days."

  “They told me. I'll be fine, honey. Don't worry about anything. Just, you know, take care. Okay?"

  “Yeah. Sure.” They sat there in silence for a bit. There were marshals at both of the locked doors. Only the Eichords, Peg Lee, and the Tuny family were in the lounge. A company Lear was taxied and parked nearby, filling its tanks for the journey. There were more marshals in unmarked vans parked right by the gate, flanking the black stretch limo that would take them to their protected destination.

  “Com'ere,” he said, and she snuggled over as close to him as she could get and be kissed her so hard it pulled her out of her chair.

  “My stars,” remembering old expressions he whispered to her, “can you remember when they used to say, my stars?"

  “Sure,” she said, snuggling.

  “Land's sakes."

  “Land sakes alive."

  “Land a’ goshen.” They laughed.

  “Lawd have mercy."

  “Lawdy, Miss Claudy."

  “Tooty fruity all-rooty?"

  “That doesn't count."

  “I see. YOURS are okay but mine don't count. I think I have the rules clearly in mind now."

  “No song titles. My stars. My lands. That's the kind of thing. Old expressions."

  “Well, in all my born days."

  “Okay, that's more like it. Gosh all hemlock."

  “Croop."

  “Excuse me?"

  “Croop. Whooping cough. Dropsy. Scarlatina. Mustard plasters."

  “I'll accept those, but they're borderline."

  “Borderline or not, it's your turn."

  “Hully gully, guess how many."

  “Bless my soul."

  “Hubba-hubba."

  “Mrs. Eichord?” a federal marshal said. She stood up. They had agreed beforehand not to say good-bye. They kissed again. And Donna walked away with the kitten in the carrying case. At the door he could overhear Peggy saying something to a marshal about what to tell the family when they arrived from China. The police were going to try to head them off before they changed planes for Buckhead.

  Peggy looked over at Jack as she went out the door, Bev and Dana behind her. There was the rigmarole with the boarding tube, the portable thing that was connected to the limo, and then they were all safely behind the bulletproof privacy glass and the shiny car was moving to the small jet.

  He watched through the window as they boarded. He could see Donna, voluptuous even at that distance, carrying Tuffy aboard, followed by Peggy, and Bev, and then Chunk's distinctive waddle as he climbed the steps and a marshal pulled the door of the plane closed. They were in the air and gone within a couple of minutes. And the guard vans returned to Buckhead.

  Donna, Tuffy, Peg, Bev, Dana, were all in the back of one of the vans, and some very competent matrons and an overweight federal marshal on their way to a paid vacation somewhere. Nobody was taking any chances with this.

  The real problem was that Jack Eichord didn't believe it. Not really. Not deep down inside. He knew he'd killed Daniel Bunkowski under the streets of Chicago. He knew that Jimmie Lee was not dead. He knew that their home had not been blown up by a satchel charge. He knew that he would wake up in the morning and the awful dream would be over, this madness of dead killers coming to life, this insanity of his friend's murder, this endless nightmare.

  And then, of course, he knew THAT was bullshit.

  KOWLOON

  The airport was about five miles northeast of downtown. He drove slowly, his mind like a frozen stream, icy white and untroubled.

  At Kai Tak, he locked the car and walked to the departures counter. Being a careful man, he checked his notes again before handing the message across the counter to the man, who read it and asked, “Round trip, first class?” To which he nodded yes. The man behind the counter said okay, tabulated quickly, and told him “That will be 32,169 Hong Kong dollars, sir.” He handed the exact amount in currency across to the ticket agent. The brotherhood had helped him with the air fare. He would repay the money later.

  He would not board for another two hours or so, he was told. He nodded again, took the tickets, and walked through the airport to find a seat in the vicinity of the departure gate. He'd cross the dateline on the long flight over but actually arrive on the same day due to the idiosyncratic nature of the international calendar. He'd leave the following Sunday morning at eight-ten a.m., deplaning back on Kowloon at six p.m. the following day.

  He reread his notes once again, reading carefully, his eyes hard as tempered steel and black as a midnight grave.

  BUCKHEAD STATION

  Only two detectives were in the squad room, Eichord and Brown, each slumped over a desk, each with a phone growing out of their ear, on separate missions, each muttering into a hunk of plastic whose microphone apertures retained the traces of ten thousand breath mints, a quarter-century of cancerous tobacco smoke, a couple of tons of burgers with onions, a small lake of back-to-work tighteners, eight million heartaches in the big, naked city, nine million hours on hold, or, as Chink and Chunk might have said, ten million Wong numbers in Chinatown alone.

  “Hello?” Nothing. Nothing but a clicking noise in Eichord's ear. He was calling a TV station to try to keep the lid on the exploding resu
rrection of the Lonely Hearts case. No please hold, no please stand by, no please please please, just click. Not even a simple “We're too busy to talk right now but if you'll shove the phone receiver up your ass a proctologist will be with you in a couple of weeks.” Finally a few more clicks and a lilting voice told him he'd made contact with the mother ship.

  “Ginny Snow please,” he told the voice, and he sat there waiting while it went one ringy-dingy and two ringy-dingies, and finally another voice and another click and Whom shall I say would like an audience with her highness? Eichord was singing tunelessly to himself as he sorted through the voluminous crime-scene reports that now threatened to shove his desk down through the floor, the voice in his ear stabbing him back to life and he began a soft-shoe tap dance with a local television anchorwoman, conning her for all he was worth, doing his best to keep the lid on this thing.

  Finally, his task accomplished, he thanked her, made the obligatory promises about dispensing information, all the usual media bullshit, and hung up. Sighed. Checked his directory and then remembered he had a call card on her and dialed Letty Budge over at the Buckhead News-Gazette, slipped his feet back into his patent-leather dancing shoes, and started tapping again.

  Letty was a total pro who bought nary a word of it, so he gave up his scam and leveled with her. They were friends. She was a responsible journalist. Blah blah. He needed some slack, and he needed it now. Finally, one more odious task was completed, with promises of exclusivity, a bit of a ribbing about “trying to pull her chain,” and he'd managed to buy a few more precious hours.

  Eichord knew what it was like when a city was swept up in the awful tide of a pattern of serial crimes. One of his primary functions beyond apprehending serial killers was to placate the media, pure and simple. He was by now such a high-profile cop that anything from him was newsworthy and he didn't blink an eye at using the press the way they so often used him. He didn't like it. He wasn't crazy about it. But it was a vitally important part of his job to keep the flow of ink as managed as he possibly could under the circumstances.