True Conviction

by James P. Sumner

  I find a full print near the top of the envelope, so I get some sticky tape and carefully lay a strip on top of it, pressing it down firmly. I then slowly lift it off the envelope, bringing Manhattan’s print with it. Holding it carefully between my thumb and index finger, I walk across the room to the gun on the floor that belonged to Clara. I press the tape down on the butt and rub it, transferring the print onto it.

  Voila! Jimmy Manhattan now killed Ted Jackson!

  I know there are more holes in that theory than your average sponge, but it’s enough to justify arresting him, which is all I’m aiming for. The gun fires the same bullets as my Beretta, so there’s the initial link. A detailed forensic test will prove the bullets that killed Jackson weren’t fired from this gun, but those things take time and they’ll have Manhattan in custody while they do all that stuff. Plus, any detective worth a damn will take one look at the room, see there’s a frightening lack of any other workable forensic evidence and determine it’s too clean a crime scene and could be a professional hit.

  Which is true…

  The end result is that Manhattan is out of my hair for the immediate future, which buys me plenty of time to settle up with Dark Rain and get the hell out of Dodge.

  I carefully pack up my things and do a quick sweep of the place, retracing my steps and making sure I’ve not contaminated the scene in any way. I leave the room and take the elevator back down to reception. I walk over to the front desk and attract the attention of the young girl with dark hair, who checked me in a couple of days ago.

  “Excuse me, Miss,” I say.

  She looks at me and smiles. “Hello, Mr. Aday,” she says. “How can I help you today? Are you enjoying your stay with us?”

  “Oh, yes, the place is lovely. Listen, I’m growing concerned about my associate, Mr. Jackson. He hasn’t been to either of our meetings and there’s no answer when I knock on his door. Can you please send someone up to check on him?”

  “Of course, sir. I shall arrange a courtesy call right away.”

  She walks over to a phone, dials a number, and quickly starts explaining what she needs. I smile to myself and walk out of the hotel. I climb into the Viper and drive off.

  I’ll give it three hours…

  14:14

  It took two and a half hours… I was close.

  After leaving the hotel, I’d driven over to Manhattan’s nightclub in the Neon district, and parked a reasonable distance away to wait. I figured after he’d regained consciousness in the portable cabin the night before, he’d make his way back to where he could protect himself. I’d bet that inside that club right now, he’s gathered as many local goons as he can, and he’s sitting in his office with the broken mirror, on the phone to Roberto Pellaggio asking advice and planning their revenge against me…

  Talk about ungrateful! I mean, if you overlook the facts: I broke his noise, killed his bodyguard, and left him unconscious; I did technically save his life.

  It would’ve taken ten minutes or so from me approaching the front desk at the Four Seasons to someone opening the door to Jackson’s suite to see if he was there. He was a rich and important guest, after all.

  I imagine the guy who I recently found out was on my payroll would’ve volunteered for the job. He would have sounded the alarm straight away, and the hotel manager would have rung the police immediately.

  They would’ve wanted the whole thing handled discreetly, as a hotel like that has to think of its reputation. They’d insist on the police dealing with it quickly and quietly, so a forensics team would’ve been there within the hour. They’d need half an hour or so to conduct their examination of the crime scene. The first thing they’d go to is the body; then the weapon.

  The trick is to make it all look natural. Too much detail in the phony evidence and it’s too obvious it’s a set up. Too little, and they have nothing to go on. In the case of Ted Jackson, it will immediately seem strange that someone would use a gun to kill someone, not wear gloves, and leave the weapon at the scene of the crime. But, the fact they’d find a fingerprint means they’d have to bring in the owner of it in for questioning at the very least, even if they don’t have enough evidence to make an arrest and get a conviction in court. As I say, the room is completely clean apart from the gun, so it’ll look suspicious and they’ll assume it was a professional hit. They’ll look into Jackson and it’ll take a few minutes to see the link to Pellaggio. Factor in Manhattan’s fingerprint and it all makes perfect sense. A mob hit.

  So, I went and parked up half a block away from The Pit in Clara’s Dodge Viper and waited. And now, two hours and thirty-five minutes after leaving the hotel, I hear sirens.

  After a few moments, two police squad cars and a van pull up outside the entrance to the club, all at different angles so they’re facing the building. There are seven officers in total, all armed, and moving toward the door.

  A four-man team lines up with their backs to the right hand wall, poised to enter through the main doors. Three officers remain stationed behind their open car doors, weapons trained at the entrance.

  The officer at the back of the line runs to the front and works the door. Once open, he holds it so the other three can file in. He falls in behind them, disappearing into the gloom of the nightclub.

  Less than five minutes pass before the officers emerge back out on the street. Two officers appear first, walking backward, guns trained on Jimmy Manhattan and three men in suits—all handcuffed and looking very pissed off. They’re arguing and shouting.

  Still, it’s better to be pissed off than pissed on, so the saying goes.

  The two officers bringing up the rear come out and they load Manhattan and his band of merry men into the back of the van. They then pile into their cars and all speed off, sirens wailing.

  I ring Josh.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  “How’s everything going?” he asks.

  “It went exactly as planned at the Four Seasons. They might not make much stick long-term, but for the foreseeable future, Jimmy Manhattan is no longer a problem. I’m watching the cops arrest him as we speak.”

  “Very nice. Well, to add to your good news, I’ve got some of my own.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I’ve just been speaking to Robert Clark from GlobaTech.”

  “And that’s good news, how?”

  “They contacted me and said they’d spoken to you and Clara about a plan of action for Dark Rain, and wanted to know if they could rely on me for logistical support.”

  I’ll admit I’m not happy at how easily people seem to trust Clark. I’m the first to admit I’m a sociopathic, paranoid cynic who hates most things and most people, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong for being skeptical of the company that has, up until very recently, been funding the organization who has spent all week trying to kill me. I’ll take more convincing than most.

  “And what did you say?” I ask.

  “I asked what they were planning and what my involvement would entail. At the end of the day, I work with you, Adrian.”

  “Thanks. So what’s their plan? I know they’re handing the land over to the U.S. government, so at least that’s no longer an issue. But Dark Rain has the numbers and has had plenty of funding. I can’t take on an entire army on my own.”

  “You don’t have to take them on at all. Their plan is to mount a two-pronged attack on the ground and in the air. GlobaTech has its own private military, don’t forget. They regularly work out of Afghanistan and Korea, sub-contracting for the U.S. government. With their resources, it’ll be like a hot knife through butter.”

  “Sounds good to me. So where do you fit in?”

  “Given our background knowledge of the situation, along with your contributions so far, they’ve asked if I’ll help co-ordinate their attack. They’re giving me temporary access to their satellite network.”

  “Which means...”

  “Which means I’ll be giving myself permanent access to their satellit
e network.”

  We both laugh.

  “I’m sure that’ll come in handy somewhere down the line,” I say. “I’ll just be happy when we can walk away from this. I don’t even care that I didn’t get paid for taking out Jackson. This has been a nightmare from start to finish. I can’t wait to leave Heaven’s Valley once and for all.”

  “How come you haven’t already?”

  “I’m just waiting to get an update on Clara’s condition. Once I know she’s okay and safe, I’ll leave town.”

  “Sounds good. Let me know how she’s doing, yeah?”

  “Will do, thanks.”

  I hang up and sit for a few moments, thinking about everything.

  Is that it? Am I done? Dark Rain is about to get wiped off the face of the earth by GlobaTech Industries, Jimmy Manhattan is now in police custody under suspicion for the murder of Ted Jackson, which will keep Pellaggio’s mafia off my back long enough for me to disappear, and the Uranium mine is now the property of the U.S. government—which, granted, may or may not be a good thing. Aside from Clara being in hospital and me not finding Jonathan Webster in time, I reckon this whole thing has ended about as well as it could do, under the circumstances. As much as I want to see things through to the end, realistically I think I’ve done all I can.

  My phone rings, interrupting my train of thought. I look at the screen but it’s a withheld number.

  Very strange.

  “Hello?”

  “Adrian Hell. This is Roberto Pellaggio. I think me and you need to talk, kid.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake…

  “What can I do for you, shit-stain?”

  “I’m assuming that Jimmy’s recent issue with the police is down to you?” he asks.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I reply, casually.

  “Sure you don’t, kid. As things stand, I figure you owe me. Big.”

  “Really? See, the way I figure it, I owe you fuck all. So how about you piss off and forget you ever hired me?”

  “That mouth of yours is gonna get you into trouble one day.”

  “I thought I told you to leave this whole thing well alone?”

  “I want my goddamn land back!”

  “Oh, well seeing as you asked so nicely...”

  “Don’t fuck with me, kid—I don’t care who you are, I’ll see to it they find pieces of your body in all fifty states!”

  I fail to suppress a chuckle at his last threat, which I can tell does nothing to improve his already sour mood.

  “Listen, I don’t have the deeds anymore. I gave them away. Sorry.”

  “You can’t possibly be that stupid, kid,” he says after a moment's pause.

  Despite having nothing in particular to hurry to, I’m still not in the mood to argue with the guy. I understand that he’s the head of a large and powerful mafia family. And yes, I fully appreciate there are many, many ways in which he can come after me. But after the week I’ve had, I simply don’t care.

  I figure it’s irrelevant how much I tell him now. I mean, what’s he going to do? Threaten the U.S. government?

  “You’re right, I’m not that stupid,” I say. “In fact, I’m probably one of the smartest people you’ll ever meet. But that doesn’t change the fact that I no longer have the deeds.”

  “So get them back. They’re mine,” he says, bluntly.

  “Actually, that land is now the property of the United States Government. I spoke to the Secretary of Defense and he persuaded me to hand the deeds over to a private military contractor called GlobaTech—who Ted Jackson worked for, in case you’ve forgotten. They’re handling the legalities of it all, but the bottom line is this: let it go—you’ve lost.”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line for a few moments.

  “Bullshit,” he says, finally.

  “I’m afraid not, sorry. See, it turns out that underneath that little plot of land lies the only natural Uranium deposit in North America. I couldn’t let you keep it once I found out, and since then, lots of things have happened that culminated in the Secretary of Defense ordering me to hand the deeds over.”

  “You’ve cost me millions of dollars...”

  There’s an icy calm in his voice, and I suspect it means he’s so angry right now, he doesn’t quite know how to express it.

  “Well, if you’d known about the Uranium and started selling that as well, you could argue I’ve probably cost you billions, if I’m honest. If it’s any consolation, you did manage to get away without paying me for the Ted Jackson hit. Although, I did kinda screw you over and frame Jimmy for that, didn’t I? Huh… how about we call it even?”

  “You’re a fucking dead man, you hear me, kid?” says Pellaggio. “Dead!”

  “I think not, actually, Bobby old buddy. See, you’re now a member of an exclusive club for people who I’ve warned more than once. There are two members. One of them has just been arrested for a murder we all know he had nothing to do with. His nose is broken, his pride is hurt and he’s fully aware that if I see him again, I’ll put a bullet in his head. The other is you. So listen up and listen good: if you ever see me again, you run. If I catch you, the last thing you will ever see will be the image of my gun pointing at your face. I’m not threatening you—I’m simply stating an irrefutable fact. Take the hit on this one, walk away, and fight another day.”

  “You talk a lot, kid. And you seem to forget exactly who the fuck I am. You’ve caused me a lot of trouble and there are countless bodies buried in the desert that can vouch for the fact that I don’t take too kindly to people fucking with my business. You’re one man, and you’ll soon be a dead one.”

  He hangs up before I have chance to say anything else. I look at the phone for a moment and sigh. To be fair, I’ve probably said enough. He’s likely on the phone to everyone he knows right now, rallying his troops, and showing them my picture. I suspect things will get interesting real soon.

  So much for getting out of Heaven’s Valley…

  I sit in silence for a moment, thinking things over. I re-dial Josh.

  “Hey, quick question—you got a number for Robert Clark?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I’ll text it you now,” he replies. “What’s up?”

  “I need a favor from our new best friend.”

  Josh sighs heavily on the other end of the phone. “What have you done, Adrian?”

  “Josh, I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about...”

  Silence.

  “Okay, fine. Pellaggio just called me and demanded I give him the deeds. I told him about the Uranium mine and that the U.S. Secretary of Defense ordered me to give them to GlobaTech. He advised me I won’t be alive for long, apparently.”

  “To which you replied…?”

  “I may have suggested that I was going to shoot him in the head if I ever saw him again.”

  “So, not only did you essentially commit treason by divulging classified military information, you succeeded in pissing off one of the biggest mob bosses on the West Coast?”

  “He was already pissed at me.”

  “Yes, but now he’s gonna be pulling together his vast array of resources and dedicating his every waking moment to killing you.”

  “Well, there is that, I suppose.”

  “You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

  I pause. “Maybe...”

  “I swear, sometimes I think you’re suicidal.”

  “Oh, it’ll be fine, stop being such an old woman about it. We’ve dealt with worse.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Can you get me his address?”

  “Pellaggio’s? Why? Do you intend knocking on his door and saying ‘Hi’?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Can I have all your guns and money when you die?”

  “Knock yourself out, but I’m being buried with my Berettas.”

  “I can live with that. When this goes wrong and you’re buried in the desert, where you’ll be h
eading you’ll need all the help you can get.”

  22.

  14:36

  I’M ON MY way back to the hospital to check on Clara one last time before I leave. I’d talked through with Josh what I had planned for Pellaggio before setting off. He was skeptical to say the least, but he texted me Robert Clark’s number a few moments ago, as well as Pellaggio’s address and directions. I figure I’ll pop over on my way out of here and see if we can’t sort this whole thing out like gentleman…

  This car is one of the best I’ve ever driven. The roar of the engine, the speed, and the acceleration feels like someone tried to tame nature itself—and struggled. For a true sports car like the Viper, you have to drive it straight, drive it fast, and have a helluva soundtrack in the background.

  I’m messing with the radio to find something suitable. There are a couple of local radio stations playing up-to-date chart music, which is no good at all. After another moment or two of fine-tuning, I stumble across a station with an older-sounding guy talking, introducing three tracks to be played back to back, all classic rock.

  That’ll do nicely…

  I crank up the volume as the opening riff to Since You’ve Been Gone by Rainbow starts. This song is what I like to call ‘hundred-mile-an-hour music’… I put my foot to the floor and blast down the street; windows down, music loud. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I feel relaxed and free—away from all the burdens and bullets that this city has thrown at me. It’s just the music, the open road, and me.

  I pull into the hospital parking lot and turn the volume down to a reasonable, boring level. There aren’t many cars parked nearby, considering it was a hospital. I don’t want to get out of the car… but as the saying goes: there’s no rest for the wicked, I guess.