by John L. Monk
Hopper House
Book Three Of The Jenkins Cycle
John L. Monk
Contents
Copyright
New Books
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Dear Reader
Awesome Indie Fiction
Acknowledgments
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Hopper House
Copyright © 2015 by John L. Monk
http://john-l-monk.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
Cover Art by Yocla Designs
New Books
Please consider signing up to my mailing list so you can be alerted about new books, news, and promotional giveaways.
Click Here To Sign Up
(Link also available at: http://john-l-monk.com)
Thanks,
John
To Gretchen, wherever you are.
Chapter One
The first thing that hit me was the smell of trash rotting in the sun. Then came the heat, and finally the vibration of the vehicle I was sitting in. A U-Haul van, based on the branded decal stuck to the glove compartment warning me to remove my personal property before returning the vehicle.
“What you got in the back?” a grizzled woman said from inside a glass booth just outside my open window.
“Hi,” I said, smiling.
She raised her voice. “I said what you got in the back?”
I scratched my head in thought. If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me that, I’d have two nickels. Well, provided it was okay the same person had asked me twice. That’s the thing about hypothetical situations: gotta establish the ground rules up front. Next thing you know you’re out of nickels and have to use dimes.
“You okay, sir?”
“The back?” I said, scratching my head again. “Oh, you know, the usual stuff…”
“There’s a line of people waiting,” she said, pointing behind me. “Do I gotta get out and check?”
I thought about how to answer that. I scratched my head as if pondering how many times I’d been asked that innocently asked question: do I gotta get out and—
“Sir?” she said, wiping her brow. It sure was hot. “Trash and boxes? That kind of thing?”
I nodded. “Exactly. Trash and boxes. That kind of thing.”
“Any metal?”
I thought about how to answer that. I scratched my head as if—
“Right, no metal.” She punched a few buttons. “That’ll be five dollars and thirty-eight cents.”
My hand brushed a holstered gun on my hip, hidden under my shirt. Ignoring that for now, I pulled a wallet from my back left pocket. Nothing smaller than a twenty, so I paid her with that. The woman made change and gave me a receipt. Pretty fast, too. There was a line of vehicles behind me.
I glanced at the date on the receipt and said, “Thanks,” then pulled forward into a trash processing center. There were painted lines everywhere and helpful signs for every classification of trash and where that pile was. I saw a big mound of metal scrap over on the left and a row of big green cans with recycling decals on them. Ignoring those, I took my chances and followed a faded green pickup loaded with junk.
The truck led me to a long metal railing with more cars and trucks positioned along its wide length. I chose an empty spot, parked, and got out.
The ground around me was covered with bits of everything that had ever come through the facility. Sunlight glinted here and there from tiny slivers of glass, making me worry I’d get a flat. On the other side of the railing were six enormous roll-off trash containers heaped with a wide assortment of trash, though mostly old furniture from what I could see.
A man with a hardhat walked around motioning at people and shooing them into spots along the rail. Somehow, I’d missed seeing him on the way in, but he didn’t seem to care.
A glassed-off booth stood nearby with a man in it. His sunglasses made him look like he was watching me. Maybe he was daydreaming. Anyway, he didn’t seem that curious.
I stepped behind the van, opened the double doors, and found a rolled-up rug tied with white cord. Other than a few puffy trash bags, that was it. I ripped a hole in one of the bags and found it stuffed with bloody towels. Another bag had a blanket, also bloody.
Mindful of the man in the booth, yet needing to know, I dragged the rug closer. It seemed puffier in the middle than at the ends.
A quick pat-down showed my ride didn’t have a pocketknife. Looking around, I considered the glass glinting up from the blacktop. Not safe for bare feet, I figured, but probably fine for tires. I walked to the railing and searched along the low concrete ledge, carefully inspecting the layer of filth that had collected there and gotten trapped. Moments later, I pulled out a thumb-sized sliver of old mirror, still sharp.
The man with the sunglasses was definitely looking my way now. I threw him a thumbs-up and nodded a chipper nod. Smiling innocently, I grabbed a trash bag—slowly, making it seem heavier than it really was—and tossed it over the railing. Then I relaxed. The hardhat guy was laughing and talking to Sunglasses through the booth’s open window.
I used the glass to cut the cord, then unrolled the rug to reveal a plastic tarp tied with yet more cords, which I also cut. After pulling back the tarp, I found the dead body of a man in his fifties. He had a bloody mouth and was missing his fingers and toes. No obvious bullet or knife wounds.
On a hunch, I lifted his upper lip. Gross, because his lips were stuck together with dried blood, but I eventually coaxed a ghastly smile from him. He didn’t have any top teeth. I did the same with his lower lip and he didn’t have any there, either. Short of a DNA match, or in-person identification, there was no way for authorities to tell who he was.
Quickly, before Sunglasses and his friend grew suspicious, I rolled the corpse back up and retied the cords. I wasn’t happy dumping him here, but didn’t have a freezer or incinerator handy. Besides, I was done tidying up messes for other people.
As warm as it was, he wouldn’t smell very good in a few hours. By then I’d be long gone.
Being old feels a certain way. Achy, I’m tired a lot, and everything’s too heavy. Being young feels great. My ride felt a
little achy, a little great, and above average strong. My guess was mid-forties.
I pulled the rug to the lip of the van and heaved it out. With no handles to grab, it was difficult to keep the awkward mass from tipping forward or backward. I gave up and simply dragged it to the railing. Then I hoisted it over the bottom rail and shoved, sending it crashing onto the boxes, furniture, and busted televisions below.
There was another bag in the back, so I threw that away, too. When the van was empty, I got in, backed up, and went looking for the exit.
On the way out, I glanced back at the large sign reading, “Solid Waste Transfer Station.” There was a Brooklyn address underneath it.
If this was Brooklyn, it was very much off the beaten path. Concrete and steel and everything grimy. No apartments and restaurants and traffic.
I drove two blocks, pulled over in a no-parking zone, and fished out my ride’s wallet.
“Andre Murphy,” I read. “Very pleased to meet you.”
I smiled in satisfaction: forty-five years old, rugged good looks, a full head of hair, six feet two inches, and from what I’d seen, able to carry the weight of another human with very little difficulty. He had an address in Queens. After finding a corner and fixing my location, that’s where I headed.
The industrial area receded behind me, and the traffic picked up.
To pass the time, I enjoyed the local color: row houses and rusty fire escapes, beautiful brownstones out of nowhere, municipal transportation, urban renewal clashing with community flare, tennis courts and basketball courts fenced in like prison yards, ninety-nine cent stores, hair salons everywhere, nowhere to park, glorious pizza, clothing stores spilling out onto the sidewalks, and people everywhere moving with purpose or just standing there like they had nothing to do.
Andre had a modest single family home in Middle Village, a part of Queens I’d never been before but knew how to find thanks to all the street maps I’d seen over the years. It took five minutes of driving around before I found his address. Taller than it was wide, the house had a driveway running its length, ending in a white fence. There was a black BMW pulled close to it. Probably to make room for the U-haul.
I parked the van, got out, and approached the side door. It unlocked easily with one of Andre’s keys. The house smelled faintly of garlic and good cooking, which worried me. The kitchen looked well-stocked with pans and appliances, all in good shape. The fridge wasn’t packed, but it had fresh vegetables.
Fresh frigging vegetables.
“This can’t be good,” I whispered.
Unless the world had gone completely crazy, Andre had a wife or girlfriend. I checked my hands, but didn’t see a wedding ring.
I went through the main floor checking for good taste or anything cute. The appliances were stylish and in good shape. Likewise the polished oak end tables, decorative rug, and…
Oh no.
There was a print on the wall of a yellow house with a couple of blue rowboats in a leaf-covered pond. Desperately, I searched the closet by the front door and found a man’s winter coat, a pair of work boots, and nothing else. Which was odd, if he was married. Most women packed closets with too many coats, never-used umbrellas, and uncomfortable shoes.
I took the stairs and checked each of the three bedrooms. One was an office with papers and a computer, another a furnished bedroom, and the third a master with a queen-size bed. A check of that closet yielded more men’s clothing, making me wonder if maybe Andre had a husband and not a wife.
I returned to the home office, searched his papers, and found pay stubs from a restaurant in Queens.
Ristorante La Sicily paid well. Very well. Andre pulled in $6,000 a month, exactly. I wondered if he was the manager. Then I remembered those vegetables in the refrigerator.
Maybe he’s a chef.
Sometimes I like to pick up where a ride’s timeline leaves off—go to their jobs and do what they do. Provided the job was easy or simple. I’d seen cooking shows, and being a chef struck me as neither.
The rest of the papers were bills and taxes and little else. Some of the older paperwork had a woman’s first name and Andre’s last name in the Spouse boxes, which had me wondering if he was divorced.
“Okay, Clouseau,” I said, exercising my voice a little, “time for a break.”
Having dealt with the dead body and learning a little about my ride, I figured I’d done more than enough work for my first day back. Besides, thinking about restaurants had gotten me hungry. Luckily I was in New York—the best place in the world for hungry people.
Just as I decided to follow my natural inclination toward gluttony and industrial strength indolence, a phone rang downstairs.
Chapter Two
Andre owned one of those smart phones everyone seemed to have these days.
I hit the green Answer button and said, “Hello?”
“Is it done?”
A man’s voice, older sounding. The kind that answered phones without saying Hello back.
“Well?” he said, with a hint of impatience.
“Yeah,” I said. “It’s done.”
“Good—meet me at the shop.”
He hung up before I could say goodbye.
The shop could have been anywhere. I only knew one place Andre spent any amount of time, and that was Ristorante La Sicily, somewhere in Queens.
Things were so much better with these new phones. A couple of rides back, I’d learned how to navigate with them. Having the maps memorized was great, but I still had to drive around looking at mailboxes and numbers over apartment entrances. Now I could open an app and plug in the address. So that’s what I did.
After moving the U-haul off to the side, I backed Andre’s car down the driveway and wondered if I should bother returning the van. Best case, they’d charge me for the extra days. What I didn’t want was them calling the cops and saying I’d stolen it.
The “restaurant” was a pizza shop a block away from a cozy little Taco Bell I’d noticed on the way in. When I went through the front door, I saw they had inside seating. Nice place with canned music, gold statues, and murals on the walls depicting mountain scenes and happy peasants. And the smell was wonderful. Garlic and cheese, pesto and fresh bread.
What I’d give for a slice of pizza and a Coke, a nice long nap, and everything I’d missed on TV since my last ride.
Reality came winging through a door at the back of the room. A young guy stood in the opening, glaring at me. He waved me over like I was the help, then went back without waiting. I hesitated—torn between following him and seeing if I could snag a slice of pepperoni from underneath the long glass canopy. If I was the manager or an employee, they’d have to let me, wouldn’t they?
A waiter walked by and smiled when he saw me. Professional, courteous. I was there, he was there, normal smile, nothing more.
Sighing, I passed the display and approached the rear door. Just above it, a little black security dome hung from the ceiling. Not unusual for businesses these days.
I opened the door, stepped through, and found myself in a short hallway that led to another door guarded by a gorilla of a man. He wore a green suit jacket and was sitting on a remarkably sturdy stool.
“C’mere,” he said in a deep voice. “Let me check you.”
When he stood up, I marveled at his height. Close to seven feet. Muscular, too. Probably from grinding all those bones to make his bread.
“Turn around,” he said.
I turned around. He frisked me and took the gun out of my hip holster.
“That’s my favorite gun.”
“If I see you again,” he said, sitting back down, “you can have it back.”
Without taking his eyes off me, he leaned over and knocked on the door. A second later, it opened, revealing a mid-sized office with two men inside.
“What took you so long?” the man who’d originally waved me over said. Young guy, about twenty-five, wearing a silk shirt, pleated pants, and loafers. He also wore sev
eral gold chains and a gold watch. His buzz-cut hair and skinny face made him look like a fish. He stared at me brazenly, as if daring me to respond.
“For Chrissakes, Ricky, let him through,” the second man said from behind a desk at the other end of the room. He was an older guy in his sixties but trying for younger, with glossy tan skin and comically black hair with no gray. The same voice from the phone.
“Yeah, okay,” Ricky said, staring me down like a schoolyard bully. Which was sort of funny because my new ride was taller.
“And close the door,” the older man said.
“But Lenny, what about—”
“I said beat it.”
Ricky said something under his breath. Then he left and shut the door.
“Have a seat,” Lenny said.
I sat across the desk from him in a straight-backed chair.
“Did that son of a bitch give you any trouble?”
“None,” I said, wondering who he meant.
Oh yeah—the dead guy in the rug.
He nodded to himself and watched me, not saying anything. I wondered if he was trying to psyche me out.
“Whataya think of Ricky?” he said finally. “Be honest with me.”
I thought about that, digging deep inside to where I keep all my really good honesty.
“Well, he’s young.”
Lenny nodded.
“He’s definitely unfriendly,” I said.
Lenny laughed. “Watches too many mob movies. Thinks he’s in one half the time—don’t trust nobody that ain’t Italian, all because that’s how they do in the movies. He’s right, though. Italians … we’re very predictable.”
“Something told me you’d say that.”
He blinked at me, then laughed.
“You see?” he said. “Never heard you joke before, Andre. Lucky for you I like jokes sometimes. Goes with what I’m saying though. Italians—we’re too predictable.”
“What about Ricky?”
Lenny snorted. “He’s got it all wrong. Thinks he’s Sonny from The Godfather.”
