Triage: A Thriller (Shell Series)

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  I was away from the Acura, within a foot of the derelict, without even realizing I’d moved in his direction.

  He was on the north side of fifty. White Hispanic, but his skin was so filthy he could pass for a mulatto. Hair the color of science project smoke and as unruly as a forest fire. It wasn’t combed or brushed, and knotty threads of it grew out of his nostrils and ears, as well. His hands were weather-beaten. Nails were caked with dirt. His clothes were two sizes too big even for me. One sneaker was a Nike. The other wasn’t anything.

  “What’s the problem?” I asked him, looking with one eye toward the orange light of the block, toward the Acura, toward Panda House.

  “My wife,” he said.

  A smell like raw sewage hit my nose, made me shift my balance. Improbably he had most of his teeth, but nearly all of them were rotten, caked with plaque and whatever food he could scrounge up, I’d guess. His breath so rancid it made me wonder about the condition of his internal organs.

  “Your wife?” I said.

  “Jesus,” he cried. “She gonna make it?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Help me.” His fingers reached forward and gripped my wrist; they were wet with something. But I didn’t recoil. Too intent on trying to do something.

  “Where is she?” I said. “What’s happened?”

  “Follow me,” he said, and took off walking. It was a stilted, robotic walk caused by a disability. It appeared as though one leg was longer than the other and could bend at the joint. The other couldn’t.

  I followed him into the dark of the alley, my cell phone flipped opened and giving us a faint bit of guiding light.

  “There she is,” he said, pointing.

  She laid crumpled, right leg hanging uselessly at her side. She was brown and splotched with white. She shrieked aloud from some kind of pain when I bent and touched her stomach. The old man started to march in place. Marched like a soldier. I imagined his nighttime thoughts were consumed with treacherous jungles, the thropping of helicopters, the sound of gunfire peppering the air. The derelict made me think of my own father, his night sweats and incoherent ravings about Khe Sanh, his resolve to shrug off the darkness of that time, to shrug off the nightmare he’d lived through. Vietnam didn’t drive him mad. He touched his wife only with love all the days of their life together. Didn’t drink anything stronger than ginger ale. Taught his only son how to toss a football. A good man. As a matter of fact, one of the best I’d ever encountered. Unfortunately, his goodness hadn’t transferred to me.

  “Gimmee an F,” the derelict sang-chanted in a voice that brought me back to the present. He continued his military march in place. He continued to sing without actually singing. “Gimmee an I, gimmee an S, gimmee an H. What does that spell?”

  “Pipe down old man,” I said.

  “My wife, my wife, my wife,” he sang.

  “Old man,” I called over my shoulder. “Quiet down.”

  “1, 2, 3,” he sang, completely oblivious to me. “What are we fighting for?”

  I gave up trying to reach inside his garbled mind and continued to rub the kitten’s fur. She didn’t purr, but my touch stopped her from shrieking. I noticed a nub where her tail should have been, a nasty wound that had healed even though it wasn’t properly cauterized. One of her eyes was missing, gouged out it appeared. That wound hadn’t been properly cared for, either.

  The derelict’s wife?

  I suppose they were married to a common misery.

  I stood to my full height. The derelict stopped marching and started to cackle. His warm sewage breath lit the alley like a flame being fed kindling. Insanity was a blanket wrapped tightly around him.

  I left him there, cackling uncontrollably, and headed back to the Acura, disturbed by what had taken place in the alley, but able to move on. I was always able to move on.

  I slid in the Acura, closed my door, clicked the power locks. The deck of Amex gift cards I’d offered the naked woman with the hearts-and-vines tattoo bit into my thigh. I removed them from my pocket, placed them in the glove box. My hand was on the rearview mirror, adjusting it before I pulled off, when I noticed him. Cool as any man could ever hope to be. His pale blue eyes were ice cubes in a freezer, cold and unchanging. He had the chiseled facial features of a wooden African idol, with strong cheekbones and a masculine jawline. Blonde hair cut military close. An unlit cigarette dangling from his meaty lips.

  Conrad “Rad” Colleti, capo for the Coppa family. The Coppa family was heavy into a multitude of evils in North Jersey: extortion of the International Longshoremen's Association dockworkers, forcing them to kick back money in order to work; lucrative and illegal sports-betting operations; and a nasty loan-sharking and extortion racket tied to the gambling enterprise. Conrad Colleti was as dirty as used dishwater. His disposition one of the worst I’d ever encountered. Your teeth would become Skittles in your mouth if you tested his resolve. So it was best to understand him as fully as possible, to know what he tolerated and what he didn’t. For example, he wouldn’t answer if you addressed him by anything but that stupid shortening of his name. Rad. Calling him anything else was an affront to his senses.

  And he was sitting in my backseat.

  “Rad,” I said, as calmly as I could.

  He nodded in greeting but said nothing.

  “I do something to offend you?” I asked.

  His smile turned my guts to broth. Less than a handful of people were capable of weakening my core in that way.

  RAD CASUALLY UNBUTTONED HIS blazer and let it fall open. I spotted a saddle leather belt holster, a .38 that I knew smelled of gun oil and wood chips. The barrel and sight on the .38 were chopped off close to the cylinder. The grips were neatly wrapped with black electrician’s tape.

  “Careful there, partner,” I said. “That looks as if it would blow up in your hand.”

  “Concerned, Shell? I’m truly touched.”

  I nodded. “No problem.”

  Rad punched his chest with one fist, cleared his throat. “Nevertheless, you’ve got a decision to make, my friend.” He paused, hocked phlegm into a linen handkerchief, folded it but kept it in his hand. Cigarettes were as natural to his life as oxygen was to mine. His unlit Newport still hung from his lips. One day cancer would eat away his body and soul. That day wasn’t coming soon enough for me, though. “This can either be your Juneteenth,” he went on, “or it can be your Waterloo. You decide which it is, Shell. I’ll give you a second to think it through.”

  “What do you want, Rad?”

  He surveyed my backseat—items crowded in stacks on one side—and whistled dramatically. “Dog treats, bottled water, fucking chocolate chip cookies for a pooch. I don’t even eat this good. Man’s best friend, I’ll say.”

  “What do you want, Rad?” I repeated.

  “And whose dog might these precious items be for?”

  “You have some business with me, Rad?”

  Different question, same goal: find out why he was in the backseat of my rental.

  Whatever the reason, it couldn’t be good.

  “Business,” he said. “You want to talk business?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Early Times bourbon,” he went on. “Eleven ninety-nine a bottle. Twelve bottles per case. A shipment of seventy-five cases yields a little over ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand, seven hundred and ninety-one to be exact.”

  “That supposed to mean something to me?” I asked.

  “Average year, about a half dozen such shipments somehow fall into my lap. Like manna from the heavens, my friend. Sixty-seven thousand, seven hundred and forty-six dollars if you’re keeping track.”

  “I’m not.”

  “The high stakes poker bullshit you see on ESPN, like they’re fucking athletes? Add that to the horse action, the boxing pie, NFL, NBA, golf for Christ’s sake, and I start to look like George Steinbrenner—God bless his soul—lording over the Evil Empire. Two hundred G’s a year, easy.”


  “There is a point to all this?”

  “I had a nice little ID switcharoo gig going,” he said. “Some complicated shit with credit cards. And after awhile it got queered, and more than a lil’ dicey. And you know what I did?”

  “You’re real careless,” I said. “This entire conversation shouldn’t be happening.”

  “What,” he said, smiling, “you’re wired?”

  “Careless.”

  “You want to know what I did when the ID thing went south? I punched in JW’s number on my phone is what I did. Our mutual friend had a way of solving dicey problems for me.”

  I swallowed. Finally I understood.

  “Only there’s no JW to answer my call,” he said. “A serious brain fart on my part.”

  I licked my dry lips.

  “JW’s help was good for a quarter mil a year, Shell, easy. Give ‘im ten more productive years before I retired him and that comes out to two-point-five mil. What’s my business with you? Collect those lost earnings and then you can return this Acura to the rental place on McCarter where you got it and get the fuck out of Dodge.”

  My blood cooled as I wondered just how far his reach extended. How much he knew, how much he could find out.

  “I’ll personally escort you to Penn, Shell. Then I want you to hop on the next AirTrain. Capisce?”

  AirTrain connected Penn Station to NewarkLibertyInternationalAirport.

  “Didn’t realize you were part of Newark’s welcoming committee,” I said.

  He nodded thoughtfully, said, “My canaries were chirping that the Eagle had landed. I didn’t believe it, never thought you’d show your sorry ass around here again.”

  “Surprise, surprise,” I said, smiling.

  He nodded again, hacked another lungful of phlegm into his disgusting handkerchief, and, as expected, folded and held on to it. He went ahead and pocketed the unlit cigarette at that point, a surprising turn of events that showed he wasn’t all together predictable. When he looked at me, it was with something akin to pity on his face. “You had your boy JW fooled, Shell. But not me. Something smells rotten, I look into it. JW’s in a wheelchair, a freaking cripple. And it stinks to high heaven, so I check it out. And guess whose name is lit up like Broadway? Starts with an S and ends with hell.”

  I bit down on my molars. “I’d watch what you say, Rad.”

  Blue eyes regarded me, a crinkle at the corners. He said, “You telling me you feel no guilt over JW’s suicide?”

  I didn’t respond.

  He nodded, said, “Man learns from history that man learns nothing from history. Are you familiar with that saying, Shell?”

  I didn’t respond.

  “Hegel’s paradox,” he said.

  For as long as I’d known him, it had been a pissing contest between us. If my life were a novel or a movie, he’d be my antagonist, my nemesis, put in the action to thwart me.

  “One inch,” I replied. “And only ‘cause it curves to the right.”

  “What’s that, my friend?” he asked, frowning.

  “My dick is still bigger than yours by at least an inch,” I explained. “It’d be two or more if it didn’t curve.”

  I was intentionally pushing his buttons. Get him angry, maybe he’d make a mistake that I could capitalize on. I steeled myself for his response, hoping it didn’t involve his .38. I didn’t want to test that any more than I wanted to test Cherie’s knife.

  Rad coughed, quickly settled himself, and nodded several times. “Cute. I’ll give you that, Shell. But I’ll have you know that Taj compensates wonderfully with a reverse-cowgirl. She says I get deeper than the mind of Minolta that way.”

  There it was. The true genesis of the ill will between us. Taj. At one time she’d meant more to me than any living soul. I’d confessed my darkest secrets to her. I’d told her of my hopes and fears. She knew all the particulars of my work and my Network. Where the bodies were buried, so to speak. Now she was with Rad.

  “I’d like you to step out of my car, Rad,” I said in a purposefully even tone.

  “You can’t seriously blame me for dipping my spoon in that creamy vanilla, Shell. I don’t see how you could do that. Taj is a beautiful woman. It takes a special kind of man to keep a woman like her happy. You’re not exactly Pope John Paul. Taj needed someone with a little less…baggage. It says something about you, that it would be me.”

  “Fuck you, Conrad.”

  Conrad.

  His blue eyes narrowed and his jaw muscles churned. “Where there is charity and wisdom, there is neither fear nor ignorance,” he told me. “You know who said that?”

  “You just did,” I replied.

  “Don’t make me rethink my charity, Shell. I’m giving you an opportunity to leave Newark quietly, and unharmed. Right after you pay up, of course.”

  “Unharmed? Are you threatening me, Conrad?”

  “What do you see when you look in the mirror?” he asked.

  I stayed silent.

  “I see a washed up joke,” he said. “You pay for pussy but act as if you’re God’s gift to the women of the world. You’re an anathema, my friend. You’re pesticide and herbicide. Everything you touch dies. Men, women, children…crippled best friends.”

  I balled my hands, they became two cement blocks. My body was tensed and I considered a head-butt to Rad’s aquiline nose, the bone tissue softening under my blow, copious blood splatter painting his face and my shirt. Good thoughts, in other words.

  “So don’t you look at me with that smug look on your face,” he went on. “You ain’t shit, Shell. You’re less than shit. And don’t you fucking forget it, either, killer.”

  His laugh raised my blood pressure to a dangerous level.

  I disparaged his relationship with his mother with one multi-syllable word.

  “I can tenderize you, Shell,” he barked, spittle flying as he spoke. “If that’s how you want to play this.”

  “Do what you have to do, Conrad. I’m not paying you and I’m not leaving Newark until I’m ready.”

  “Nevada, right?” he said, smiling. “I’ve heard the story. Tragic situation. How long’s she been missing? I hear after a few days the odds of finding a missing person alive are…well, less than desirable.”

  “I find out you’re involved and—”

  “Spare me the Clint Eastwood-isms, killer.”

  “Fuck you.”

  He smiled and ticked off names. Men’s names.

  “Don’t know any of them,” I said.

  “I made them up,” he said, chuckling. “But made up or not, Nevada has been a busy girl. Her boy Sweet had her working hard. Yes, sir, good ol’ Sweet had Miss Nevada working overtime. I’m jealous, actually, but we try and stay out of the prostitution and drug game. Leave that to the niggers.”

  I narrowed my eyes, bit down on my molars.

  “And to think, at one time Taj was jealous of the girl.” He shook his head. “I hate to admit it, but for awhile Taj showed a little more concern with your affairs than I liked. It took your new girl selling herself like Girl Scout cookies for that green-eyed jealousy to fade.”

  “Watch it, Conrad.”

  “Ooh.” He laughed. “Is that a hint of protectiveness I detect? I guess you weren’t aware Nevada’s love was available for a price. She practically advertised the pussy on Craigslist. They’re doing that now if you didn’t know.” He laughed once more, harder this time. “I can see how all of this would upset you, Nevada being your Nefertiti and all. Wish it was just my usual posturing—spare you some hurt—but unfortunately it’s true.”

  Gray eyes.

  Skin the color of beef gravy.

  One of the most beautiful women I’d ever known.

  Her love for sale?

  My soul bawled.

  “What. Do. You. Want?” I asked him.

  “Pay up and then I’ll see you to the AirTrain.”

  “Not happening,” I said.

  “It seems as if we find ourselves at an impasse then
, Shell.”

  “Seems as if,” I said.

  “I owned your friend. And I own your old bitch. Needless to say, I own you, too.”

  “Fuck you, Conrad.”

  He sighed long and hard, and then cleared his throat. I kept my eyes on the lapels of his blazer the entire time. Any minute he might pull out the .38. Conrad wasn’t opposed to shooting somebody dead, right on the street. Daylight, nighttime, empty block, people around, it didn’t matter. He’d done it before. More than once, it so happens.

  And gotten away with it.

  He said, “Wish you weren’t taking this stance, Shell. Really wish you weren’t. It’s the absolute wrong move, my friend.” He took the cigarette out of his pocket again, parked it in his mouth. “A bad calculation on your part, I assure you. You may find this hard to believe—and I understand considering our history—but I actually have fondness for you.”

  “Don’t expect a Hallmark and chocolates from me at Christmas, Conrad.”

  He nodded, eyed me, my wrist in particular. “That a Rolex?”

  “Movado,” I said through gritted teeth.

  He whistled. “Expensive, am I right?”

  “Very.”

  “Bet she’d look nice on my wrist.”

  I knew what he was doing. I noticed how his hand was slowly inching toward his blazer lapels.

  “Bet you’ll never find out,” I said.

  “You have one of them black Amex cards, Shell?”

  Right hand just above his navel.

  “Sure do.”

  “Kill and get really rich,” he said, shaking his head. “Ain’t life grand?”

  Thumb and index finger casually playing at one of the blazer’s low buttons, just inches from his belt line.

  “Really wealthy,” I corrected. “You’re really rich.”

  He nodded, and then made a fast move.

  And I made mine, really faster.

  I landed a short jab to his throat, my best approximation of Bruce Lee’s famous one-inch punch. The blow, a principle of Wing Chun kung fu, purportedly generated a tremendous amount of impact force in a confined distance. I didn’t doubt the physics of it, but my strike wasn’t as forceful as I would’ve liked. Despite that, Conrad spit out his unlit cigarette and gagged and reached frantically for his neck. He used both of his hands to try and squeeze away whatever pain I’d caused him. I didn’t waste a second admiring my work. I quickly pulled him toward me, gripping his blazer by each lapel. It was an odd dance, me in the lead. Good thing. I didn’t want the blazer to suddenly open and Conrad to get his hands on the holstered .38. A ricochet in the tight space of the car would mean trouble for me. And I didn’t need another ounce of bad luck and trouble.