The Last Kind Word

by David Housewright

  “Jill, get out of here,” I said. “Bad things are going to happen. I don’t want you involved in them. I don’t want you hurt.”

  I don’t know where the words came from or why I said them out loud. I only know I meant them with every fiber of my being. Unfortunately, nothing I said registered. Instead, a smile started in her eyes and spread across her face—you have never seen a smile like that—and she whacked me on the shoulder.

  “Oh, you,” Jill said. “You’re nothing but a big softy. Just like Roy.”

  A moment later, she was out the door and heading back to the kitchen. I joined her a moment later, retrieved my plate of strawberry-rhubarb pie, and stepped into the living room. I stood in front of Jimmy’s map next to Roy while I ate. Roy leaned in and whispered.

  “Did Jill thank you for slugging me?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  “She said she was going to. What else did she say?”

  “She said you were a big softy.”

  “Women. Listen, I need to tell you something. In private.”

  You, too? my inner voice asked.

  “Sure,” I said aloud.

  We retreated to the same bedroom and closed the door. This time I brought my pie with me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Brian Fenelon.”

  “What about him?”

  Roy glanced around the room as if he were afraid someone was watching. “He’s the man I bought the guns from. He’s the one who sold me the AKs. I didn’t tell you before, tell anyone before, because—because I didn’t want Jill to know.”

  “Know what?”

  This time Roy lowered his voice as if he were afraid someone was listening at the door. “I didn’t want her to know—I met Fenelon in a strip joint; the strip joint where Claire was working, Jimmy’s girl. I didn’t want Jill to know I went to those places, that I watched Claire. She can be—she can be so young.”

  Seriously? my inner voice asked. You abuse your wife but you don’t want her to know that you ogle strippers?

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I said, “although it would have been nice if you told me before I hit Fenelon over the head with a beer bottle.”

  “You did what?”

  “Never mind. Spilled milk. Did Fenelon tell you where he got the guns?”

  “He mentioned something about Mexicans. He was being very cagey about it, though. Fenelon likes people to think he’s connected, you know; like he’s some kind of crime czar.”

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of that going around. Thanks, Roy.”

  Roy nodded his head, and we both returned to the living room. The burgers had been grilled, and Josie and Liz were handing them out.

  “Do you want cheese on yours?” Josie asked.

  I waved my fork at her. “In a minute,” I said.

  So that’s that, I told myself while I finished my pie. You have what you came for. It’s time to go home.

  A few minutes later the old man pointed his half-eaten cheeseburger at the map. “Do you have it all figured out yet?” he asked.

  I shrugged.

  “Let me show you what I have,” Jimmy said.

  He knelt on the cushions below the plywood and explained it to me. According to the GPS trackers, trucks A and B both left the terminal in Krueger at about the same time, 10:00 A.M. They went to a spot marked in blue near Lake Vermilion, where they stayed for about thirty minutes each. Truck A went east and north across the Arrowhead region, stopping a half-dozen times along the way—never lingering for more than fifteen minutes—until it arrived in Grand Portage in the corner of the state where Minnesota, Canada, and Lake Superior met. It made frequent stops after that in Grand Marais, Lutsen, Tofte, and Silver Bay as it followed the lake south; each stop was also marked in blue, most of them corresponding to Jimmy’s red circles. It turned northwest again, making several stops in Ely before returning to Lake Vermilion. It rested there for half an hour before driving south to the Krueger terminal, arriving at 7:21 P.M.

  Meanwhile, Truck B went northwest from Lake Vermilion, driving nonstop to Baudette, a city near the center of Minnesota located on the U.S. side of the Rainy River. It then worked its way to International Falls, Littlefork, Big Falls, Effie, Cook, and Tower before returning to Lake Vermilion and finally Krueger at 7:27 P.M.

  Truck C, on the other hand, did not leave the terminal until 1:00 P.M. It also went first to Lake Vermilion before backtracking south, stopping in Aurora, Biwabik, McKinley, Mountain Iron, and Virginia—there were plenty of stops in Virginia. It returned to Lake Vermilion, waited nearly forty-five minutes, and drove all the way to Duluth. It did not return to the Krueger terminal until almost three hours after the other trucks.

  While Jimmy was able to identify every stop—there were bank branches, department stores, grocery stores, you name it—he could not identify the location near Lake Vermilion.

  “That’s the Fortune Bay Casino,” Roy said.

  “No,” Jimmy said. He tapped a spot on the map several miles away. “The casino is over here on the west side of Pike Bay, and none of the Mesabi Security trucks drive there. We’re over here on the east side of the bay.”

  “Then what is it?” Skarda asked.

  “I don’t know. It doesn’t have an address. There’s a road leading to it here off Highway 1, but this is where the maps, the satellite pictures, stop. I can’t get up the road.”

  I stood in front of the map, staring at the blue dot Jimmy had drawn there. I actually felt a thrill of excitement ripple through my body as I thought of it.

  “What do you think?” Roy asked.

  I handed him my empty plate and fork. “I have to get dressed. You kids play quietly while I’m away.”

  The old man made a production out of popping open a beer can using only his middle finger.

  “I saw that,” I said.

  * * *

  I retreated into the bathroom, where I took my time making myself presentable, all the while thinking, now’s the time—jump in the Jeep Cherokee and get the hell out before you cause any more damage. I tapped the left pocket of my jeans where the cell phone was and the right pocket where I carried the car key.

  While I was dressing, I heard a commotion from the cabin, voices raised in greeting, yet did not understand what was said. When I emerged from the bathroom, I found Claire de Lune eating a cheeseburger in the kitchen while chatting with Jill and Josie. Liz was sitting on the sofa with Skarda in the living room—they were holding hands and talking quietly. Roy and the old man were behaving like long-lost army buddies, and Jimmy was sitting on the second sofa and tossing an infant in the air and catching him in the way that I found alarming, although both he and the child seemed to be having a wonderful time. It was just one big happy family sharing a pleasant Sunday afternoon together. Watching them, listening to them, it occurred to me how absurd it all was—ridiculous, simple-minded, self-aggrandizing, and brain-dead stupid. We lost our jobs, so let’s rob an armored car. If that doesn’t work, we can rob a bank. Then what, I wondered. Live happily ever after?

  Time to say good-bye, my inner voice said.

  “What’s wrong with this picture?” I said aloud. I liked the sound of the words so much that I repeated them, this time tossing in a few expletives. That silenced the room.

  “Are you people crazy?” I shouted for good measure.

  “What is it?” Skarda asked.

  “What is it? You brought your ex-wife to the hideout where you’re planning to commit a federal crime.”

  “She’s not my ex-wife—”

  “You”—I was talking to Jimmy now—“you bring a child, you bring a woman who’s connected to the local punk?”

  “Claire is my fiancée,” Jimmy protested. “This is my son.”

  “He’s not your son,” Josie said.

  “I don’t care,” I said. “Geezus, people—no wonder Fenelon knows what we’re doing. Even the frickin’ bartender at Buckman’s knows what we’re doing. God knows who
they told. And you, you’re no better.” I stepped close to Josie and glared into her eyes. “Giving out chunks of cash in a public place the day after you pull a job like you’re frickin’ Robin Hood? You must all be suicidal. Everyone in the county has to know you’re the Iron Range Bandits. The fact the sheriff hasn’t already scooped you up is astonishing to me. Now this. We’re going to rob an armored truck. What better reason to throw a party?”

  “Now, now, Dyson,” the old man said. “Let’s not get carried away.”

  “Hey, pal, you’re the one who’s going to get carried away—straight into federal prison for twenty goddamn years. Tell me something. If by some miracle you pull this off, what are you going to do with the money? Do you think you can walk into a bank and pay off your mortgage with cash—pay your power, your cable, your utility bills with cash—and not make people suspicious?”

  “Brian can help you launder the money,” Claire said. She was perfectly sincere.

  I threw up my hands.

  “I can’t work like this,” I said. “Listen. You’re all good people at heart. You have no business doing this shit. Robbing grocery stores, robbing armored trucks—you’re not wired for it. You have a chance, though; a chance to get out clean if you just quit. Quit now before the cops get wise to you. Get rid of the guns.” I waved at the map. “Get rid of all of this. Stop thieving. Stop pretending that armed robbery is going to solve all of your problems.” I was staring at Skarda when I said that last line. “If you do that, you can go on enjoying Sundays like you’re enjoying this one. If you don’t, every damn one of you will be spending your best years in prison. Some of you might even die there.” I was speaking to the old man when I said that. The expression on his face suggested that he had thought about it before.

  “As for me,” I said, “I’m going to Canada.”

  * * *

  That’s how I left them.

  I actually felt proud as I fired up the Jeep Cherokee, shoved it in gear, and headed down the long access road. This undercover gig—not so tough, I told myself. I had discovered the name the ATF wanted, and I could give it to them without implicating the Iron Range Bandits. Maybe the county sheriff would come for them now and the law—if not justice—would take its course. If it did, though, it wouldn’t be because of me. I would not be the agent of their destruction. I might even be able to help them out, give them G. K. Bonalay’s name; maybe take care of some of their legal fees. After all, they did open their house to me. Actually, it was a house owned by the dead stockbroker from Chicago; still …

  I halted the SUV at the end of the access road where it met the county blacktop, pulled out the cell phone, and called Bullert.

  “Brian T. Fenelon,” I told him after he answered. “Roy Cepek bought the AKs from a local punk named Brian T. Fenelon. Roy told me that Fenelon said he got them from some Mexicans. I met Fenelon. He’d rat out his own mother if you make it worth his while.”

  “What reason would we have to arrest him?” Bullert asked.

  “I’m sorry, Chad. Am I missing something?”

  “You say he’d talk if we put pressure on him. Okay, what do we have to pressure him with?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. What’s the going rate for selling illegal weapons these days?”

  “Were you there when he sold the weapons? Have you seen him with the weapons?”

  “No.”

  “I see…”

  “I see, what? Give me a name, you said. Don’t worry about arresting anyone, just give me a name.”

  “And a location,” Bullert said.

  “Look up his address in the goddamn phone book.”

  “We have no evidence that Fenelon is running guns. You telling me what Roy told you, that’s hearsay, inadmissible. If we arrest Fenelon on that alone, c’mon, McKenzie, even a third-year law student would go screaming to a judge claiming we violated the man’s rights. Fenelon would be free in thirty-six hours. By then the Mexicans—if there are Mexicans—will be gone.”

  “Then turn the case over to Homeland Security. They don’t give a shit about judicial rights.”

  “McKenzie…”

  “A name, you said. Remember? You have no idea what I went through to get that.”

  “Enlighten me,” he said.

  So I did.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa—whoa,” Bullert chanted. “Wait a minute. You did what?”

  “Convinced them to rob an armored truck.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “The point was to keep the Bandits from robbing any more grocery stores—”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “And to supply a reason for them to need the guns, for them to set up a meeting with their supplier to get the guns.”

  “Everything you’ve done is illegal.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Conspiracy, trespassing, breaking and entering, burglary, assault, felony assault with a car, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, if you’re going to nitpick…”

  “Just—just let me think about this for a second.”

  Bullert paused for so many seconds that I thought I had dropped the call. Finally, “Actually, you know what,” he said. “It’s just crazy enough to work.”

  “Tell me you didn’t say that.”

  “Your plan…”

  “My plan? My plan is finished. Get a name, you said.”

  “If the Bandits are convinced you’re actually going to rob an armored truck…”

  “Chad.”

  “This Fenelon will be convinced, too.”

  “Chad.”

  “You can set up a buy with Fenelon, bring us in, we take him with the guns in his possession, convince him to lead us up the chain…”

  “Chad.”

  “I like it.”

  “Hell no, Chad.”

  “You’ve taken it this far, McKenzie. It’s just one more step.”

  “This is the part of the program where I admit to you, I like these people. I don’t want to see them get hurt.”

  “There won’t be any charges stemming from the armored truck robbery. We won’t even cite them for conspiracy. It is entrapment, after all. You have to know, though, McKenzie—they’re going to be hurt whether you continue to help us or not. They’re wanted. They’re armed robbers. Skarda is an escaped prisoner.”

  “I know.”

  “Look, the ATF has no interest in the Iron Range Bandits, and the FBI, Harry, he’ll tell you the same thing. The county sheriff, the local cops—that’s a different matter. We won’t intercede, not to help, not to impede. On the other hand, helping us take the guns off the border no matter how indirectly, that might be useful at their trials. You could even testify on their behalf. An ATF operative, that might carry some weight.”

  “You would allow me to do that, call myself an ATF operative in open court?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “I can think of lots of reasons.”

  “McKenzie, if we can get those guns off the Canadian border without any innocent people getting hurt, you can call yourself any damn thing you want. You can be His Holiness the Fourteenth Dalai Lama from Tibet for all I care.”

  “I can take your word on that?”

  “Of course you can. I work for the federal government.”

  * * *

  I parked the Jeep Cherokee behind Josie’s car and climbed back onto the deck. There were voices raised in heated debate inside the cabin, and I paused outside the door to listen. What I heard filled me with sadness. I had hoped my words earlier would scare them straight, only I was mistaken.

  “Truck C,” Skarda said. “It’s gotta have the most money because it goes to the biggest cities. We can rob it here.” There was a loud tapping sound. “Rob it here on Highway 135.”

  “No, no, no,” said the old man. “Just because it goes to Virginia … Look, Truck A stops at the casino up here in Grand Portage.” There was more tapping. “That’s gotta have the most money.”

 
“Why?”

  “It’s a casino.”

  “You’re not listening to me,” Jimmy said. “Why not rob all of them?”

  “All three?” Josie said. “That’s crazy talk.”

  “I’ve been doing research. It’s not all that hard to rob an armored truck.” I heard the flipping of sheets of paper, and I knew he was thumbing through his three-ring binder. “In New York, in the Bronx, two men pepper-sprayed a guard who was delivering a bag of money to a check-cashing center and took off with the money. In St. Louis, a group of robbers overpowered a guard who was leaving a bank with a sack containing nine hundred thousand dollars. In Rochester, some men took a guard hostage who was getting fast food and forced him and his partner to drive to a secluded spot where they transferred the money into a van. Eleven million dollars. Eleven million.”

  Better put a stop to this right now, my inner voice said.

  I walked into the cabin. The Bandits all turned to look at me.

  “Jimmy,” I said. “In your research, how many robbery attempts failed? How many of the thieves were caught? How many people were shot? How many killed?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “That’s not a rhetorical question,” I said. “You said you did the research. How many jobs went to hell in a handbasket?”

  “A lot.” He spoke just above a whisper.

  “How many?”

  This time he answered loudly. “A lot.”

  “You’re an ambitious kid, I appreciate that. One job at a time, though. Let’s keep this thing manageable. Okay?”

  “Okay.”