The Last Kind Word

by David Housewright

  “What’s with her?” Skarda asked.

  “She’s wondering what’s going to happen the day after, too.”

  “What is going to happen?”

  I wanted to tell him; wanted to tell them both. Sit them down on the deck and explain who I was and what I was doing there—screw Bullert, screw Finnegan, screw the ATF, the FBI, and all the rest. I had come there because I thought I might be able to do some good and because I thought it might be fun.

  What do you think about the idea now? my inner voice asked.

  I ignored Skarda’s question as well as my own and turned my attention back to the map.

  * * *

  After that, it was the three of us hanging around doing nothing. I decided it was a good idea to let them see me preparing my plans for the heist, so I retrieved the camera I had used the day before. I plugged it into the PC that Jimmy had left at the cabin and started surfing the photos I had taken at the remote vault. I studied the white building from all angles, the fence, the trail, the creek, everything. The more I did, the more sure I was that I could actually rob the place. The thought excited me even as my inner voice chanted, Don’t be an ass. I dismissed it—as I often had before doing something stupid—and started carefully jotting down all of the license plate numbers of the vehicles I had photographed. Josie wanted to know why. “Looking for a key,” I told her. When I finished, I came thisclose to pulling out my cell and calling Chad Bullert before catching myself.

  “I need a phone,” I said. Josie gave me hers. I stopped myself again.

  Okay, now what? my inner voice asked. You can’t call Bullert directly. What if Josie or one of the other bandits traced the phone number? It was an easy thing to do these days with the Internet.

  What else can I do, I asked myself. We had not worked this out in advance, setting up a go-between to whom I could clandestinely pass information. ’Course, I had expected to be home long before now. I’m sure Bullert expected the same. I could have gone for a hike alone in the woods or taken the pontoon out on the lake, made my calls where there was no one to hear. I was afraid of how Josie and Skarda might react, though. I had no fear that they would guess I was a police spy, but rather that they would imagine I was betraying them to Brand or the deputies or both.

  I decided I had to use the cell in front of them. The problem—whom could I call? Several people came to mind, only I couldn’t remember any of their phone numbers. They had all been listed alphabetically by first name on the contact log of my cell phone; I would just click on them. I had memorized only one phone number in my entire life—a number I had called perhaps a dozen times a week since I was in kindergarten.

  I inputted it on the keypad of Josie’s cell. A few moments later a woman answered. “Hello,” she said. I paused so long that she said “Hello” again before I replied.

  “Hey, sweetie,” I said. “It’s good to hear your voice. This is Nick Dyson.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m sorry it’s been so long since I’ve been in touch. How’s your mom?”

  “Oh. My. God. McKenzie.”

  “Yes.” I deliberately smiled when I spoke, partly for Josie and Skarda’s benefit and partly because I was hoping Shelby would hear it in my voice.

  “Are people listening?” Shelby asked. “Do you want me to call you Dyson?”

  “Yeah, but you know, I move around a lot.”

  “You’re still undercover and you need my help?”

  “I am so happy for you, honestly.”

  “Bobby is going to go crazy.”

  I started laughing. “I imagine he will,” I said. “Tell me, sweetie, do you still work for Driver and Vehicle Services?”

  “Ahhh…”

  “How about your friend, Harry?”

  “Harry? Harry from the FBI, that Harry?”

  “Just goes to show, once you become a member of what’s the name of the union—American Federation of State, County, and Municipal Employees—once you become a member, it’s impossible to get fired.”

  “You’re going to tell me something and you want me to pass it on to Harry,” Shelby said.

  “You’re too smart to be that pretty. Or is it the other way around?”

  “Let me get a pencil.”

  I heard Shelby set down the handset. I covered the cell’s microphone and found Josie and Skarda. Josie was watching me, but Skarda was staring out the window.

  “She went to get a pencil,” I said.

  “Who is she?” Josie asked.

  “Just a girl. Knew her when we were kids.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  A moment later, Shelby was back on the phone. “Shoot,” she said.

  “I’m going to give you a list of license plate numbers.” I recited them slowly and carefully, although, in the big scheme of things, they didn’t really matter. “Got ’em?”

  “Got ’em,” Shelby said. “Now what?”

  “I need whatever information you can give me about the drivers.”

  “Does Harry know why?”

  “Harry has a friend named Chad—remember him?”

  “No.”

  “Chad is the IT guy.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  Think it through, my inner voice said.

  “I’m hoping you’ll get Harry to ask Chad to give me the name of someone off the list who might be able to help me out on something I have going.”

  I looked at Josie again and made a motion with my hand that suggested Shelby was ditzy.

  “You want me to call Harry and tell him to call Chad, whoever he is,” Shelby said. “Somehow they’ll know what you’re talking about.”

  “That would be perfect.”

  “This is better than NCIS.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Then what? Do you want Harry to call you back?”

  I was staring at Josie when I answered. “That would not be a good idea. How ’bout I meet you? You can pass on the information yourself.”

  “Me? Fun. When? Where?”

  “Rice Park. In front of the fountain.” I glanced at my watch. It was 11:53 A.M. “Would six o’clock work?”

  “How should I know?”

  “If you’re not there I’ll assume something went wrong.”

  “Wait till I tell Bobby.”

  “I would prefer that you didn’t. Boyfriends don’t like me very much.”

  Josie snorted when she heard that.

  “I feel just like Veronica Lake in This Gun for Hire,” Shelby said, “lying to Robert Preston in order to help Alan Ladd.”

  “Good-bye, sweetie. See you soon.”

  I hung up and glanced at Josie.

  “Sweetie?” she asked.

  “I need to drive to St. Paul,” I said.

  “I’m going with.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “I want to meet this trollop you’re dealing with.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Skarda asked.

  “If you were Brian Fenelon, where would you be?” I asked.

  * * *

  If not for the sign, I wouldn’t have known it was a strip joint. A brown, two-story clapboard building with white trim surrounded by a gravel parking lot—driving at fifty-five miles per hour on the county road, I nearly passed it without notice, probably would have if Josie hadn’t cleared her throat and motioned toward the sign. DANGEROUS LIAISONS GENTLEMAN’S CLUB OVER 21 WELCOME. There were only four cars in the lot, and I parked next to them. A wooden staircase and a long, narrow handicap ramp led to the entrance.

  “Coming?” I asked.

  “I think I’ll sit this one out,” Josie said.

  A few moments later I was opening the door. Another sign told me Happy Hour Mon.–Thurs., Live Dancing Mon.–Sat., Wed. is Lingerie Nite! The first thing I noticed when I entered the building was a surprisingly large stage with two poles. A dozen stools abutted the stage, and a dozen small tables with two stools each bordered them. Booths large enough to accommo
date private dances lined the walls. A large-screen TV hung above the bar. The bartender, his back turned to me, was watching a Spanish-language soap opera. The TV was the brightest light in the room.

  “Excuse me,” I said. He didn’t answer, so I tried again in Spanish. “Con permiso.”

  He turned quickly toward me. The way his mouth curled downward suggested that he was surprised that I spoke the language and none too happy about it, like a chess player who had just lost an important piece.

  “¿Qué pasa?” he asked.

  “Perdone que lo interrumpa.”

  “¿Qué quieres? Los bailes no comienzan hasta las cuatro.” In case I didn’t get it, the bartender gestured at a table tent on the bar that announced that the dances began at 4 P.M.

  “Estoy buscando a Brian Fenelon,” I told him.

  He pointed toward a booth next to an open doorway. The neon sign above the door flashed VIP ROOM.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  “Fenelon speaks lousy Spanish,” the bartender said.

  “I’ll talk slowly, then.”

  Fenelon sat in the center of the booth. There were two empty shot glasses in front of him and a half-filled beer mug. He held a third shot glass filled with bourbon between his fingers and turned it slowly, expanding a circle of condensation on the tabletop.

  “Hi, Brian,” I said.

  He looked up at me. I could see the cut lip and the bruised chin even in the joint’s dim light.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Looks like you had a long night.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I sat down without being asked. “I’m guessing you and your boss had a falling-out.”

  “Why couldn’t you keep your big mouth shut? Why did you have to tell him what I said?”

  “So he wouldn’t think I was conspiring with you to screw him over.”

  Fenelon brought the shot glass to his lips but did not drink. Instead, he set the glass back on the table and fixed my eyes with his. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked.

  “Let me tell you what’s going to happen. After I risk life and limb to rob three armored trucks, Brand is going to rip me off. He’ll give me the guns as promised. When it comes time to divvy up the swag, though, he’s going to take it all for himself. Then he’ll have Deputies James and Williams arrest Dave Skarda and me on fugitive warrants so he won’t have to worry about retaliation. As far as Jimmy and Josie and the rest are concerned, there won’t be a helluva lot they’ll be able to do about it, will there?”

  “I don’t know why you don’t just get the fuck outta here. Go up to Canada like you said.”

  “Good question. I have one for you. Do you like it here, Brian?”

  “Whaddaya mean?”

  “Do you like it here? Up here in the frickin’ nowhere northland. Would you rather be in the Cities? Chicago? New York? Would you like to take Claire somewhere nice? Get her away from that nitwit Jimmy?”

  “She loves him.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “I am surprised. I thought—”

  “You thought she was my girl like everyone else. Well, she’s not and she never was.”

  “You sound unhappy about that.” The hard glare in his eyes told me he was very unhappy about that. “I know what he sees in her. What does she see in him?”

  “Who knows?” Fenelon said. “Her own lost youth, maybe. Stability for her kid. How the hell should I know?”

  I shrugged at that because I didn’t know what else to do.

  “Why are you here, Dyson?”

  “I want nothing to do with John Brand. You’re the one who brought him in on this. By the way, you shouldn’t have done that. When I whacked you, remember, I said I needed someone who knew his way around. I meant you, not him.”

  “You got it wrong, Dyson. I didn’t tell Brand anything. If I had told him”—he tilted his face to give me a good look at it in the dim light—“do you think he would have done this? Brand’s the one brought me to the cabin, not the other way ’round. He didn’t know we talked, that we were working together, until you told him last night.”

  “Dammit. I thought…”

  “You thought I ratted you out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I didn’t. Now I’m paying the price for it. Way to go, Dyson. Doubt Brand will ever trust me again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Fine, you’re sorry. That means a whole helluva lot.”

  Fenelon closed his eyes and rested his head against the back of the booth. He looked utterly defeated. I called his name, and his eyes snapped open again.

  “That’s another reason to get out of Dodge,” I said.

  “What are you talking about, Dyson?”

  “How much of the money is Brand going to give you? James and Williams will get a nice taste. What about you?”

  “I doubt I’ll get anything.”

  “A quarter of a million dollars, Brian. How far do you think you can go on a quarter of a million dollars?”

  Brand had not been impressed when I dropped that number on the table the night before. Fenelon clearly was.

  “You’re gonna give me two hundred and fifty thousand dollars?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “What would I have to do?” Before I could answer, Fenelon held up his hand. “I won’t go up against Brand. I’m not that stupid.”

  “No, I wouldn’t put you on the spot like that.”

  “What are you talking about, then? The Mexicans?”

  “What the hell do I care about the Mexicans? I want James and Williams.”

  A smile crept slowly over Fenelon’s face. “What do you have in mind?” he asked.

  “If I take them off the board, Brand is likely to be more reasonable with the split, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know about that. I’d love to see those assholes in the jackpot, though. They’re bent worse than a paper clip.”

  “What I need is evidence so strong that even a crooked county attorney couldn’t cover it up.”

  “I’m not testifying…”

  “I’m not looking for testimony. That’s just he said, she said stuff. Besides, it’ll put you in trouble with your boss, and we don’t want him to know what we’re doing, do we?”

  “Uh-uh.”

  “What I need is something you can hold in your hand.”

  Fenelon drank some of his bourbon and followed it up with a sip of beer. “They don’t just take cash payoffs,” he said. “Not that much cash around these days, you know? Sometimes they take merchandise. People’s ATVs and boats and shit. They get Brand to fence it for them sometimes—that’s how I know. Brand’ll have me move it for ’im, get it to the right people in exchange for envelopes filled with money.”

  Fenelon finished first his bourbon and then his beer.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “I know where they store the shit.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later I opened the passenger door of Josie’s Ford Taurus. She turned in the seat and looked up at me. “Is he on our side now?” Josie asked.

  “Brian is on Brian’s side. Don’t ever forget it.”

  “Oh, I won’t.”

  “Do you know where a small lake, might not even be a lake—they call it Cody. Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes. I sold some property over there a couple of years ago.”

  “You drive.”

  * * *

  Josie had to backtrack toward Krueger and then turned east. That made it easier for me to memorize the route, knowing I’d have to drive it myself later, probably in the dark. We eventually turned down a dirt road that led to the lake. Josie slowed, not because it was hard to drive, but because we were looking for a little-used track that veered off of it. We found it easily and followed it to a clearing just big enough to turn around a car and trailer. On the edge of the clearing was a prefabricated pole barn. We left the car to take a
closer look. There were no windows. A single door large enough for a small SUV to pass through was sealed with a cheap combination lock like the kind you find on high school lockers.

  “This shouldn’t be too difficult,” I said.

  “How are you going to open it?” Josie asked. “Listen to the tumblers like a safecracker?”

  “I need a can. A pop can. Beer can.”

  When Josie saw me searching the clearing, she did the same, eventually finding an empty beer can that had been lying in the tall grass so long that its logo had faded. I asked if she had a knife. She did, handing me a pocketknife with the emblem of the Swiss Army on the handle that she carried in her glove compartment. I used the knife to cut a 1½-inch square of aluminum out of the can and then trimmed the square until it resembled the block letter M. I folded the top of the M down and the legs of the letter up to create a sturdy shim. I slid the shim in the space between the shackle and the body of the lock and pulled upward. The lock popped open easily.

  “Ta-da,” I said.

  “Where did you learn that?” Josie wanted to know.

  “Public school.”

  I dropped the shim where I could easily find it again, removed the lock, and swung open the large door. I stepped inside the barn. It was crowded with a bass boat and trailer, an ATV, a big-screen TV, some PCs, a couple of sets of tools, and a lot of boxes that I didn’t bother to open.

  “I bet they don’t have receipts for any of this crap,” I said.

  “What do we do now?” Josie asked.

  I closed the door and relocked it. “Head to St. Paul,” I said. “I’ll drive.”

  Josie stood there, her hands on her hips, and watched as I circled the Taurus and opened the driver’s-side door.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Aren’t you going to tell me what you’re up to?”

  “Plausible deniability.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You can’t testify about what you don’t know. Are you coming?”

  THIRTEEN

  I parked Josie on one of the cobblestone streets surrounding Rice Park and went on alone. The park was created in 1849, the same year St. Paul was named capital of the Minnesota Territory, and was flanked by the Romanesque Revivalist jewel that is the Landmark Center, the luxurious crescent-shaped St. Paul Hotel, the Renaissance-style Central Public Library, and the opulent Ordway Center for the Performing Arts—each building as rich in history as the park itself. It was a prime lounging area for the city’s downtown worker bees, who were drawn there by the period streetlamps, benches, and honest-to-God grass, trees, and flower gardens. There were ice sculptures and trees laced with webs of light in the winter, and music, mostly jazz and blues, in the summer, and nearly every day of the year there was a vendor on the corner happy to sell you soft drinks, coffee, soft pretzels, hot dogs, and juicy Polish sausages from his umbrella-covered cart.