“Your jet is waiting. You are in Germany now; in eight hours you will be at Langley.”
*****
Chris had showered, changed into the clothes that Jen had brought, and was on his second bowl of Nick’s goulash. Nick’s house had the wonderfully hearty aroma of beef, vegetables and pasta. Dalton and Nick sat at a small kitchen table talking.
Dalton gestured with a wide swipe with his arm. “This is quite a place you’ve got here. How did you ever find a detached house with two extra lots in Chicago?”
Nick answered, “I bought the houses on either side of me and tore them down. This place was gutted to the studs and rebuilt. The city owned this entire block and employees had first choice in the purchases.” Nick looked around, “It wouldn’t look half this good if my fiancée hadn’t helped me.”
Dalton asked, “Did you build that big garage in the back, too? It looks two cars deep and three across. That’s a lot of room for toys.”
Nick smiled, “I actually have a one bedroom rental back there. An older guy named Norman helps with maintenance for a break in the rent. You might see him out having a cigarette on and off during the night. He says that he’s always had his days and nights flipped around. I like the idea he’s awake at night for added security.”
Chris walked into the kitchen returning his empty bowl. “You are a good cook, Nick. Any chance you have a computer here I can use? I’m having withdrawals.”
Nick pointed to his office around the corner. “There’s both a desktop and a laptop in there somewhere.”
Chris left for Nick’s office and Dalton said, “Joe Small should get here any minute; he’s already an hour late. How do you want to play this?”
Nick’s doorbell rang. “I guess we wing it.”
Nick opened the door and gestured for Joe to enter. Nick whispered, “Chris is in my office playing on the computer. He thinks he’s just staying here for the night. Remember, he doesn’t know he’s been kidnapped. Do you have a habit of being late?”
Joe answered, “I had business that took longer than I expected. Damn this house smells good. Any left?”
Nick led Joe to the kitchen where Dalton was scooping up a bowl of goulash. Joe stopped and drew his pistol. “What the hell is going on? Who’s this?”
Nick took the bowl from Dalton, placed it on the table with a spoon and looked at Joe. “He’s with me. You might say we’re partners. Relax and eat your goulash.”
Dalton said, “My name is Dalton. The goulash is good.”
Joe holstered his pistol and walked to Nick’s office door. Chris was on the computer and didn’t even look up. Joe turned back and glared at Nick, “I don’t like surprises.” He pointed at Dalton. “This is a surprise.”
Nick smiled, “I’ve got the ace, Joe. I have Chris. That means you accomplished your assignment. Eat your goulash and we’ll come up with a plan. How long are we supposed to keep Chris?”
Joe reluctantly sat at the table across from Dalton and answered, “I was told a few days. My handler is flying here from New York. He should arrive around midnight. He has this address.” Joe nodded his head as he chewed. “He’ll definitely want some of this.”
Dalton said, “I don’t like surprises either. You give some guy we don’t know this address? What the hell? What’s his name?”
Joe looked angry. “I told you he was my handler. That should be enough. I don’t know anything about you either.”
Dalton said, “I’m sure you’re not going to tell your handler that. Nick lost his job helping you. He got you Chris. I’ll tell you all about me, but you give us this guy’s name.”
Joe took another bite of food. “That’s fair. J.T. Barrimore. He’s the owner of Goliath Security.”
Chapter Eleven
10:00 p.m., Buchanan, Michigan
Travis and Lenny parked on the shoulder of the U.S. 31 Bypass bridge just east of the small city of Buchanan. They waited for an opportunity to dump the barrel over the side and into the fast moving current of the St. Joseph River. It was dark enough on the bridge, but there was a steady stream of cars approaching the bridge from both directions.
After a good ten minute wait with no break in traffic, Travis looked at Lenny. “You’ve got to be kidding. This is a major highway.”
Lenny shrugged, “I don’t remember it being this busy. Course, I think the last time I was here was about twelve years ago. Do you wanna head to the boat landing? The exit for Buchanan is just over there on the other side of the highway. You know what? There’s another bridge on the way to the boat landing over on River Street just out of town. It won’t be near this crowded.”
Travis had lost his patience. “So, what’s your plan for the boat landing? Do we just roll the barrel into the water? It won’t go anywhere from there. It will probably get found at daybreak. A bridge just outside of town doesn’t sound too good either. We need someplace that is totally deserted.” Travis couldn’t believe he was disposing of a human body. He was a CPA. “This is a mistake. Every minute this barrel’s in the back of this truck, we are pushing our luck. Let’s face it, we haven’t been having much good luck. I say we head back toward Chicago, find some deep ditch on a dirt road, and dump it.”
Lenny smiled and grabbed another beer from the case on the floorboard. “Works for me.”
“How much do you drink anyway?” Travis lost count long before Lenny even went to the casino.
“Tonight, as much as it takes to forget. You want one?”
“No.”
Travis turned the truck around, drove back south to the U.S. 12 exit and headed west toward Chicago. This trip east had been a 45 minute waste of time. About five miles west of Buchanan was a flasher light and a small highway sign that announced the Village of Galien.
A rough looking bar on the corner had a billboard that boasted half pound hamburgers. What attracted Travis’ attention was a beat up green truck in the parking lot. It was nearly hidden by several old cars and a row of pickup trucks along the side of the building and an 18 wheeler that was tucked back as far as it could get. The parking lot lights had burned out and the neon sign on the front of the bar was missing just enough letters to display a somewhat obscene message to passersby.
Travis started laughing, pressed on the brake, and turned into the bar’s parking lot.
Lenny grabbed the dash because of the sudden turn and yelled, “Alright, dude. This is my kind of place!” Lenny began to spit comb his hair back and squirt his mint breath spray.
Travis slowly guided their truck to stop behind the green pickup nestled in a dark corner. Travis asked, “See what’s in that truck bed? Oil barrels just like ours. I bet there’s room for one more back there.”
“I think you’re right. Then we can go inside for a couple of beers and a little honkytonk.” Lenny’s wide grin made Travis laugh.
“I think we’ll get the hell out of here instead. Come on, let’s make this quick.”
The barrels in the green truck were all strapped together, but there was room to add one more. Loud music and the crack of pool balls filtered through the thin walls into the night air. Travis did more than his fair share of lifting the barrel. Lenny could hardly hang on to it in his drunken state.
Back on the highway, Travis sighed with relief. “I’m glad we don’t have that anymore. How much further until we get to Chicago?”
“We have to go through Three Oaks first. Then just before New Buffalo we can get on I-94 to Chicago.”
Travis glanced over at Lenny in time to witness him fall forward against his seat belt. He was finally passed out from the beer. This whole day had been a nightmare. First, he was shot at in front of the diner, and then he found out that Dominick put a million-dollar bounty on his head. Then he hooked up with Lenny and ended up at Frankie Mullen’s house, a mob hitman for God’s sake. Now, he had just disposed of a mobster in an oil barrel. Instead of flying to Paris a free man, he was hip deep in hell.
*****
Back in Galien
The big truck swerved to the left and blasted its air horn at Chester. Chester whipped his steering wheel back toward the bar’s parking lot fifty yards away. The back end of the semi clipped the corner of Chester’s truck sending it into a spin. Two gravel spitting spins later, his truck slammed to a stop at the front door of the bar.
The bar’s patrons ran outside after hearing the commotion and the semi driver ran across the highway and over to Chester. “Are you okay? Damn fool pulled out right in front of me! Your damn barrels are all over the highway.”
Chester appeared to be forming a thought as he shook his head and waved an index finger. Nothing audible came out of his mouth even though his lips were moving. The semi-truck driver asked the patrons watching for help getting the barrels off of the highway.
One barrel had been balancing precariously on the shoulder of the road and suddenly broke free to roll down the embankment directly toward them. People jumped out of its way and watched as it slammed into the back of Chester’s truck, popping off its lid. The lid went spinning across the parking lot as Raymond’s arm dropped from inside the barrel out onto the gravel.
The crowd screamed obscenities, grabbed their phones and dialed the cops.
Chester raised his chin and squint his eyes for a better look. “Who’s that?”
*****
Frankie Mullen must have fallen asleep in his recliner. When he awoke, his apartment was pitch black. Only the occasional sounds of street traffic broke the eerie silence of his living room. He turned on the light next to his chair. He had dreamt that Dominick was chasing him, trying to get his trophy. It had been a restless sleep and now he was wide awake. It seemed even more likely now, after thinking about it, that Dominick planned to betray him. Frankie was sure he was going to be traded to the FBI for Dominick’s freedom.
Frankie looked at the boxes stacked along the wall that still needed to be moved to New Buffalo. Most of them were trophies of sorts. Forty-five years of little treasures. He had forgotten the stories that went with some of them. Others, he remembered as if it had been yesterday. Yesterday, what in the world did he do yesterday? Old age was playing with his mind.
He focused again on the cluttered room. Whatever had made him think he could finish his moving tomorrow? Frankie walked over to the kitchen and opened the window. The crisp night air smelled good for a change. He made himself a bologna sandwich and sat at his small table thinking about Dominick. The clock over the stove said midnight. His knees didn’t feel so bad right now. He grabbed the remote from the table and pointed to his TV in the living room. Breaking news announced a commercial airliner had been shot down over the Ukraine. Frankie turned the TV off. He only had five channels and he knew they would all be talking about the stupid plane.
He carried his empty paper plate over to the wastebasket and then opened the freezer door of the refrigerator. There sat his trophy. “You’re the one thing I can count on these days, Jimmy.” Frankie shut the freezer door and decided to load up his car for the trip. Everyone else in the apartment building would be sleeping and he wouldn’t be stopped for small talk.
Frankie’s car was full an hour later and he still wasn’t sleepy. His knees were even okay considering he had made numerous trips to the parking garage. Frankie eased himself down onto his recliner and hit the remote’s TV power button. That stupid breaking news was still talking about the downed jet in the Ukraine. Frankie decided he might as well drive to New Buffalo now. He could unload his car tonight and a second trip later in the afternoon could be his last. He and Jimmy would finally be at their retirement home.
He didn’t like to drive at night anymore. The lights seem to blind him, especially if the roads were wet. The only good thing was that there would be very little traffic, especially once he got away from the city. He unwrapped the special eyeglass filters he had purchased last year for night driving glare and clipped them to his eyeglasses. He looked into the freezer again and said, “Back in about four hours.” He checked that his pistol was loaded and threw a handful of ammo into his jacket pocket with his gun. He’d be okay once he got out of Chicago and east of Gary, away from all of the punks.
Two hours rolled by and Frankie was surprised that he still wasn’t tired. The clip-ons for his glasses really worked. It was actually fun to be driving at night again. Frankie took the U.S. 12 exit off from Highway 94 and turned toward New Buffalo. The sleepy little town looked deserted. Exactly what Frankie liked about it.
He turned down the road that led to his lake house and stopped short of his driveway. A rusty old Chevy Malibu was parked on the shoulder of the road just past his house. It clearly didn’t belong to his neighbors. Frankie walked up to the window and peeked in. It was filthy with food wrappers, maps, and empty bottles. He walked around to the passenger side and tried the door. It was unlocked.
Inside the glove box was a registration for Butch Dunlap. The name wasn’t familiar. Frankie shut the car door, and placed his hand on the hood of the car. It was warm. Butch Dunlap was somewhere. Frankie left his own car parked at the end of the driveway and walked down the gravel drive. He pulled out his pistol and screwed on his silencer. He started to walk around the house when he heard a grunt and some movement.
Frankie’s eyes were adjusted to the dark. He made out the form of a man standing at the corner of his house. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
Butch figured that Frankie must have found out that Travis had been there. The old fart probably thought he could make a quick million bucks with Travis’ head. Butch took a step toward Frankie. “The head is mine, old man.”
Frankie was instantly furious. The thought of his trophy being in the hands of this punk made him sick to his stomach. He could tell from Butch’s slurred words that he had been sleeping or was drunk. Frankie noticed this hadn’t been Butch’s first encounter with harm tonight. As Butch walked toward him, Frankie saw that a bloody rag was tied around his head.
Frankie’s killer instincts kicked in. Butch wasn’t going to survive this encounter. “Did Dominick send you?”
The man grunted, “You could say that.”
Butch raised his pistol to frighten Frankie into leaving. Frankie saw the gun in the moonlight and shot first. Butch stumbled toward him and Frankie shot again. Butch dropped face down on the gravel drive. Frankie kicked his face to the side. “Thanks for the warning, punk.”
Frankie cursed Dominick as he unloaded the boxes from his car into the house. Each trip back to the car he noticed the blood pool growing from Butch’s wounds. The only way to stop a parade of thugs to his house was to kill the source. His decision was made: Dominick would be his next hit. It saddened Frankie that most of his friendships ended badly.
He glanced over at Butch’s body. He certainly didn’t want it found on his property. Frankie sat on his front porch step. Moving a body is not a job for an old man. Usually he just left them where they fell. This one was at his house.
Suddenly he remembered that he told Lenny to bring him a burn barrel. He locked up the house and slowly walked around the perimeter. His flashlight finally landed back on Butch. There was no burn barrel. Frankie cursed. That would have been perfect. He could easily seal up the lid and have Lenny dump it somewhere. He decided to just drive up and down the narrow streets along the lake and steal a barrel. Everyone had them for beach debris, and kept them near the street for easy pickup. As long as he found one with a lid, he was golden.
*****
Travis listened to Lenny snore as their truck rolled past Three Oaks and neared New Buffalo heading back to Chicago. The stress of the day was taking its toll and Travis caught himself wanting to close his eyes.
Travis nudge
d Lenny’s shoulder. “What do you think about us just staying at Mr. Mullen’s place? He won’t be coming to the lake house until later in the day, right?”
Lenny yawned and opened his eyes. “That’s a good idea. I bunk up there every now and then. There’s no way that old fart is going to drive from Chicago in the dark.”
Ten minutes later Travis pulled into Frankie’s driveway. The truck’s lights landed on a body sprawled across the gravel drive.
Travis slugged Lenny, “Wake up! Jesus! I think you killed both of them! Could that bullet have ricocheted? Looks like Butch walked a bit and dropped dead.”
Lenny’s eyes popped open. “Oh, hell no! You probably killed him with that shovel!”
Travis and Lenny walked over to Butch’s body and stood looking down at him. Travis couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
He used his foot to push Butch over. “There’s a bullet hole in his chest. You only fired once.” Travis wiped his palms over his face. When would this crazy nightmare stop? “I don’t get it.”
Lenny started to panic. “So, now you’re CSI? Who cares if a bullet ricocheted? We can’t leave him here! Mr. Mullen is moving in later today.”
Travis cursed. “You grab his feet and I’ll take his arms. Let’s throw him in the back of the truck and cover him with the tarp.”
Lenny had quickly sobered up. At the end of Frankie’s driveway, he pointed at the old Malibu on the shoulder of the road and asked, “What about that car? We just gonna leave it here?”
Travis hadn’t noticed the car when they pulled in. He was so tired, he thought Butch’s body in the driveway was a nightmare. He couldn’t deal with another problem. He twisted the wheel and pressed the accelerator. “Yes, we’re leaving it here.”
Travis and Lenny headed for U.S. 12 again. This time Travis turned west toward Chicago. He needed a good idea and fast.
Zero Margin: Nick Stryker, Book Three The Shallow End Gals (Nick Stryker Series 3) Page 10
