The Water's Edge

by Daniel Judson

  “What makes you think they were working for someone?”

  “These two young men weren’t particularly bright or ambitious, which is why they did what they did for us. A lack of imagination is a good thing when someone is transporting certain items of value from one place to another. It is our belief that someone coerced them into stealing from us.”

  “Why coerced?”

  “They knew what would happen if they betrayed us.”

  Bechet nodded. Not just the betrayers, but their women, their families. The South American way.

  The heart was a vital target indeed.

  “It’s hard to imagine they’d do something as foolish as to steal from my family,” Castello said, “knowing, as they did, the consequences.”

  “But who could do that? Who would have the power to coerce them into doing that?”

  “That’s what we would like you to find out.”

  Bechet glanced at LeCur, still standing outside the storage room, then looked back at Castello. “You’ve got plenty of resources to draw from, Jorge. You don’t need me.”

  “I will, of course, pay you for your time.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  “I went to considerable trouble to get you here tonight, Pay Day. Too much trouble to simply take no for an answer.”

  “That’s not my problem.”

  “It is, actually. Someone is making a move against my family. Do you really think I wouldn’t pull out all the stops, do what I had to do to protect the people I care about, protect the business my father spent his life building?”

  Bechet felt his heart race just a little then. “What are you saying, Jorge?”

  Castello looked at LeCur, nodded once. LeCur removed a cell phone from the top pocket of his field jacket, opened it, held down a single button, then brought the phone to his face. After a moment, he said something in French. He listened to the answer, then looked at Castello and announced, “He’s in place. We’re all set.”

  “What’s she like, Pay Day?” Castello said. “Is she pretty? Does she know what you used to be? Does it turn her on a little? Some women are like that, no?”

  Bechet’s heart froze. He said nothing.

  “Since you’ve gone to considerable trouble to keep her secret, I take it she means something to you, not like those other women.” Castello spoke to LeCur but kept his eyes on Bechet. “What’s the name of the street again?”

  “South Valley Road,” LeCur answered. “The last cottage at the top of the hill. Door around back.”

  “It didn’t really take much for your friend to tell us everything we needed to know,” Castello said. “Ironic, that the great Pay Day Bechet would be friends with someone who couldn’t take a punch. Maybe not ironic, maybe just funny.”

  Bechet looked toward the storage room then. Falcetti was standing now in its doorway. He was dressed, holding Bechet’s coat in one hand. He could barely keep his head up.

  “So should we send the old man in?” Castello said.

  Bechet looked back at him.

  “He touches her and I will kill you.”

  “I’m sure LeCur over here would have something to say about that. And anyway, no one’s going to go near her—unless, of course, you give us no other choice. But you know all about having no choice, don’t you?”

  “Don’t do this, Jorge.”

  “You should have expected it the moment you saw my face, brother. You know me, you know the way I think, how ahead of everyone I have to be. You should have known this was coming.”

  “But why me?”

  “Do you really need to ask that?”

  “Because I’m not connected to your family. If this goes to shit, it won’t come back to you.”

  “Look at it as karma, Pay Day. If you hadn’t left us, hadn’t . . . disconnected yourself from us like you did, you wouldn’t be in this situation. You’d be valuable to us, not dispensable.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start looking for whoever is behind this,” Bechet said.

  “You’re rusty, I understand that. It’s been a while. Our couriers had girlfriends. Find them, find out what they know, everything they know. I’m sure you remember how to do that. It’s likely that whoever killed our couriers knows about the girlfriends as well, so there probably isn’t a lot of time to waste. If they know the price we charge for betrayal and are intent on making certain people think this was our handiwork, then it just might be too late already.”

  “And if it is?”

  “Let’s hope for your sake it isn’t.”

  Bechet looked at Castello for a moment. “You don’t want to start this, Jorge.”

  “It seems neither of us has much of a choice here. Just find the girls, find out who is behind this, and you and your lady can just slip away. I give you my word on that.”

  The word of Castello’s father was one thing, but the word of his son was something else altogether. The difference between gold and fool’s gold. Bechet knew this, felt the fuse that had been lit getting shorter and shorter the more he thought of it, with each second that passed that he wasn’t in motion, doing something.

  But not now, not yet.

  “Where do I find them?” he said finally.

  “LeCur will give you an address. It’s where our two couriers lived. I doubt the police will find it any time soon, so you should be able to come and go as you please. Still, you’ll want to be careful.”

  Bechet thought about that. “What were their names?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’ve been very careful this whole time to avoid saying their names. It sounds a little like you don’t want me to know.”

  “Why would I want to keep that from you?”

  “You tell me.”

  Castello nodded, then said, “James Michaels and Richard Romano. Those were their names. Not friends of yours, by any chance.”

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know the names of their girlfriends. But I’m sure once you have a look around the apartment you’ll be able to pick up their trail.” Castello looked at Bechet for a moment, then said, “I’m sorry about this, Pay Day. I really am.”

  Bechet said nothing.

  Castello nodded toward LeCur. “Start the clock.” LeCur said into the phone, “All clear,” then flipped the lid closed. He held on to the phone, his hard eyes fixed on Bechet.

  “Just so you know, his old man remains outside your place till we hear from you. You’ve got a little over six hours till first light. We expect to hear something from you by then. LeCur will call his old man every half hour, on the dot, and if he fails to make a call, even by a second, his old man goes inside. Do you understand?”

  Bechet nodded.

  “If your lady tries to leave, the old man will stop her. And if LeCur here calls and his old man doesn’t pick up, then your buddy here dies, and we make certain the cops have plenty of reasons to blame you for it.”

  “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”

  “Like I said, we’ve taught you everything you know, not everything we know.”

  “How do I contact you?” Bechet said.

  “You don’t. LeCur will give you a number to call. I doubt you’d be fool enough to go to the police or the FBI, but if you do, your friend here and your lady friend are dead. In very unpleasant ways. And don’t forget, protective custody is still custody. You’ve gone to too much trouble to live free just to throw it all away in a moment of panic. We clear on all this, Pay Day?”

  Again, Bechet nodded.

  “A few minutes after I leave you’ll be free to go. Don’t want you thinking you can somehow get out of this by following me and running me off the road.” Castello looked toward LeCur, who was on his cell phone again.

  “The car’s here,” LeCur said. He flipped the cell phone closed, then returned it to the top pocket of his field jacket.

  Castello nodded, looked at Bechet one last time, said, “I’m not my father, Pay Day. I won’t
let you off the hook as easily as he did. Do us both a favor and remember that, okay?”

  He waited a moment more, then walked to the exit and stepped outside. Bechet glimpsed the dark night beyond through the open door. He had almost forgotten about the bad weather, the slick roads and the patches of blinding fog. But there was nothing he could do about that. Once the door swung closed Bechet made a quick check of his watch. It was 12:57. LeCur had ended the call to his father less than a minute ago. The clock, then, was ticking. Bechet needed to make his move against the Algerian, needed to make it now, there was just no other way out of this.

  Once again, Castello had left Bechet with no choice but to find a way of escape.

  The fuse was close to its end now, Bechet just seconds from exploding.

  Falcetti was just outside the storage-room doorway, LeCur only ten feet away, both men looking at Bechet expectantly, waiting for his reaction. An animal in a corner, dangerous, unpredictable. Bechet glanced at Falcetti, then at LeCur, his hard face blank, his body, except for the movements of his head, motionless. Suddenly, though, Bechet flung himself into motion and headed straight toward Falcetti, rushing at him fast, like a man who had given in to an irresistible and violent rage. The instant Bechet began to move, LeCur reached under his jacket for his Desert Eagle, stepping back as he pulled it out, putting a safe distance between himself and Bechet. He aimed the muzzle at the floor ahead of him and tracked Bechet with his eyes, turning his torso so his shoulders were always square with his target. Bechet didn’t stop at the sight of the drawn firearm, though, didn’t even slow, just continued straight for Falcetti like a man who could simply take no more.

  “Hold it,” LeCur ordered.

  “Fucking shoot me,” Bechet snapped.

  Bechet reached Falcetti, it took only seven or eight determined strides to close the distance, grabbed him by his shirt with both hands, almost lifting the guy off the floor. Falcetti flinched, his eyes even more wild with fear than before, as Bechet angrily shoved him back into the narrow room. Once they were through the doorway the jacket Falcetti had been holding, Bechet’s jacket, fell to the floor, his hands rising up instinctively to cover his head and face. Bechet made a quick quarter turn, driving Falcetti into the wall, hard, pressing him against it. The doorway was to Bechet’s left now, and in his peripheral vision he could see LeCur on the dance floor. He was moving toward them, his gun, held muzzle down still, firmly in two hands. Bechet began to shake Falcetti, cursing at him, yelling, a man gone wild. “You’re fucking dead, Bobby. You’re fucking dead.” From the corner of his eye Bechet glimpsed LeCur, saw him raise his handgun to the firing position, then let it down, only to raise it again and keep it there. So much uncertainty.

  LeCur stepped into the doorway, commanded, “Let him go. Now.” But Bechet ignored him, kept Falcetti against the wall, continued to shake him violently, to vent his rage.

  “You’re fucking dead! You’re fucking dead!” LeCur gave the order again, to which Bechet snapped, “Fucking shoot me. Fucking shoot him. I don’t fucking care.” LeCur maintained his firing posture, his elbows bent, tucked tight to his body, one leg forward, the other back slightly, knees loose. Bechet pulled Falcetti from the wall then, made another quarter turn, was facing the doorway now, facing LeCur with Falcetti, stunned, frightened, between them. LeCur removed his supporting hand from the butt of the gun, held it out to keep Falcetti at a distance. Bechet was shaking Falcetti back and forth now, like a schoolyard bully, and LeCur reached out for the collar of Falcetti’s shirt, intending to pull Falcetti from Bechet’s hands and separate them, get control of a situation that had so suddenly spun out of his control. The instant he began to pull, though, pull with all his power, everything changed, and changed fast.

  Falcetti went from being shaken back and forth to moving backward only, moving faster than LeCur was able to pull. Falcetti, off his feet now, little more than a human projectile, closed the distance LeCur had left as a buffer and slammed into LeCur with the force of a tackle. LeCur stumbled backward, his gun now pressed flat between his body and Falcetti’s. He quickly regained his footing, though, stabilized himself as Falcetti, his balance lost from Bechet’s sudden, violent shove, began to fall. LeCur tried to retreat several steps, reclaim distance and a good firing position, get his gun clear and put Bechet square in the sights, but it was already too late for that.

  Bechet was all over him.

  And LeCur was candy.

  Bechet had moved around Falcetti as he collided with LeCur, got in next to the young Algerian before he even knew Bechet was there. Bechet landed a right hook into LeCur’s ribs that made LeCur almost fold. Crouched low for the body shot, Bechet recocked his torso as he rose with all the power he had in his legs, then landed a second right hook, this one landing just a bit too high, striking LeCur’s cheek and not his jaw. LeCur stumbled back, Falcetti still against him, still falling, but Bechet was tight on the Algerian, right there beside him. A full second had yet to pass since the blow to the ribs had struck, and now an overhand left was coming down, Bechet’s full weight behind it. The overhand landed right on the button, flush on LeCur’s chin, and it was like hitting a switch. LeCur’s legs turned instantly to rubber, his knees buckling. He went down as if a trapdoor had been opened beneath him, was unconscious even before he and his Desert Eagle hit the floor.

  Bechet didn’t waste any time. He followed LeCur down to the floor, mounting him and striking him three times in the head with his right elbow. One, two, three. Each blow bounced LeCur’s head off the boards of the dance floor like a ball. Bechet then rose, striding LeCur. He kicked the handgun out of reach, and grabbing the collar of the field jacket, he dragged LeCur into the storage room, turned him so he was facedown on the floor.

  Bechet looked toward Falcetti, who was scrambling to get to his feet. He was beyond startled now.

  “You okay?” Bechet said.

  Falcetti didn’t answer, couldn’t.

  “You okay, Bobby?”

  Falcetti shook his head. He was standing now, staring at Bechet, what Bechet had done, made of the Algerian with a gun.

  “I need your help,” Bechet said.

  He placed LeCur’s hands behind his back, then peeled off the field jacket, tossing it aside. He grabbed a chuck of rope off the floor and began to tie LeCur’s hands together at the wrists.

  Falcetti didn’t move.

  Bechet glanced at him. “Bobby, c’mon. I need your help.”

  Falcetti entered the room, stopping just inside the doorway.

  “Get a piece of rope,” Bechet ordered. “Tie his feet together.”

  Falcetti hesitated.

  “C’mon, Bobby. There isn’t a lot of time.”

  Falcetti nodded. He knelt down, picked up a length of rope, began to wind it around LeCur’s ankles. He looked and moved like a man in shock.

  “You okay?” Bechet said again.

  Again, Falcetti nodded. He was looking at something out of the corner of his eye. Bechet, working fast to secure LeCur’s hands, followed Falcetti’s line of vision to LeCur’s left arm. His inner forearm, specifically. He saw three tattoos. Dark stars, identical in every way to the single tattoo on Bechet’s inner left forearm.

  “You guys have the same . . .” Falcetti didn’t finish his sentence.

  Bechet glanced at LeCur’s forearm but ignored the comment. When he was done securing LeCur’s hands, he helped Falcetti finish up with LeCur’s feet. Every now and then Falcetti glanced at the tattoo on Bechet’s forearm. When LeCur’s feet were bound, Bechet stood, stepped deeper into the room and searched the shelves until he found a stack of bar rags. He grabbed several, found on another shelf a small toolbox. Inside was a roll of duct tape. He returned to LeCur, shoved one of the rags into his mouth, then, using the remaining rags as gloves, stuck the end of the tape to the side of LeCur’s face and wound a long strand around his head like a gag, did this several times, just to be certain. He did the same around LeCur’s eyes. The only flesh exposed
was LeCur’s nose and chin.

  Bechet quickly searched LeCur’s pockets, found a folding knife and a Zippo lighter, a ring of keys and a wallet. He shoved them all into the various pockets of his jeans, along with the roll of duct tape, then picked up the last remaining piece of rope and his Maglite off the floor, tucked the butt end of the flashlight and the rope into his back pocket before grabbing his own corduroy jacket and putting it on as he stood.

  Falcetti had retreated to the doorway, was looking now at his friend. Bechet moved around him, hurried to the field jacket, picked it up.

  “Any spots in your vision, Bobby? Ringing in your ears? Loss of balance? Nausea?”

  “No.”

  “If you start feeling sick to your stomach, go to the emergency room. Other than that, I don’t care where you go, Bobby, just go somewhere and stay put, okay? Stay out of sight.” Bechet checked the jacket, making sure the cell phone hadn’t fallen out of the top pocket, then opened the coat and used it to pick up the Desert Eagle, careful not to touch the gun with his bare hands. He folded the jacket around the gun and looked at Falcetti. “Do you understand?”

  Falcetti nodded. Bechet turned and headed toward the door, could hear Falcetti moving behind him. After a pause to take in a deep breath, Bechet pushed the door open a crack with his foot. He waited, heard nothing, then opened the door enough to slip through. Falcetti followed close behind. They crossed the courtyard to the gate. It was closed now. Bechet nudged it open, studied what he could see of the parking lot. It was empty. He slipped through the gate and walked the length of the fence to the parking lot behind the restaurant. His Jeep was still there, nose to nose with the cab. He bolted for it. When he reached it, Falcetti was right behind him.

  “Where are you going, man?”

  “Get somewhere safe, Bobby.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Bechet ignored the question, pulled the Maglite from his back pocket, tossed it onto the Jeep’s floor. “Check into a motel, leave town, do something,” he said. “I’ll let you know when it’s all over.”