The Dark Path

by Kevin McManus

  “They’ll kill me!”

  Morrigan picked the guy up by his neck and squeezed. “And I won’t?”

  Bukowski was unnerved by Morrigan’s tactics. She opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. Morrigan’s way was the only method that would produce results.

  As she waited for Morrigan to finish up, Dyer looked at her, pleading. “Please,” Dyer said to her. “Don’t let—”

  Morrigan punched him again in the gut. “Don’t look at her. Don’t talk to her. You’re answering to me now, understand?”

  Dyer gasped. “I can’t tell you—”

  Morrigan took out his pistol, cocked back the hammer, and jammed the muzzle under Dyer’s chin. “Last chance,” he said, “then I blow your brains all over the fucking wall.”

  “Holy shit!”

  “Three seconds. One.”

  “Please!”

  “Two!”

  “Fuck!” Dyer screamed. “Okay, shit, fuck! There were hard drives in the bag man! That’s it! Hard drives! Like ten of them!”

  Morrigan dropped Dyer and watched him writhe on the floor. “Hard drives?” he said, perplexed.

  Dyer nodded. “Hard drives.”

  Morrigan shot a look to Bukowski. “Where is the bag?” he asked Dyer.

  Dyer shook his head. “Someone already picked it up. That’s how it works. You get a call, you go to a spot, you pick up the bag, then you hand it over.”

  “What’s on the drives?” Bukowski asked.

  “No one ever knows,” Dyer said. “That’s not how it works. We’re just couriers. So are the guys in the cab. We never give names. We never see the same guy twice. That’s all I know…” he began to cry. “I swear…”

  Bukowski and Morrigan picked Dyer up, moved him to the kitchen and gave him a couple of Advil and a cup of water to wash it down. Morrigan pulled out a chair and sat in front of the guy like they were in an interrogation room.

  “Hard drives,” Morrigan said. “Ten of them?”

  Dyer nodded. “Yeah. Again, I don’t know what’s on them. We never do.”

  “How many of these drops have you done?”

  Dyer held up three fingers.

  Bukowski asked: “And there were always hard drives in the bags?”

  Dyer nodded. “Always. I went to different spots every time. These guys move around. They don’t like staying in the same spot twice. They told me I would only do five drops before they cut me loose. They paid me well, so I didn’t complain about it being temp shit.”

  “You always ride in a cab?”

  Dyer nodded again. “Always.”

  Morrigan said: “And you never get a name?”

  Dyer shook his head. “I get a call on my burner. I’m told that I’m going to be picked up by a cab. Cab shows up, driver doesn’t say shit, I pick up the bag, come back here, and someone else usually picks it up in a day or two.”

  “Where’s your burner?” Bukowski asked.

  Dyer nodded over his shoulder. “Kitchen. Cabinet next to the sink.”

  Bukowski retrieved the cell and looked it over, the call logs listing an unknown number six times.

  “Can you pull anything off it?” Morrigan asked.

  “Maybe,” Bukowski said as she pocketed the cell. “But these fuckers sound like they have all their bases covered.”

  Morrigan felt a buzz in his pocket that made his eyes go wide. His phone rang at least twenty to thirty times a day, but something about the way it vibrated in his pocket indicated to him that a certain someone was calling. He reached in, pulled out the phone, saw the unknown ID flashing on the screen, and stepped into the bedroom away from Bukowski and Dyer.

  He answered—but he said nothing.

  “Hey,” the voice of Klein finally called out. “How’s it going, John Boy?”

  Morrigan gritted his teeth. “The fuck do you want?”

  “A little more cordial of a greeting, for starters.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Well, you’re about to get a whole lot busier. I need you to meet me. Now.”

  “Where?”

  “Joe-Joe’s Café. You know where it is?”

  Morrigan recalled the hipster spot in the village well. His ex-wife had dragged him there on more than one occasion. “I do.”

  “Thirty minutes,” Klein said before he abruptly hung up the phone.

  Morrigan stood for a moment as Bukowski approached him. “What’s up?”

  “It was Klein,” Morrigan said. “He wants to meet me.”

  “When?”

  “Now. I’ll have to head out right away if I’m going to make the meet.”

  “You want backup?”

  Morrigan shook his head and stripped off his Kevlar. “No. Stay with that prick in the next room until I get back. I don’t want him moving. He’s our only line now into whatever Klein’s got going on with this cab company thing. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Morrigan left the apartment and made sure he wasn’t being tailed as he descended the steps and was on the road in under thirty seconds. As the sound of tires squealed from outside Dyer’s apartment, Bukowski turned to Dyer, placed her hands on her hips, and said: “How’s about a cup of coffee?” with a forced and patronizing tone.

  Dyer said nothing in reply—head throbbing and still bleeding.

  Morrigan arrived at the café five minutes before Klein had told him to be there. It was a two-story joint with a cacophony of styles that couldn’t settle on one aesthetic. There was a spiral staircase leading up to the top level, indicating that the place had been a library or bookstore at some point in its existence.

  Seated at a table in the back at the top was Klein. He raised his coffee to Morrigan in a toast as the detective ascended the staircase to meet him.

  “Hey,” Klein said. “How’s it going, John Boy?”

  Morrigan sat across from him. “Stop calling me that.”

  “You got something else you’d prefer?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t call me at all.”

  “Well, you know that’s not how this works, John. I call—you answer.”

  “And I answered—so what the fuck do you want?”

  Klein lowered his voice and leaned in. “Got a job for you. Need it done before the night’s out.”

  “What’s the job?”

  Klein smiled. Shrugged. “Nothing you haven’t done before, sport. You’re well-versed in the kind of thing I need you to do.”

  Morrigan sighed and leaned in, intertwining his fingers and clenching them with a white-knuckled grip as he stared deep into Klein’s eyes. “It’s bad enough,” he said, “that I’m here dancing to your tune.”

  “Took you long enough to come around to do it,” Klein said. “You really don’t have any idea how close you’ve come to being eighty-sixed.”

  “Don’t threaten me, fuckwad. I don’t give five fucks who you work for or the clout that you’re toting around. You want me in your employ,” he pouted his lip, “fine, you got it. But if you insist on jerking me around like some kind of frat boy on rush week, I’ll lean across the table and smack you in the mug so hard you’ll forget your own name.”

  Klein laughed. “My man. I really admire your gusto, Morrigan. Really. But don’t make threats. It’s a futile attempt at best.”

  Morrigan leaned back. “What the hell do you want? Spill it.”

  Klein sucked air through his teeth. “I need you to off someone.”

  Morrigan looked away. “Christ.”

  “Like I said—nothing you haven’t done before.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Can’t tell you that. Not here.”

  “But you will tell me that you need someone offed. You’re a pisser, my friend.”

  Klein shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure you were still on the same page. Some of our… mutual friends are concerned that you don’t have the spine to stay committed.”

  “Oh yeah, like who? My brother?”

  Another shrug. “You
could say that. You could also say that any move you make from here on out will determine not only your fate but his as well.”

  Morrigan gritted his teeth. “Don’t threaten my family, Klein.”

  Klein smiled. “I thought you didn’t even like your brother.”

  “My brother is a piece of shit, but he is still my blood. There’s a difference between not liking one’s brother and just standing idly by while some Brooks Brothers-wearing fucker makes threats against him. He’s an asshole—but he’s still my brother.”

  Klein nodded. “You’re a dedicated soul, Morrigan. I just wanted to make sure.”

  Morrigan couldn’t help but think of Ricky Dyer, of the hard drives, of the mystery behind the cab company and whatever Klein and Connolly were up to. But he knew he couldn’t show his hand. He had to play ball. He had to follow Klein wherever he led him until he had all the facts lined up and a plan in place to strike back. He didn’t want to kill anybody—but he would go with the flow until he had a card to play.

  “When do you want this to go down?” Morrigan inquired.

  “Tonight,” Klein said, glancing around the coffee joint to make sure no one was listening in. “You’re going to meet a friend of mine. He’s going to give you the instructions. Once he does—you’ll execute said instructions.”

  “Why not just tell me?”

  “Because I don’t trust you, Morrigan.”

  “I thought I passed your little test on that end.”

  “You did… Well sort of. But I’m worried that if I tell you too much, you’ll try and stay a step ahead of the game.”

  Fuckin-A right, Morrigan thought. Just wait until I have the opportunity, you little prick. “Fine,” he said to Klein. “So how do we do this? I can’t just stand around with my dick in my hand waiting for you to give the order.”

  Klein reached into his pocket and produced a burner phone. He slid it across the table to Morrigan. “Welcome to the family anytime minutes plan, John. Use them wisely.”

  Morrigan took the phone and glanced it over.

  “Only one number is programmed in,” Klein said. “You’ll get a call tonight between ten and midnight. You’ll be given an address. Then you will go to the address. My man will supply you with a name and a location and a piece to use for the job. Once it’s done—you’ll meet him again and give him back the piece you used for the job.”

  “What for?”

  “Because we still want leverage over you, buddy. Make sure your prints are on the gun.”

  “You’re dreaming if you think I’m going to do that.”

  “And you’re delusional if you think that this thing is going to go any way but my way. Christ, Morrigan, get with the program. I get the crazy Irish bravado you have, but Jesus.”

  Morrigan clenched his fist and looked away from Klein—he didn’t want to stare the little pissant in the face. “How long are we going to play this game, man? When the hell are you going to cut me loose?”

  “When I damn well feel like it. There’s no expiration date on this. You’ll do as we say for as long as we say. Capisce?”

  Morrigan pushed back and gave himself a few inches from Klein, his rage boiling and inching toward getting the better of him. He opened his mouth but then shut it, worried that it would only further fuel Klein and his rhetoric. Instead, he took a deep breath, nodded his contrition, and said: “Okay. I’ll do it. I won’t ask questions.” He leaned in. “But don’t ever threaten me or my brother again. If you do—I’ll toss caution to the fucking wind and break that spray-tanned face of yours into pieces.”

  Klein grabbed his mocha and put it to his lips. “If that’s what you gotta do…”

  Morrigan took a moment, stared at Klein in the eyes one more time, stood, and left. On his way out, Klein called out: “Don’t be late tonight, champ. Yeah?”

  Morrigan stuffed his hands in his pockets as he swiftly exited the coffee shop. He stormed over to his car and got behind the wheel. He cranked the radio dial up as loud as he could as he balled up a fist and punched the steering wheel over and over again.

  He had never felt so trapped in his entire corrupted life. He was like a rat in a cage.

  29

  A Diversion

  Morrigan drove longer than he needed to after his meet-up with Klein, stewing and with difficulty suppressing the anger and frustration that was welling up inside of him. He blasted the radio in his car, trying to drown out his thoughts and oblivious to the fact that sixties throwbacks were setting the tone. Around six blocks in after he left the coffee shop, the radio scanner came alive with activity.

  “Requesting any additional units to the corner of 128th and Amsterdam. Active shooter situation.”

  Morrigan snagged the handset and clicked the transmit button. “Three-William-eight en route.”

  “Roger, Three-William-eight.”

  He then hit the siren and lights, weaving his way through the traffic and making his way to the corner of 128th where a flurry of red-and-blue lights on top of white patrol units were parked at canted angles in a kind of barricade. Morrigan pulled his Subaru up just outside of the barricade and piled out of the car.

  Sergeant Menendez, who recognized Morrigan’s car from a distance, flagged him down and met him halfway.

  “What’s going on?” Morrigan inquired.

  “Guy’s got a gun to his head.” Menendez sighed and forked a thumb over his shoulder. “Some plumber by the name of Garcia got laid off from his job. Came back into the office waving a gun, but the security guard chased him out. He ran about two blocks before one of the units intercepted him.”

  “Leave me alone!” a dismayed voice called out from the other side of the barricade. “Get the fuck back!”

  Morrigan huffed. “They got a doc on the way?”

  “He’s on the other side of town.”

  “Fantastic.”

  “The guys are getting anxious. I keep having to pull them back.”

  Morrigan looked around and saw a dozen cops waiting behind their vehicles, conversing with one another and trying to find an angle to take down the shooter.

  “I’ve got a sniper perched up on a rooftop to the east,” Menendez said. “He’s got a clear shot.”

  Morrigan took a moment, the severity of the situation not fazing him and somehow putting him at ease. In fact, he was enjoying the temporary diversion from the mind-bending pressure. He laughed, wondering for a brief moment if everything that was weighing on him was turning him into something reminiscent of a shell-shocked war veteran. He was feeling antsy—ready to take a risk. “Let me talk to him,” he said to Menendez.

  Menendez furled his brow. “What?”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “I heard you, but this guy is spinning. We need a professional.”

  Morrigan didn’t bother going back and forth with Menendez. “You already got one,” he said as he stepped around the officer, moved toward the barricade, and weaved his way through the officers and vehicles.

  “Morrigan,” Menendez protested fruitlessly.

  But Morrigan was already walking past the cars. The guy with the gun to his head, Garcia, was standing twenty feet away and surrounded by a semi-circle of NYPD officers. His whole appearance was disheveled, his clothes loose and saggy where he had pulled at them with nervous tension. His XXL plaid shirt hung out on one side over the waist of his bargain basement jeans. The gun was pressed against his temple and his whole being trembled. Sweat flushed down his face even though it was in the heart of winter.

  Morrigan took a moment to look the guy over, his hands on his hips as he drew an anticipatory breath. “Hey,” he finally called out. “Buddy, can we talk?”

  The plumber pointed a finger, his eyes wide and bloodshot. “I said get back!”

  Morrigan held up his hands. “Okay,” he said. “I’m not moving.”

  “I’ll do it, man! I swear I’ll do it!”

  “I believe you. We all do.”

  “Then fuck off be
fore I pull the trigger! You want your boys to be cleaning up brain and skull? Huh?”

  Morrigan took a breath. “Why are you doing this?”

  “None of your fucking business!”

  “Well, it is my business if you’re going to be waving a gun in the middle of a public place.” He gestured to the crowd of citizens looking on from behind the barricade. “Look around you, brother. You’ve got a lot of scared people here, a lot of concerned people.”

  The plumber laughed manically. “Yeah? They’re scared? They’re mad?” he pounded his fist on his chest. “What about me? Huh? What about those fucks that shit-canned me? They don’t care! They don’t care that I’m going to be out on the fucking streets!”

  Morrigan smirked. “Fuck them,” he said. “They don’t own you, brother.”

  “Stop calling me ‘brother!’”

  Morrigan held his hands up higher. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry.”

  A few moments passed as the plumber swayed to-and-fro, his gaze held firmly on Morrigan as his index finger slowly began to squeeze the trigger. “I’ll do it, man,” he said, his voice strained and cracking. “I’ll prove my point. I swear.”

  “And what point is that supposed to be?”

  “That you can’t fuck over a working man! I do my due diligence! I work hard!”

  “I’m sure you do.”

  “Then why did they let me go? Huh? Why?”

  Morrigan shrugged. “You want me to talk to them? You want me to find out why?”

  Garcia shook his head as tears streamed down his cheeks. “You can’t talk to them. They won’t care what you have to say. Those pricks only care about their bottom line. Us guys… the workers we are just a number to them, expendable. That’s all. Period.”

  Morrigan pointed the badge around his neck. “I’ve got the brass, my friend. They’ve got no choice but to indulge me in conversation. Come on. Let me come out there. Let me talk to you one-on-one. Let’s see if we can figure this out. Just you and me.”

  The plumber continued to sway, weighing up his options before nodding once and saying: “Okay… Okay, all right.”

  “Morrigan,” Menendez called out in a hushed tone.