by Mike Faricy
Just now, Val wished he hadn’t had those four cups of coffee earlier this afternoon. He had to use the bathroom and knew he couldn’t wait much longer as he listened to J.W. drone on.
“You know, son, if I wanted to put you out of business, I would have just come in here, shot you, and gone out to your storage unit and taken everything. You know, the one you were at this noon.”
You could hear Val’s lower tract rumbling in the silence that followed.
“What storage unit are you—”
“Cut the shit, son. Look. How about we take a ride out there, you show me what you have, and I’ll tell you how we’re gonna move all that inventory? Otherwise, you’re just wasting my time.”
J.W. pulled the gun out of his waistband. He didn’t point it at Val. That wasn’t necessary. He and the gun already had Val’s undivided attention.
“Okay, let me use the bathroom for a minute,” Val said.
J.W.’s eyes narrowed.
“Look, if I was going to kill you, or you me, neither one of us would do it here. You want to, come on in, and you can watch me if you like,” Val said.
“No, that ain’t necessary. You go ahead. Just remember…” He waved the pistol in the air as a gentle reminder and watched as Val walked into the small bathroom off the office and closed the door.
Chapter 55
Bobby Falconi had watched J.W. walk into the Moonlight Dance Academy from down the street. That was the dance instructor? Not exactly what he’d expected, but then again, maybe it was, sort of a crafty old bastard. This was maybe starting to make a little more sense. He opened the trunk of his car, unzipped the soft nylon cases, deciding on just the right tools.
Years of experience had taught Bobby a number of things. One was that everyone had a breaking point, and when they reached it, they talked. They’d sing a song if you wanted them to, but they all definitely talked. He figured an old guy like that ain’t got much time left. He’ll talk pretty damned fast.
He grabbed a nice nine-millimeter, stuffed it into his belt against the small of his back, and picked up the baseball bat. He preferred aluminum bats because they made a nice ping sound. He grabbed a pair of handcuffs too, maybe cuff the old bastard to a chair or something. Let him think for a minute or two about the pain he was about to receive then crack him with the bat. Let him hear the little ping sound when it hit his shoulder or shattered his knee cap.
He reminded himself, dead guys can’t pay. They can’t tell you anything, either.
As soon as Val went into the bathroom, J.W. jumped up, went around to the far side of the desk, and started pawing through papers. One look at the stack of applications, and he realized how Val got his targets. He sat down in Val’s chair, placed the pistol on his lap, and began reading.
That’s just the way Bobby Falconi found J.W., sitting behind Val’s desk reading through the stack of applications.
“You the dance guy?” Bobby asked, standing in the doorway.
J.W. took an instant dislike to Bobby Falconi. He didn’t like the expensive clothes, the hair, or the Jersey accent. And he sure as hell didn’t like the attitude. Damn Yankee tourists, ruining this part of the country, no damn manners. Dance lessons, Lord in Heaven!
“We’re closed. Come back another time,” J.W. growled, making a point of not sounding polite.
“Ya, well, I’m here now. I want to talk about my mother’s dance lessons.”
J.W. wasn’t the most patient of men, and he certainly wasn’t now. “Look, I told you. We’re closed. There a part of that you have trouble understanding?”
Bobby was always patient. He once squeezed a banker’s head in a vice for almost two days, turning the vice slowly, patiently, until he had crushed the guy’s skull. The banker had talked early on, even before Bobby put his head in the vice, but Bobby had to make an example of him. Now this conversation seemed to be taking Bobby down the same road.
“You the head man here?” Bobby asked.
“Yeah,” J.W. growled. “I’m the boss, and I said we’re closed. Now I told you twice before, so get out.”
“Oh, okay. Sorry to have bothered you,” Bobby said as he turned to walk away.
J.W. stared for half a second at the empty doorway, shaking his head. “Stupid bastard,” he said, just loud enough to carry the sound out of the small office.
Bobby was picking up his baseball bat on the other side of the doorway. He planned to wait a moment or two before he walked back in with the bat. He felt a flush of heat race across his face when he heard that last comment.
J.W. had just looked down to read another application. He had left his glasses in the car, so he had the sheet of paper held out at arm’s length, with his back to the door. By the time he turned and looked up, it was too late.
Bobby walked swiftly back into the small office, directly, with a purpose. He caught J.W. with a solid swing on the shoulder. Ping! J.W.’s scream drowned out the sound of the second high-pitched Ping! as the bat slammed into his left shoulder. Bobby felt the crack and snap of brittle bone as the joint gave way to the force of the blow.
Val would have washed his hands in the bathroom, but it was only cold water and always had just the slightest hint of a rusty tinge, so he was simply wiping them on a paper towel when he heard J.W. scream. What the hell was that? He wondered, standing still for a half-second. He waited a moment before moving cautiously, quietly, toward the bathroom door and peering out through the keyhole.
J.W. couldn’t believe the pain. He tried to get away just as the aluminum bat came down directly and heavily on his left hand. Ping!
“Arghh,” J.W. gagged, the scream choking in his throat. He couldn’t move his left hand. It felt nailed to the chair, bleeding, crushed knuckles sending successive waves of pain throbbing up the arm, increasing at his shattered shoulder before spreading through his entire body.
The old man reminded Bobby of the building trades agent a few years back. He hadn’t wanted to talk at first either, but by the time Bobby was finished, he would have given up his firstborn daughter.
“Not quite so tough now, are we?” Bobby came around the desk, slowly, taking his sweet time, ready to grab J.W. by his oily hair. Maybe break his nose, put him in more of a talking frame of mind.
“What’d you call me?” Bobby yelled, reaching for J.W.’s hair.
J.W.’s eyes were wild and glassy. Spittle ran out of the corner of his mouth. He was conscious but just barely.
Bobby grabbed his hair, yanked his head back. “Don’t you go anywhere yet, old man. I’m just getting started.” Bobby heard the hammer click maybe a nanosecond before the gun went off. He tried to jump out of the way when J.W. fired. The round caught him squarely in the abdomen, so close his silk trousers were singed.
He fell back, dropping the bat, crumpling to the ground, clutching his abdomen, and watching his blood pool onto the floor. He fumbled his nine-millimeter from the small of his back and put a round into the center of J.W.’s forehead before crumpling into a fetal position.
Val, having watched all this through the keyhole, quickly tiptoed back across the bathroom, quietly pulled the window open, crawled out, and ran as fast as he could to his Ram Charger and sped away. His mind raced wildly, while he gasped for air, trying to get a handle on what had just happened.
It seemed to him that there was only one logical course of action. Pack a bag, take what he could, and run. He would call Hub later, let him know where he was, maybe. But the first order of business was to get out of Tampa.
Chapter 56
Macey raced to Hub’s, weaving in and out of traffic, running red lights, passing on the shoulder. After all her work, all her scheming, this was not how it should end up, Hub dead. Between the squad cars and news media vans, she had to park a block away. She had to wave the County Sheriffs I.D. hanging around her neck just to get near the complex, not that there was any official need for a grade 5 clerk typist, but the I.D. worked. She climbed the stairs to Hub’s apartment, going numb
and panicking at the same time, completely unaware of all the activity swirling around her.
She stood outside his apartment, looking in from the corridor. She could see the two bodies, one resting against the couch, a smaller man she didn’t recognize. The body lying further down the hall, she wasn’t sure, but it didn’t look like Hub. The clothing was too current to be Hub’s, yet there was something oddly familiar about him.
Cautiously, carefully she edged toward the door, eyes focused on the body lying in the hallway. She was suddenly very sure who the second body was or had been. She asked a uniformed patrolman standing at the door where she could find the officer in charge.
He pointed out a short, stocky black man with a shaved head, wearing a starched white shirt undone at the collar. His tie was loosened, and his sleeves were partially rolled up, revealing massive forearms. His head glistened, jewel-like, from beads of perspiration.
“McCabe,” was all the patrolman had said, nodding in the direction of the man before resuming his bored posture against the doorframe.
Lieutenant Carlton McCabe was talking with two other men, both wearing bad sport coats, most likely homicide detectives. Macey approached tentatively, walking in front of a crime scene tech with a video camera.
“Hey, honey, I’m trying to work here.”
Her senses were dulled, afraid she knew the awful truth. Hub had done all this and was on the run, and she knew it would only get worse. Maybe she could get Hub to turn himself in, and with a good attorney, he could claim self-defense.
“Hey, honey, do you mind? I said I’m trying to work here,” an annoyed crime scene tech said from behind his video camera. He stood up, looking at her, attacking his wad of gum.
“Lieutenant McCabe? Excuse me,” Macey called across the room toward the three men in the kitchen area.
McCabe turned and looked toward the female voice. He didn’t like being interrupted, especially by a reporter.
“How’d you get in here? You’ll have to wait outside with the rest of the press. We’ll have a statement when we’re ready, not before. Officer,” he called toward the bored patrolman who had pointed Macey in McCabe’s line of fire just a moment before. “Get this woman—”
“No,” interrupted Macey, “I’m not a reporter. My name is Macey Evans, with the County Sheriff’s Department.” She quickly held up the I.D. hanging around her neck. Just as quickly, she turned the I.D. around, so it hung backward, hiding the fact she was a grade 5 clerk typist and not a County Investigator.
Now McCabe looked even more disturbed. “So what is it I can do for you, Deputy?” He snarled. “This isn’t county jurisdiction here.”
“I’m aware of that,” she said. “But I know the individual who lives here. I don’t know if he’s involved in this. And I’m acquainted with one of the victims.” She nodded down the hallway to where Willy was being photographed from a variety of angles. “Maybe I can add something to whatever information you have already.”
That put a slightly different expression on McCabe’s face. “Why don’t you come over here, Deputy. Evans is it?” At the same time, McCabe stepped over and took hold of Macey’s arm, pulling her into the kitchen area and somewhat out of sight of the bodies. “What, exactly can you tell us?”
“Well, not much, really,” she said. “I can tell you that the individual in the hallway is named Willy Masters. He physically assaulted me some weeks back. There’s a complaint on file with the Tampa police. He was arrested, and his trial is at the end of this month. I also have a restraining order filed against him. The gentleman who lives here, Mr. Schneider, interrupted Masters’ assault, placing him in the hospital. My first guess is that these two individuals came here together to harm Mr. Schneider, probably to kill him.”
“The gentleman who lives here,” he glanced at the notebook in his hand. “Is that Mr. Hubbard Schneider? Can you tell us what sort of vehicle he might be driving?”
“Hub, er Mr. Schneider, has a later model, black Ford Ranger pickup, Minnesota plates. I, I don’t know the license number.”
“What does this Mr. Schneider look like?” asked one of the detectives. Macey thought about her description. As she began talking, she walked over to the refrigerator and pulled off a magnet. It was a photo of Hub, holding a stringer of fish. It had been taken a year or two ago, but his hair and face were still accurate. “Here’s an image of him.”
“Holy shit,” said the second suit, “look at those bass. Where was this taken, Canada?”
McCabe gave him a look, prematurely ending the fishing conversation.
“Hub’s about five-foot-nine, maybe five-ten. One-seventy, maybe one-eighty. Blue eyes, blonde hair that’s a little longer than in that picture, but not too much.”
“Look, Lieutenant, I don’t know what happened here. If I can get him to give himself up, come in safely, so he doesn’t get hurt, I would be glad to help.”
“How well did you know Mr. Schneider?” McCabe asked.
“Pretty well,” Macey fudged. “I would see him two, maybe three times a week.”
“Pretty well?” repeated McCabe. “Would it be safe to presume that you may have known Mr. Schneider very well on one or more occasions?”
“Yeah, we were intimate. If that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Deputy,” said McCabe. “Just before your arrival, we were informed of the apprehension of a suspect in this incident. But I don’t think he matches the description you just gave us. Does,” McCabe paused, flipped back a couple of pages in a small notebook he had in his hand. “Does the name Todd Clemmons, C-L-E-M-M-O-N-S,” McCabe spelled out the name, “from Atlanta, Georgia, mean anything to you?”
Macey shook her head. “No, I can honestly say I’ve never heard of him. That I know of,” she said.
“You don’t know Todd Clemmons,” McCabe paused. “Did you ever hear Mr. Schneider mention Todd Clemmons?” asked McCabe.
“No, I don’t know anyone by that name, and I don’t recall Hub, ahh, Mr. Schneider, ever mentioning the name.”
“Hmm-mmm, okay, Deputy. I appreciate your help. I wonder if you wouldn’t mind just standing by in case we need any more help. I’ll put out an A.P.B. for Mr. Schneider. At this point, he is not a suspect, but obviously, we’ll want to talk with him. Cover all our bases.”
McCabe turned from Macey and nodded at both suits, who quickly left with the refrigerator magnet of Hub.
“Deputy Evans,” he said, turning back to Macey. “You okay? Need anything from the paramedics?”
Macey stood against the kitchen counter with her arms crossed, and shook her head no, but had to bite her lower lip and swallow hard. She felt her eyes tearing up, her face flushing beet red again. She didn’t want to cry, not in front of McCabe, and she was furious with herself for doing so.
He gently took her by the arm and led her out the door, nodding toward the uniformed officer leaning against the doorframe.
“Would you help Deputy Evans down to the paramedics, see she has somewhere to sit. Stay with her. I want her to rest. Use my car if you need to. Just hang tight with us for a while, Deputy. Just in case we have any more questions, you could be a big help in all this.”
Chapter 57
Hub was exhausted after painting the dining room, especially after ten minutes total sleep last night, lying awake thinking about all the cash in his bedroom. He figured tomorrow he’d give it a second coat and whatever touch-up was left.
On the drive home, he continued to think about not drawing attention to himself. He turned the last corner before his apartment and saw the squad car blocking the street, a pudgy, baby-faced cop, looking all of fifteen, slouched against the trunk with his arms crossed, just waiting.
“Sorry, there was some trouble up at those apartments,” Babyface said. He didn’t move from his slouch and obviously wasn’t sorry. “You’ll have to go back and around some other way.”
“The bad news is, I live up there.” Hub nodded toward the complex. “Any chance of
being able to get home?”
“You got some I.D.?” Babyface asked, ignoring Hub’s question and a bit upset at having to move.
Hub had a temporary Florida driver’s license, an illegible carbon copy of the handwritten form he’d filled out at Florida’s Department of Motor Vehicles, valid for four weeks until his new license arrived. He’d been carrying the folded form in his wallet for the past couple of months, waiting for the new license. He calmly handed the creased, illegible carbon copy form to Babyface, along with an expired Minnesota Driver’s license.
Babyface glanced back at Hub with that cop kind of look suggesting the form was no longer valid and why in the hell had Hub been driving around on an invalid, temporary license in the first place?
“Still waiting for my license to arrive,” Hub said, reading the look.
“Just hang on a minute. I’ll run this through, see if we can’t get you home, Mr., ahh, Schneider.”
“Sir,” Babyface said five minutes later as he walked up to Hub’s window. “There’s some sort of parking hassle, but if you could just step out of the vehicle, I’ll give you a ride up to your building.” He handed Hub back the expired, temporary license.
Hub thought for half a second about racing away then noticed he’d missed his chance. Four squads had pulled up behind him, blocking any attempt at an exit. There couldn’t possibly be any way they could have linked him to the cash, certainly not this quickly.
“Sir, would you please step out of the vehicle, keep your hands where we can see them?” Babyface directed, moving his hand onto his holstered revolver.
Hub did as Babyface directed, the drawn weapons from four newly arrived officers serving as an additional incentive.
“What’s the problem here, officer?” he asked as they cuffed his hands behind his back and helped him into the rear seat of one of the squad cars.
