Moving Target

by R. A. McGee

  “Thing is… I don’t have it anymore. When Heather left, she took half of everything, so I had to sell the place off.”

  Porter raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  “I don’t blame her. She stayed home all those years taking care of the house. She deserves something, you know? It just means I had to downsize a bunch. No biggie.”

  Porter swirled the vodka in his glass. “I didn’t know about that.”

  Joe nodded his head. “It’s okay, kid; it’s been a while. I don’t expect you to keep up with an old man.”

  “Stop it.” Porter looked toward the fight again, another glance across the pool table. This time the girl was sitting in her chair, a cross look on her face. The man who’d mean-mugged Porter was talking to a much larger friend, clad in the same colors.

  “Enough of my sob story—what about you? You married way up, you know that, right? You’d never find another woman to keep you in line.”

  “Me and Trish got divorced.”

  Joe grimaced. “Damn, kid, I’m sorry to hear that. It’s okay, I never liked her anyway.”

  “Liar,” Porter said.

  “Yeah, I’m lying. She was amazing. I’m guessing she left you?” Joe said.

  “Of course,” Porter said.

  “Sometimes it just doesn’t work out. Like me and Heather. I never even seen it coming. One day, bang, here’s my papers. But it’s okay. I’ve got the job and I’ve got Amanda, and that’s all I need.”

  Porter nodded. “How old is Amanda now? When I left, she was in high school.”

  “She’s great, kid. Just got out of grad school, believe it or not. She does something with computers I don’t even understand. Not sure where she gets her brains from, but it ain’t me.”

  “Grad school? Good for her. Maybe I’ll buy her a drink to celebrate,” Porter said with a small smile, sure of the reaction he’d get.

  “Not only no, but hell no. My daughter’s too good for you, Porter. She deserves better than knuckle-draggers like us,” Joe said. “She needs… an architect or a lawyer or something like that. Not you.”

  “Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings,” Porter said, standing up and moving his chair back.

  “What, you leaving? I just got here.”

  Porter patted the older man on his back. “Relax, I gotta piss. Unless you want to hold it for me, give me a minute.”

  He moved down a nearly dark hallway until he saw a wooden door with a plywood patch over it. He stepped into the restroom and was assaulted by the smell of urine. He held his breath as he did his business, careful not to get his Chuck Taylors in the small puddle of piss underneath the urinal.

  The door swung open and the man with the Peaks MC vest came in. The smell of urine was overpowered by the odor of stale beer. Now that he was closer, Porter could see the man’s small, stringy goatee and the motorcycle chain he wore for a necklace. The bright light of the bathroom also revealed eyes that were impossibly dilated, and the man’s pasty skin stood in stark contrast to Porter’s mocha complexion.

  Porter flushed and moved to the sink. The man replaced him at the urinal. “You think I don’t see what the hell you’re doing?”

  “What’s that?” Porter said, looking at the man via the mirror.

  “You’re dogging my girl and I don’t like that shit.”

  Porter turned around as the man finished up. The patch on the front of his vest read “Joker.” “I’m just watching the fights. I can’t help it if her ass is up in the air. Maybe you should take it up with her.”

  Joker smiled and ground his teeth. “I’ll reprimand her later. Right now, I’m checking you.”

  Porter shrugged. “Reprimand? Check? I don’t speak biker. If you can’t speak English, I think we’re done.” Porter moved to the door, but Joker blocked the way with his arm.

  “You be sure you hear what I’m telling you, boy.”

  Porter had six inches and a hundred pounds on the man. “I’m going to let the ‘boy’ thing slide. This is North Carolina and maybe you’ve never learned better. But if you don’t move your arm, I’m going to rip it off and slap your girl on the ass with it. Then I’ll be hitting on her.”

  Joker blinked at Porter several times, then slid out of the way.

  “Good choice,” Porter said and slung the door open, slamming it into the stunned Joker.

  Porter walked down the hallway and back to the table to find that Joe had slid his chair next to his.

  “Hey,” Joe said as Porter sat back at the table. “I didn’t mean any offense about Trish or anything. You kids were a good couple.”

  “The best,” Porter said.

  “What happened?”

  “We just… we just grew apart,” Porter said, pushing aside memories he didn’t want to think about. “It didn’t work out. Change the subject.”

  Joe nodded. “You got it, kid.” He looked around then motioned Porter in. “So the thing I called you about. You interested?”

  “I drove ten hours, didn’t I?”

  “Good, good. I have a file to give you, out in the car. I figured it would be better not to meet at the office, you know?”

  “Are you ashamed of me? We used to go everywhere together and now you won’t even show me off to your work friends, will you?”

  Joe laughed. “Something like that.”

  Porter leaned in. “I get it. Better if we keep this thing under wraps.”

  “Good. So here’s the short version.” Joe looked around one more time. “Mike Newton’s kid went missing.”

  “Who?”

  “Mike Newton,” Joe said.

  Porter shook his head.

  “Come on, you remember him, right? We hit a couple of houses with him back in the day?”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Porter said.

  “Whatever. He’s one of the good ones. Not one of us, you know, but still a solid guy,” Joe said.

  “What happened?”

  “No one knows. The girl was here one day and then she never came home from school,” Joe said.

  “How old is she?”

  “Thirteen,” Joe said.

  “Runaway.” Porter took a sip of his vodka.

  “Not this kid,” Joe said. “Not Pima.”

  “What kind of name is Pima?”

  “How the hell do I know?” Joe said. “What does it matter?”

  Porter frowned. “What have you guys done so far?”

  As Joe started to list a myriad of steps and procedures, movement drew Porter’s eye. Joker and his much larger friend had left the pool table and were walking toward them. Porter sighed and leaned back in his chair.

  Joe stopped talking. “What? Am I boring you?”

  “You’ll see—”

  “Hey, asshole,” Joker said.

  “There it is,” Porter said to Joe.

  “You hit me with that door,” the biker said. “I don’t appreciate that shit.”

  “You should have moved,” Porter said. “Only an idiot stands in the middle of a doorway.”

  Joker’s friend had a patch on that read “Priest.” He wasn’t as big as Porter, but was no small man, and Porter could see a knife strapped to his belt. “Maybe I don’t like you touching my boy.”

  “Priest? Your name is Priest? You know you can’t find a church. Do you even know how to spell church?”

  The man stepped closer, but stopped short when Joe slammed his fist into the tabletop. In his other hand was a shiny badge, impossible not to make out, even in the gloom of the bar.

  “I bet you can spell this, can’t you? FBI? Real easy, only three letters. So, unless you want me to get involved, I suggest you and your entire dumb-ass wagon train get the hell out of here.”

  Joker and Priest looked at each other, then at the badge Joe held.

  “Well?” The mustachioed bulldog had come to his feet and was leaning toward the two interlopers.

  The men backed off, muttering things under their breath. They grabbed green-panty girl and w
ere out the front door in moments.

  “‘Dumb-ass wagon train’?” Porter said. “What the hell does that even mean?”

  Three

  “Give me a break, kid. I’m trying.” Joe slid his badge away and settled into his seat again. “Used to be, I’d have dragged those idiots out back and tuned them up myself.”

  “I know. I’ve seen you.”

  “It’s just—time catches up, you know? I’m mandatory in a few months, then they’re gonna push me out the door.”

  Federal agents had a strict age cap on their career. Anyone still on the job at age fifty-seven was summarily handed retirement papers. Do not pass go, do not work any longer. Thanks for giving us the better part of your life, now go away.

  “That’s probably best. You don’t need to be chasing people down at your age,” Porter said.

  “Your time’s coming. What are you now, twenty-three, twenty-four?” Joe said with a smirk. “Hell, you even old enough to drink the stuff in that cup?”

  Joe knew full well how old Porter was. It had been almost a decade and a half since Porter had been a new agent with the Department of Homeland Security. He’d been the youngest guy on a multi-agency task force that Joe commanded, which was composed of several federal, state, and local law-enforcement entities.

  He was the best boss Porter had ever worked for.

  Porter’d been green and new, and Joe had taken the time to show him everything: the right way to do things, as well as the most effective. Often, those were two very different approaches.

  “Hell, my time’s here,” Porter said. “I feel everything creaking in the morning when I get up.”

  “Cry me a river, kid. You still have your momma’s breast milk on your breath.”

  “That’s better than having your mom’s breast milk on my breath,” Porter said with a smile.

  Joe laughed and smacked Porter on the arm. “The job, it just isn’t what it used to be. When you worked for me, what did we do? Real work. Gangs and drugs and perverts—real criminals. Now everything is bitcoins and computers. White-collar bullshit. Even this weekend, we caught a big load of meth out by the coast, but it was so boring. Traffic stop by the troopers, then they called us to take over. Everything’s different.”

  Porter nodded.

  “Hell, you aren’t even in anymore. When you were on my task force, I thought you’d do the job until you keeled over and died.”

  “I’m happier,” Porter said.

  “Really?”

  He thought for a moment. “Leaving was a good thing. Working for myself pays better. Speaking of which…”

  “Right, Pima.” Joe looked around, then leaned in toward Porter. “Like I was saying before we got interrupted by the Sons of Idiocy, she’s gone, and we could use some help.”

  “Your guys couldn’t find her? That’s what you do.”

  “Nope. I’ve had almost fifty guys out there combing the area and none of them can find shit. It’s disappointing.”

  “Why do you think I’ll do better?” Porter said.

  Joe narrowed his eyes. “Please. You’ve got a pretty good track record of finding these kids. Not to mention, sometimes my hands are… restrained.”

  “And I don’t have those restraints,” Porter said matter-of-factly.

  “Bingo,” Joe said.

  Porter rubbed his face. The drive had left him a bit tired; he had hit the road as soon as he’d heard from Joe, despite the unreasonable hour. “How much did you say the reward was?”

  “A shitload,” Joe said. “We set up one of those fund-me sites. Got to seventy-five grand in one day. If somebody finds Pima, they get it all. That somebody might as well be you.”

  “Might as well,” Porter said. “Here’s the thing. It might look like I just haphazardly find these kids, but I usually pick my cases very selectively. I like to make sure I give myself a decent chance of getting the job done. I’m not sure about Pinya.”

  “Pima,” Joe said

  “Whatever. What if I say no?” Porter said.

  “Then you say no. I can’t force you to do anything. I just figured, with the line of work you’re in now, this was a match made in heaven. Nice check, spend a little time in North Carolina again. Plus, you got me helping you. It’ll be like the old days,” Joe said.

  “Like hell it will,” Porter said.

  Joe frowned. “Why not?”

  “There’s a reason we met at a bar and not your office. I was joking earlier, but I get it. You have to keep out of this. People can’t find out the FBI is leaking information to a regular dickhead off the street.”

  “But you aren’t a regular dickhead,” Joe said. “You’re a special dickhead.”

  “To you. To everyone else, I’m just Joe Schmuckatello. If I help, you aren’t coming with me. You’re staying right here,” Porter said.

  Joe looked hurt. “What do you mean? I’m solid. I’d never tell anyone anything, you know that.”

  “I do know that. I also know that if people find out, they could try to hang you for it. Just the fact that you’re telling me this is a fireable offense, isn’t it? An ongoing investigation is privileged information. You want to get fired a month before you get that fat pension?”

  Joe shook his head.

  “Then it is what it is. Give me the file and I’ll look it over. If I help, you aren’t getting the full story about what’s going on. You’ll have to trust me. Those are my terms. Can you handle that?”

  “Yeah, fine. Just try to keep me in the loop a little, okay? I can get you info if you need it.”

  Porter stood and fished a couple of bills out of his pocket, enough for his drink and a tip, and gestured to Joe. “Let’s go get your file.”

  The men walked out of the dark tavern into the bright light of the day. Porter blinked the sun out of his eyes. Joe pushed him to the right. “I’m parked around back.”

  Shielding his eyes, Porter followed Joe around the small building to the back parking lot. He watched his friend limp the entire way.

  Joe popped the trunk of an Impala, shiny and new.

  “G-ride?” Porter said.

  “Yep.”

  “They’d love it if they knew you were at a bar in it,” Porter said.

  “What are they gonna do, fire me?” Joe said. “By the time the paperwork goes through, I’ll be sitting around with my feet up, smoking a Macanudo.”

  He unlocked a big, flat safe in his trunk and handed a manila file to Porter. “This is everything I got on the case. Who my guys talked to, who they didn’t. When Pima left the house that morning, her usual routine, everything. If the answer is anywhere, it’s in there.”

  Porter thumbed through it and shook his head. “Love all this paperwork.”

  “We’re the FBI, what do you expect?”

  “I’ll check it out and let you know,” Porter said.

  Joe got into his sedan and paused for a moment. “Hey, Porter?”

  Porter looked up from the file.

  “Thanks for coming up.”

  “Anything for you, old man.”

  “I’m not that old,” Joe said, firing up the new car and driving away, leaving Porter in the parking lot.

  Lost in thought, Porter thumbed the file as he walked the blacktop to his car, an older model GMC Yukon. It was a holdover from a time when both he and his ex-wife had great jobs and no debt. The blue paint of the four-door Yukon had faded over time, but Porter loved it because both him and all his stuff fit comfortably inside.

  Back at his car, he fished his key fob out, but before he could open the door, a motorcycle revved its throttle. He looked up to see two bikes rolling toward him. He sighed and opened the driver’s side door, set the file Joe had given him on the seat, and then shut the door.

  He slipped his keys into his pocket and turned toward the two men.

  They cut their engines. “You probably should have got in that car,” Joker said. The girl from the pool table was sitting on the back of his bike, smoking a cigarett
e.

  “But then I wouldn’t get to talk to you,” Porter said.

  Priest stepped off his bike, the sunlight revealing crudely inked tattoos on his arms. “We can talk, but you ain’t gonna like what I have to say.”

  “Try me,” Porter said, leaning against his truck.

  Joker heeled his kickstand down and swung his leg off, like a soldier dismounting horseback. “Where’s your FBI friend, huh?”

  “He said he was going to your mom’s house,” Porter said with a smile. “Something about cleaning her pipes. I warned him not to—I mean, everybody’s heard about your mom—but he said he was the man for the job.”

  Joker’s eyes went wide and he charged the last ten feet between him and Porter. Porter saw the haymaker coming a mile away, and moved his head to the side, letting Joker’s hand bang into the door jamb.

  The biker stepped back, howled with pain, and tucked his hand into his armpit, hopping around like he was on a pogo stick.

  “Ouch,” Porter said.

  Priest was moving toward Porter, who stepped up to meet him. A small knife blade glinted in the sunlight as Priest moved it in short, controlled strokes. “I’ll gut you, you son of a bitch.”

  Porter held his hands up, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, circling to get his back away from the Yukon. Priest moved from slashing to stabbing as Porter backed away. A big lunge left him off balance. Porter caught the biker’s wrist with his right hand and slammed his forearm into the biker’s elbow.

  There was an audible crack as the joint gave way. With his arm now bent the wrong direction, Priest tried to pull away from Porter, but it was no use. Porter grabbed him by the back of the head and slammed half a dozen knees into his face.

  Priest collapsed to the ground.

  Porter looked over at Joker, who was still howling. He smashed his right hand into the man’s chin and knocked him out. Joker lost his feet and his head smacked against the asphalt.

  Porter looked at the two men, then at the girl on the back of the bike. Her mouth was wide open and Porter watched the cigarette fall from her lips. “Get off the bike.”

  She stared at Porter. “But you… but… but…”