The Organization

by Allan Leverone

  Copyright ©2014 by Allan Leverone

  All rights reserved as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. No part of this publication may be used, reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is unintended and entirely coincidental.

  1

  Jack Sheridan had been parked at the curb near the Copley T station in Boston less than fifteen minutes when the car he was waiting for drove past. He felt a flash of annoyance that he had cut the timing so close; he would have preferred to be at least half an hour early.

  Alone in the rental car, he shrugged. No matter. The important thing was that he hadn’t missed his target.

  Jack squinted and examined the right side of the weather-beaten blue Pontiac Le Mans as it cruised down Boylston Street. A long gouge, beginning on the passenger-side front door and continuing almost all the way to the taillight assembly, identified the car without question as the one he was waiting for.

  The vehicle had been keyed at some point in the past, likely by an unsatisfied customer, a scratch that had bitten through every layer of paint, all the way down to bare metal. The damage had never been repaired, and now rust was eating its way steadily out of the furrow in all directions.

  The Pontiac took an immediate right onto Dartmouth, just as Jack had expected it to, accelerating past the Boston Public Library. He waited a moment, allowing a couple of cars to fill in behind his quarry, and then he flipped on his turn signal and eased away from the curb. Traffic at this time of night was steady but not heavy, and it was an easy task to stay far enough behind the Le Mans that he wouldn’t give away his presence to the unsuspecting driver.

  The target drove with a practiced ease, taking exactly the rights and lefts Jack expected, and it became obvious the man was heading home.

  Comfortable now that his expectations had been confirmed, Jack eased back another couple of car lengths and turned on the radio so that it was playing softly in the background. Through the speakers Brian Johnson screamed about getting shaken all night long. Against all odds, and probably common sense as well, the driving beat of hard rock always soothed Jack’s nerves when he was working, and this AC/DC song was no exception.

  A few minutes later the Pontiac pulled into a Somerville driveway that looked as though it had been paved three-quarters of a century ago and utterly ignored since. Fist-sized chunks of crumbled pavement littered the surface. Deep potholes were randomly scattered along the thirty-foot length, like landmines in a war zone.

  Jack drove past and then pulled to a stop in front of a triple-decker tenement building half a block down. He exited quickly as the Pontiac’s owner navigated his driveway, moving slowly to avoid dropping into a hole and possibly breaking an axle. The man stopped in front of an ancient garage, constructed with old-fashioned wooden doors that opened outward on hinges, a style that probably hadn’t been available since the 1940s.

  The target left his car running as he stepped out and slid a key into a padlock securing the two sides of the door. He was unaware of being stalked; his focus was in front of him rather than to the rear.

  Jack moved quickly along the sidewalk and then turned ninety degrees and disappeared behind a row of poorly trimmed shrubs. He thought they might be ficus bushes but couldn’t be sure. Whatever they were, they provided excellent cover, and in seconds he was less than ten feet from his prey, screened from view and invisible to the man, who was humming to himself as he turned the key.

  The padlock clicked smartly and the man removed it from the doors. Interesting, Jack thought. The garage is practically falling down from neglect but the lock is shiny and new. This must be where he stores it.

  The man swung the doors open one by one and then tossed the padlock casually to the floor just inside the entrance. Then he clomped back to his car, slid behind the wheel, and accelerated into the garage.

  As the car eased past the shrubs, Jack pushed his way through, enduring scratches on his bare arms but covering his face with his gloved hands. He slipped through the still-open garage doors as the Le Mans was jerking to a stop.

  The driver killed the engine and climbed out of his car, whistling softly now. Jack stood unmoving in the shadows, Sig Sauer P226 held loosely in his right hand. For the time being he kept the gun at his side, pointed at wooden floorboards worn smooth by decades of use. The man flipped a switch and weak yellow light filled the interior of the garage, courtesy of a single uncovered bulb mounted in the ceiling.

  He still didn’t see Jack.

  The man walked to the rear of the garage and reached for one of the doors to swing it shut. The moment he turned toward the street, Jack eased out of the corner and moved behind him.

  Stopped slightly to the side.

  Cleared his throat.

  The driver froze. He swiveled his head until he was staring directly into the barrel of Jack’s Sig, which was no longer at Jack’s side but now held at eye level. Jack hadn’t bothered with a sound suppressor. He didn’t intend to shoot the man unless left with absolutely no choice. And even if that was how this all went down, he knew he’d be able to put two slugs into his prey and then slip out of the garage and disappear long before the cavalry’s arrival.

  The man’s eyes widened, but only slightly. Jack had to give him credit; he was a cool customer. Not that it would make any difference.

  Jack smiled and said, “Whaddaya say you pull that other door closed and give us a little privacy?”

  “And why would I do that?” The man’s voice shook, but almost imperceptibly. A tough guy.

  “Because if you don’t, they’re going to have to scrape your brains off the wall behind you with a putty knife.”

  The man hesitated a moment longer, clearly liking where this was going less and less. Along about now Jack knew his prey would consider making a play for the gun, and he waited patiently, allowing the doomed man to go through the exercise of calculating his odds of survival.

  Then he shook his head, the smile never leaving his face.

  “You’re not fast enough,” he said, and the man’s eyes narrowed in fear and frustration.

  Then the target turned back toward the street, exactly as Jack had known he would. What choice did he have? He took a step to his left and pulled the door shut, sealing himself into the garage with his fate.

  “Good decision,” Jack said agreeably.

  The man ignored him. Said, “What’s this all about? If you’re here to rip me off, you’d better turn around right now and get the fuck out. Whatever product you make off with won’t be worth the effort. Trust me on this. When my suppliers find out I’ve been robbed, they’ll hunt you down like a dog and take every bit of their loss, and more, out of your sorry ass. They’ll cut you up and toss whatever’s left of your corpse into Boston Harbor. No one’ll ever know what happened to you.”

  It was obvious the man had practiced his speech many times. Hell, maybe he had even used it once or twice on actual people. His hard-ass act was fairly impressive under the circumstances. It had to be difficult to pull off while staring down the barrel of a lethal weapon.

  But it wasn’t going to make any difference, impressive or not. The speech meant nothing to Jack, and he stood quietly, letting the target blow off steam.

  When the man finally took a breath, Jack said, “Does the nam
e Brett Farnum mean anything to you?”

  The target blinked in surprise. It was obvious he had expected some kind of reaction to his threats. It hadn’t occurred to him they might simply be ignored. “What are you talking about?” he finally said.

  “It’s a simple question. Shouldn’t take much thought, even for someone with your . . . intellectual limitations. Brett Farnum. Do you recognize the name?”

  “No, alright? I don’t recognize the fucking name.” The man’s voice tightened as anger began to overcome his shock and the fear.

  “That’s surprising, because you killed Brett Farnum three months ago.”

  “You’re outta your fucking mind. I already told you, I never heard of the dude.”

  “He was younger than you. Just a kid. A recovering heroin addict who’d been clean for a year. When he relapsed, you killed him by selling him black tar cut with strychnine.”

  Understanding began to dawn in the man’s eyes. Then he narrowed his gaze and said, “Jesus Christ, I don’t know what you’re talking about. You can’t prove I sold anyone anything, certainly not beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  Jack shoved the barrel of his Sig up against the man’s forehead, his own anger rising. “Reasonable doubt? Look around, jackass. This look like a courtroom to you? Do I look like an attorney? You want to raise on objection on procedural grounds?”

  “Okay, okay,” the target said. “Calm down. I get your point, even if I don’t quite understand all the words. But here’s the thing: I always cut heroin with something; it’s a necessary part of the procedure, and strychnine is what I normally use. If this Brett guy was an addict, he would have known all that.”

  “I’ll have to take your word on that. We can’t ask him, because he’s dead. But he probably did know all that. What he didn’t know was that you screwed up and cut the tar with three times the amount of strychnine needed to down an elephant.”

  The man’s eyes began to wander as he realized where the conversation was going. Jack had seen it before—dozens of times. The prey was looking for a way to defend himself as the walls began to close in.

  It was time to refocus him. Gain his full attention.

  Jack swiveled his wrist and tapped the side of the guy’s head with the butt of the Sig. Not hard enough to do any real damage, just a way of reminding the target of his position in the pecking order.

  The gun thudded against the man’s skull and he gasped in pain. “Pay attention,” Jack said. “We were talking about strychnine.”

  “Yeah, yeah, right, I remember,” he said. His eyes were watering and Jack knew he wanted to rub the side of his head but didn’t dare lift his hand. “It wasn’t me,” he said. “Must’ve been somebody else.”

  “It was you. I found Brett’s street dealer and with just a little of the proper motivation—it didn’t take much at all, I might add; you guys abandon a sinking ship faster than rats on the Titanic—he pointed me to you. He gets his entire supply from you, as do dozens of other small-time dealers in the area. And he doesn’t do a thing to the heroin. He doesn’t even open the baggies. He just sells it as he gets it. Therefore, you killed Brett Farnum.”

  “Listen,” the dealer said, lowering his voice conspiratorially, as if suddenly concerned someone might overhear. “I’ve got plenty of cash. Give me a few minutes to get it together and it’s all yours if you agree to walk away now and forget about the whole thing. I mean, it’s one fucking junkie. Who really gives a shit, am I right?”

  Jack felt his hand tightening on the butt of the Sig and had to force himself not to slip his finger onto the trigger and keep squeezing. It would be so easy—and so satisfying—to do.

  Instead, he took a deep breath and said, “Who gives a shit? His mother, that’s who gives a shit. She tells me Brett worked like a dog to break free of his addiction, and slimeballs like you kept hounding him until you pulled him back in, just to make a buck. You sicken me, but more importantly, you sicken her. You took away one mother’s only reason for living. And now you’re going to get what you have coming to you.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t bother trying again with the money offer. I don’t care how much cash you have. I don’t want it. I’m here to get justice for one woman that can’t get it any other way, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “So you’re just going to shoot me in cold blood.”

  Jack smiled thinly. “As much as I’d love to do just that, the answer is, no, I’m not going to shoot you. Unless, of course, you force me to. I have something special planned for you, courtesy of one broken-hearted mother.”

  “What are you talking about?” The dealer’s fear was starting to spike. Jack could hear it in his words, the way his voice wavered. The way he started to speak faster, desperate for a way out of the fix he so unexpectedly found himself in.

  Jack ignored the question and nodded at the man’s right hand. His car keys were still clenched in his fist. “Very slowly, hand me your keys.”

  The man glanced down as if he had forgotten all about them. Probably he had. Jack could see him weighing the possibility of slashing at his face with them and said quietly, “Don’t even think about it.”

  The man huffed and reluctantly handed Jack his keys.

  “Very good. Now, turn around and get back in your car.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just do it.” Jack prodded him again with the gun, another little tap, and the dealer trudged reluctantly across the ancient garage. He hesitated at his car and then opened the door.

  Jack slipped his body between the dealer and the car door so the increasingly desperate man couldn’t slam it closed and lock it. His doing so wouldn’t have made a difference ultimately, but shooting through a car window would have complicated matters and made things unnecessarily messy. Not to mention noisy.

  The man slipped into the driver’s seat as Jack was reaching into his back pocket with his left hand. His right kept the Sig trained steadily on the dealer. The moment the man’s ass hit his seat, Jack slapped one bracelet of a pair of handcuffs around his left wrist, then tapped the butt of his weapon against the man’s skull again, this time using a little more force.

  The dealer grunted in pain and surprise and his head lolled to the side. His eyes glazed over and he blinked rapidly. Before he could recover his senses, Jack placed his weapon on the roof of the car and leaned inside, threading the cuffs through the steering column and then snapping the second bracelet around the man’s other wrist.

  The target groaned and shook his head. Jack bent and reached under the driver’s seat, felt around for a moment, and then pulled out a Ruger SR22 semiautomatic pistol. Undoubtedly the dealer had more surprises stashed around the interior of the garage.

  He examined the weapon for a moment with a critical eye and then ejected the magazine and tossed it into the back seat. The car was a mess of empty fast-food bags and wrappers, dirty clothing and assorted other detritus of a man too slovenly to keep his vehicle clean. The magazine landed on top of a pile of junk and then disappeared under a pair of stained gym shorts.

  The now-useless Ruger he threw onto the passenger side floor. It bounced off a half-full water bottle, clunking into the door and falling onto the frayed floor mat.

  Then he waited for the glaze of pain and confusion to fade in the dealer’s eyes. After a moment the man breathed out explosively, muttered, “Goddamn it,” and turned his head and locked eyes with Jack.

  ”You’ll notice,” Jack said without preamble, “that you’re now chained inside your car. You’ll also notice that I’ve disabled your gun. I don’t doubt you have other weapons in here somewhere. At least two, unless I’ve misjudged you.”

  He stared into the dealer’s eyes. Without thinking, the man glanced across the garage and then tried to look away nonchalantly. Jack smiled and said, “Ah, okay, one then. As I was saying, you have one more weapon hidden in here somewhere.”

  The man jerked as if Jack had hit him in the head with hi
s gun again and then sighed deeply.

  Jack shrugged and said in response, “Lucky guess. Anyway, the point is that you’ve been defanged. You’re at my mercy, are we clear about that?”

  The man refused to answer and Jack continued. “I’ve got a couple of things to do before we bring this little visit to a close, but I feel it’s only fair to warn you: if you try to draw anyone’s attention by blowing your car’s horn, I’ll come back here and shoot you in the head. If you yell or scream or do anything else to upset me any more than I already am, I’ll come back here and shoot you in the head. Do you see the common theme here?”

  Jack didn’t expect an answer, but the man surprised him by grunting, “What difference does it make? You’re going to kill me anyway.”

  “Did I say that? I don’t remember saying that. All I told you was that you were going to get what was coming to you.”

  The dealer narrowed his eyes and Jack walked away, leaving him now thoroughly confused as well as afraid and bleeding from the head. He strolled to the front of the garage where a workbench had been set up. The top of the workspace was immaculate and completely clear, covered with doctor’s office examining room paper. The paper hung on a holder bolted to one wall and could be pulled like a roll of paper towels and then draped over the table to provide a clean work environment.

  Beneath the table a series of plastic bins had been stacked on top of one another. Jack glanced back through the windshield at the dealer, who was now glowering at him through hooded eyes. Then he crouched down and began checking the contents of the bins, digging through them with gloved hands.

  Bingo.

  Bricks of heroin and assorted measuring devices and cutting supplies filled the bins. Jack was amazed at the arrogance of the dealer, who had not taken any measures to secure the area besides locking the garage. The possibility of robbery obviously didn’t concern him, but the potential for tragedy was immense. If a neighborhood kid happened to break in here on a lark, as neighborhood kids of a certain age everywhere had a tendency to do, the result could be at least one dead teenager and potentially many more.