Aftermath (14 page)

You win some, you lose some,  Sal thought.  He drank the coffee, then on a whim cleared up the pieces of the broken mug and tipped the shards into a trashcan, before penning a note to Donny on a yellow Post-it.  He wrote:
I appreciate your assistance, and can understand your anxiety, Donny.  Thank you, and stay well, my friend
.  He signed it, Tony.  It didn’t harm to be civilized on occasion.  And strange as it seemed to him, he was actually quite happy to let the man live to enjoy his reclusive existence.  He doubted that Donny would even mention the visit of a wounded man to his cabin.  He just wanted his privacy, and also had the intelligence to take heed of the ‘stay well’ comment he had written, which Donny would no doubt translate rightly as a veiled threat.  Sal was positive that Donny would not want to always be wondering if he might receive a second visit.

Donny watched as the swarthy man dressed in the shirt and pants he had left out for him, and carrying a plastic garbage sack, which he hoped contained nothing more than a soiled and bullet-holed suit, limped out of his cabin, got into his car and drove off along the trail to the highway.  Sometimes you had to take instinct very seriously.  Donny had got the feeling that ‘Tony’ was on the run, had been shot while committing a crime, and may feel safer leaving the cabin with no witness left alive to give his description.  Maybe he was totally wrong, but his gut feeling was that it was always better to be safe, rather than sorry.

After an hour had passed, Donny went back to collect his car from where he had parked it on an old logging trail, and drove back to the cabin.  He read the note and smiled.  He
would
stay well, by always being on guard against the likes of his uninvited and thankfully now departed caller.

Sal was feeling vulnerable.  The car felt like a target taped to him.  He needed fresh wheels.  After driving through the small towns of Davis and Thomas, he came to a sign that advertised a picnic area one mile ahead.  It was elevated, back from the road but fronted by a screen of trees and dense thorny bushes dotted with yellow flowers.

Perfect.  There was only one vehicle; a navy-blue Dodge Neon, maybe five or six years old: the type of car that didn’t get noticed.  An elderly couple were sitting at a picnic bench looking out at the river that ran past, gurgling over rocks.

Sal put his hand under the seat and located the Glock he’d put there.  He had fitted the suppressor to it before reaching Donny’s cabin, so was ready to go.  He climbed out of the car as casually as his body would allow him to and pushed the pistol in the waistband of his pants, at the back, and pulled the tail of his shirt down over the protruding butt before strolling over to the silver-haired couple, who had a vacuum flask and steaming beakers between them on the top of the bench.

“Can I help you?”  Marvin Phelps asked Sal.

Sal smiled.  “I could sure use a mouthful of coffee, friend,” he said.

Marvin hesitated.  It was a strange request.  In his experience, strangers did not walk up to you and ask to drink from your coffee cup.

“On second thoughts, hold the coffee,” Sal said, checking the area before pulling the gun and pointing it at Marvin’s face.  “I want both of you to walk over to my car.  Do it now.”

Barbara Phelps fisted her liver-spotted hands and put them to her mouth.  Her rheumy, lackluster eyes looked like organ stops as she began to tremble with fear at the sight of the gun.

Sal lowered the gun a little.  It was now pointing at Marvin’s left shin.  “I have no intention of hurtin’ either of you,”  he said.  “But I need to borrow your car, so please, give me the keys, then get the fuck up and walk over to my vehicle.”

Jesus H Christ!  They were both limping worse than he was.  The old bitch had a walking cane, and the guy was shuffling along like a geisha in five-inch stiletto heels.  Old age looked like something Sal didn’t want any part of.

He opened the trunk and helped them in.  Felt the sutures pull and rip a little on his side with the effort.

Another careful scan of the picnic area.  No one.  He put a round through the old man’s head first, and then shot the woman through her hands, that she had put up to shield her face.  That made him grin.  A few of his marks had done the same.  Did their brains turn to chicken soup in the last couple of seconds, when they knew beyond any doubt that they were going to die?  Did some defensive mechanism switch on to cause their hands to try to repel a 9mm slug travelling at about 1400 feet per second?

Sal had shot Barbara through the back of her left hand, and the bullet entered her right eye and went through her brain like a hot knife through butter, to exit and take a large portion of her skull and contents with it.

“Amen,” Sal said as he searched both bodies and removed everything that could identify them, before closing the lid on the trunk and walking to the Dodge.

Half an hour later he was in the small town of Parsons, sitting in a diner on 1
^st
Street with a view of the Tucker County Courthouse through the window.  The old guy and girl back at the picnic area had been in possession of three hundred bucks between them, so lunch was on them, and a lot more besides.

The food was good, the coffee fine, and the phone call Sal got as he was making ready to pay the check and leave, was icing on the cake.

Logan
went for a walk to the main road.  He needed a little space from women’s small talk and the confines of the trailer.  It was mid-morning, warm, and the light was good.  He was in his element, alone and in an area that he had not been to until recently.  West Virginia seemed a fine place.  He had grown tired of cities, though was sometimes drawn to them to savor the choices of food, and to ride on the subway systems, and enjoy the sense of being anonymous amid the smells, rush and noise, and the sheer mass of human glue that bound it all together.  And he didn’t stand out so much in places like New York City or Chicago or LA.  There was an overload of kooks and freaks and strangeness in the concrete and glass warrens that were home to millions.  A big guy like him became invisible and didn’t merit a second look.

At the end of the track, he looked both ways to be met with the sight of the narrow highway, which bisected a forest that appeared to be made up of a hundred shades of green.  He turned left and walked the half mile into Old Creek, and entered the Crippled Horse Bar and Grill.  Sat at the same corner table he’d eaten at on the evening that Troy Atkins had briefly and violently re-entered his life.  There was no sign of Troy today.  Maybe his leg was in a splint and he was staying home and watching soaps on TV while he healed up.

The young Dolly Parton lookalike came over and smiled at him.  The tag pinned on her blouse identified her as Cindy.

“We still ain’t got no English mustard or horseradish, sir,” Cindy said with a mischievous sparkle in her large eyes.

“So I’ll just settle for a pot of coffee,” Logan said.

“You livin’ round these parts?”  Cindy asked.

Logan shook his head.  “No, just passing through.  I’m still looking for a place that I want to wake up to every morning, and this isn’t it.”

Cindy looked thoughtful.  “Maybe the place you’re looking for doesn’t exist,” she said.

“Maybe you’re right, Cindy,” Logan replied.  “But I get a kick out of getting to visit places like this while I search for it.”

“I’d leave the Creek tomorrow if I could.”

“Nothing stopping you but yourself,” Logan said.  “Sometimes what you know is what you need.”

A half hour later he set off back to the trailer park.  When he got there, Sharon was sitting outside in the shade of a tree, talking to Tom and fussing an old Labrador that belonged to a Canadian couple staying in the Airstream.

Logan returned a smile from Sharon and went on board the trailer to find Rita sitting at the dinette table with one of the phones open.

“What are you doing, Rita?” he asked.

She looked up from the screen.  “Just looking through the contact list on the phone you took from that killer in Charleston.”

Logan strode over to her, took the cell from her hand and switched it off.

“I haven’t used it to call anyone, Logan,” Rita said.  “No need to panic.”

Logan said nothing.

“Did you hear what I just said?”  Rita asked.

“I heard,” he replied.  “And believe me, I don’t panic.  But you could’ve just let someone know exactly where we are.”

“I only switched it on maybe thirty seconds before you appeared, and like I just said, I didn’t use it.”

“If it’s on, then it’s giving off a signal,” Logan said.

“Who would be able to find it or trace it?”  Rita asked.

“Anyone that has the number and the knowledge.  Brandon has money and connections.  Some geek could have flagged the number, so that if it is switched on he can locate it.”

“Do you think that has happened?”

“I don’t know, so have to assume it has.  We can’t stay here.  If Brandon is on the ball he’ll have some goon leaving Charleston within the hour, so we have to be on our way.  We need to pack, eat, and then move out.”

“And go where?”

“Anywhere that isn’t here.”

Logan decided to use the phone, now that their location may have been determined.  When something turned to shit, he always looked for a way to convert it into a useful commodity that might give him an advantage.  He switched the cell back on, scrolled to the name Sal and hit the speed dial for it.

“Hi, Johnson,  Sal said.”

“My name’s Logan.  Just thought I’d check in to see if you were still breathing air you don’t deserve.”

“Your concern is appreciated,
Logan.
  Fortunately your girlfriend is a poor shot.  I just got a flesh wound, that I’ve had treated.”

“That’s a crying shame, Mendez.  I’ve got to be honest, I was hoping that you’d crawled off somewhere and bled out.”

“In your dreams, big guy.  I’m gonna find you and the two sluts you’ve shacked up with, and kill all three of you.”

“That won’t happen, Mendez.  Maybe Brandon or you have got some whiz kid picking up this signal as we speak.  But where will it lead you to, now that I know it?”

Sal felt his elation evaporate.  He knew now that if Ritchie
had
successfully pinpointed the signal, it would only lead him on a wild goose chase.  “Maybe you get to roll the dice again, Logan,” he said.  “But I’ll find you.”

“If you don’t, you can be sure that I’ll find you,” Logan said.  “I’ve already met Roy, and had a chat with Sammy Lester and Jerry Brandon.  You’re next, and I guarantee you won’t see me coming.”

“You’re all talk, you―”

The call was terminated.  Sal sat and looked at the phone for several seconds.  This was supposed to have been a simple, straightforward job, but it had gone badly wrong, and now he was out on his own with a one-man army by the name of Logan turning to hunter from prey.  Not good.  Not good at all.

As Sal slid carefully on to the seat of his newly acquired Dodge Neon, his phone rang again with the opening notes of the Godfather theme.

“Yeah, Ritchie,” he said with no enthusiasm.

“I traced that number you wanted, Sal,” Ritchie said.  “He just made a call.”

“I know, Ritchie, he called me.  Said he thought it would be traced, so will obviously dump it or put it on a moving vehicle.”

“Maybe you can still find him.  I got a signal for thirty seconds, and then lost it.  A couple of minutes later it came up again, from the same location.  If he takes it somewhere and dumps it now, he may go back to where the signal originated.”

“Have you got an address?”

“No, Sal, just a map reference.  I’ll send it to you with a red cross marking where the cell was.”

“Thanks, Ritchie.  You’re a prince.”

Sal received a copy of a Google map a few seconds later and zoomed in to the red cross that Ritchie had somehow transposed onto it.  His mood lightened.  He knew exactly where Logan had made the call from, and it was only a half hour’s drive away.

Logan pocketed the phone and picked up the car keys.  “I’ll be back soon,” he said to Rita, and left.  Drove the half mile into Old Creek and parked on Duke Street.  Decided to use the phone one last time before ditching it, so phoned the number for Jerry Brandon, which he had memorized.  Was surprised when a woman’s voice answered.

“Yes,” Gloria Brandon said.  “Who is this?”

“My name is Logan.  I’d like to speak with Jerry.”

“My husband is not available.  Can I help you?”

“I hope so.  I’m the guy that broke his arm.  Maybe you know why, maybe you don’t.  But what Jerry needs to know is that Mendez is still trying to kill Rita and Sharon. Jennings.  He needs to talk with Mendez and make him an offer he can’t refuse.  Because if he doesn’t call him off, I’ll pay Jerry a visit he won’t survive.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Gloria said and disconnected.

Thirty seconds later, Logan got a call.

“I’m on a secure phone,” Gloria said.  “So listen up, Logan, Jerry has done what you wanted.  He told Mendez to stop.  What more can he do?”

“So you know all about it, Mrs. Brandon?”

“I know that Richard Jennings was a blackmailing son of a bitch, and that Jerry would have gone to jail if he hadn’t done something drastic.”

“So you condone what he did?”

“I’d rather it hadn’t happened, but sometimes you have to take extreme measures to protect your interests.”

“That’s true.  I’ll bear in mind that you’re part of the problem.  You need to fully appreciate that if anything should happen to Rita or Sharon, then whatever your worst nightmare is will look like a sweet dream compared to what I will do.”

From the age of fifteen up until she was nineteen, Gloria had been a hooker, though had covered her tracks well and invented a past that even Jerry believed.  Almost all men were as easy to read as a kid’s book.  And the calm yet intense voice of Logan was also readable.  She knew that this was no idle threat.  The man meant every single word he said.

“But what if Mendez won’t listen.  Won’t stop?”

“That’s your problem,” Logan said.  “All you need to know is that I won’t be taking prisoners if he keeps coming.”

“Doesn’t that make you just as bad as us?”

“Maybe.  But I won’t lose any sleep over it.  You reap what you sow, Mrs. Brandon.”

“I’ll try to contact Mendez.”

“No need to try, I’ve got his number.  Have you got a pen and paper?”

Logan gave Gloria the hitman’s number and rang off.

There were three Harley’s on their stands outside the Crippled Horse, gleaming like jewels in the sun.  He ambled past them, bent down on the street side of the nearest bike and pretended to tie his boot lace as he slipped the phone into the pannier of a black and chrome Fat Boy.  He then returned to the Discovery and waited.  Ten minutes later three Easy Rider types wearing old leather and a lot of hair appeared, mounted up and cruised out of town.

So far, so good.  He’d bought some time, and now needed to plan on how best to use it.

Gloria phoned Mendez.

Sal answered, even though it was a restricted number.  “Yeah?”  he said.

“This is Jerry Brandon’s wife.  We need to talk,” Gloria said.

“About Logan and the women?”

“Yes.”

“Nothin’ to discuss, Mrs. B.  I plan on killin’ them.”

“And just how much would it take to change your plans, Mr Mendez?”

“A million in cash,” Sal said.  This was becoming interesting.  He could make a lot of money, heal up properly, and then resume his hunt for his marks.  It occurred to him that whacking the Brandon’s might also be worked into the mix.  He didn’t want Jerry Brandon putting a contract out on him down the road, once he’d taken the cash but then reneged on the deal.

“I’ll talk with my husband and get back to you, OK?”  Gloria said.

“Fine,” Sal said.  “But make it real soon, because I’m less than an hour away from getting the job done.”

“I hope you have enough patience to hold off for awhile, Mr Mendez.  A million dollars is worth a short wait.”

“Just don’t try to play me, bitch,” Sal said.  “Not if you and your hubby want to keep enjoying the good life.”

He pressed
END
and drove off toward the Golden Valley Trailer Park.  Maybe Logan was no longer there, or perhaps he was trying to play a double bluff.  Up until he heard back from the broad he would carry on with business as usual.

Gloria thought it through.  She wasn’t even going to discuss it with Jerry.  They couldn’t afford to part with a million bucks.  She had to somehow arrange for Mendez to show himself, and make sure that the psycho collected nothing more than a bullet.

Using the same throwaway phone, Gloria called Ray Darrow.

Ray was feeling nervous.  He knew what had gone down:  That Sammy was sweating it out in a cell, and that Roy Naylor had been capped.  Thought that if he had any sense he would just pack what few possessions he had, climb in his truck and drive back to Ohio.  His older brother, Jeff, ran a boatyard on the banks of Lake Erie, not too far east of Cleveland, and had always said that there was work for him if he wanted it.

Ray’s problem with quitting Charleston was Gloria Brandon.  He loved her, and they had enjoyed a steamy relationship for over two years.  If Jerry went to prison, or better still got himself capped, then maybe it would open the door for him to see Gloria a lot more; even be with her on a permanent basis.

“Where are you, Ray?”  Gloria asked when he answered his cell.

“At the yard,” Ray said, referring to the lot where the limo service operated out of.

“Get over to the house, now.  Something urgent has come up,” Gloria said.

“On my way,” Ray said as the call was terminated.  He sighed and took the keys for a late model BMW off a pegboard in the garage.  It was a vehicle that Jerry kept at the yard for Sammy and Ray to use for business purposes.  Jerry didn’t want clients to see the junkers that his employees owned.

On the way out to the Brandon house, which was at most a par five’s length distance from the Berry Hills Country Club, Ray considered his position.  Gloria was in trouble and needed his help, and he was sure that whatever she wanted him to do would be illegal.  He was physically strong, but psychologically weak when it came to the fluttering eyelashes and pouting lips of the woman he loved.