665
Hayden Duvall
Smashwords Edition
Copyright Hayden Duvall 2011
CHAPTER 1
Sulphur and spice
Jack had never tasted a gun before, but as the barrel pressed against the roof of his mouth, his tongue was surprised by the unlikely combination of black powder and paprika.
The short, ugly man who was holding the gun, grinned at his discomfort and glanced back towards the corner of the room.
"Come on Mr. V.," he said, twitching, "ain't no way no one'll hear nothing."
The man in the corner stepped from the shadows and shook his head.
"That was a double negative," he said, his voice calm and precise. "In fact, I think this time, Maurice, you may even have managed a triple negative. Kudos." He removed one of his gloves and placed a finger at the center of Jack's forehead, pushing him back until he squinted under the glare of the workman's lamp that hung from the ceiling.
"Were you here alone?"
Jack's throat was suddenly very dry.
"Yes," he said with a cough, "just me." It was the truth, but he knew that it sounded unconvincing.
Mr. V. narrowed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose, almost as if he was testing the air for lies. After a moment he straightened, replaced his glove, and fished a small gun from one of his pockets.
"Watch him," he said as he turned towards the door, "I will not be long."
Maurice waited until his boss was outside, and then crossed to one of the windows where he peered through a crack in the boards that were nailed across it.
Jack took advantage of the distraction and tested the rope at his wrists. There was some movement, but his chair creaked like a falling oak if he so much as tensed one of his buttocks.
The room he was in smelled of urine and rotting wood. Dark patches of mold covered much of the walls and ceiling, and the single electric lamp cast hard black shadows that tapered away into the gloom. Everywhere was thick with dust, but as his eyes adjusted, Jack noticed a stack of metal boxes near the left-hand wall that were suspiciously clean. Each box had the words "East European Epicurean Enterprises" stenciled on its side, but as he strained to get a better look, he heard movement at the window and turned to see Maurice heading back in his direction.
"Bet you’ve never seen one of these before," he said, waving his gun around like it was a toy. "Put a hole in your head the size of a softball."
He placed his hand over Jack's chin and held him tightly as he forced the barrel into his mouth once more. "When Vashenko gets back I'll give you a real nice demonstration."
As Jack struggled, he was again struck by the taste of paprika, and for a moment, he wondered if it could somehow be an aftereffect of the blow that had earlier knocked him unconscious.
His speculation was, however, short-lived, as Maurice pushed the gun deeper, making him recoil with enough force to tip his chair over backwards.
The short man snorted with laughter and hauled him upright.
"Won't be long now," he said, shoving the gun back into his belt, "Vashenko won’t want you here when the deal goes down."
Jack closed his eyes and allowed his mind to absorb this last fragment of information. After a moment, a faint smile crossed his lips.
"You don't know, do you?" he said with a sigh.
"Know what?" said Maurice, his brow furrowing.
Jack opened his eyes and stared directly at his captor.
"You don't know that Vashenko's going to hand you over to the feds."
There was a pause, and Maurice half shook his head before he caught himself and snorted with disdain.
"Yeah, right."
A surge of adrenaline raced through Jack's veins; this was going to be easier than he had originally thought.
"Those guns are worth what, fifteen hundred apiece on the street?"
Maurice was unable to hide his surprise.
"Who’ve you been talking to?"
"Smuggled in through Hungary," continued Jack, "hidden in a shipment of spices and stashed here in an abandoned corner of the docks until you found a buyer."
Maurice pulled the gun from his belt and pointed it at Jack's head.
"Who you working for?"
"You've been set up, Maurice," said Jack, ignoring him. "Any minute now this place will be crawling with cops."
The short man lunged forward, striking Jack across the cheek with butt of his gun.
"Who you working for?"
"I told you," said Jack, his ears ringing from the blow, "I'm with the F.B.I., we've been tracking Vashenko for months."
Several beads of sweat had begun to form on Maurice's forehead and he raised the gun once more, aiming it at Jack's chest.
"You're lying."
"What, you think I just pulled those details out of thin air? Your boss knew we had him, so he agreed to trade you, and the whole operation in for immunity."
"He wouldn't do that," said Maurice hesitantly.
"He's left you here with the guns and a hostage."
"He wouldn't…"
"He even made sure that you'd get your fingerprints on the merchandise."
Maurice looked at the weapon in his hand as if it was the first time he'd ever seen it.
"In fact, he's somewhere out there right now, making the phone call."
Maurice shook his head slowly, his lips continuing to move as if he was holding a silent conversation with himself.
"Won't let him stitch me up," he said at last, and with a face like thunder, he turned towards the door and stormed outside.
Jack took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He had no idea what Maurice would do, but time was short and so he quickly set about trying to free himself.
It wasn't long before the skin on his wrists and stomach burned from the struggle, but as he felt the chair begin to buckle, he threw his shoulders to the left and split it in half.
At almost the exact same moment, the sound of a single gunshot rattled through the storeroom, followed a few seconds later by two more.
Jack pulled himself free of the ropes and dived for the back of the room, looking for a way out. He quickly scanned the walls, but all four of the windows were tightly boarded and apart from the main door, he could see no other exits. His cheek throbbed mercilessly, and he was about to try and pry one of the boards loose when he heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel outside. Someone was approaching.
With nowhere to run, he grabbed a section of rusted pipe from the shelf next to him, and crept into position behind the door.
The footsteps were close now, and he raised the pipe ready to strike, when without warning, the door broke from its hinges and Maurice collapsed face-first into the room, his forehead hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
Jack peered outside, and seeing no sign of anyone else, he prodded Maurice with his foot.
The short man remained motionless, so Jack quickly rolled him onto his back and saw that he had two gunshot wounds: one in his chest and one in his stomach. Both were bleeding profusely. He was still clutching a gun, but Jack noticed that it was significantly smaller than the one he had been carrying earlier, and as he reached out to take it, Maurice's eyes sprang open, his eyelids flickering as he struggled to focus on Jack's face.
"Our Father," he whispered, coughing violently as blood and saliva ran down his chin, "thy will be done, on earth, as it… as it is in heaven."
His breathing slowed and he reached out towards Jack, grabbing his shirt with a grip that defied his injuries.
"He's come for me!" There was a look of terror in the dying man's eyes as he struggled for breath. "He's out there now."
"Vashenko?" said Jack, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I don't see him."
"I never believed," spluttered Maurice, pulling Jack closer, "I never believed, and now he's come for me."
He strained briefly as if to get up, the muscles in his face contorting with the effort, and then coughing one last time, his head fell back to the floor, his final breath rattling from his lungs.
Jack felt for a pulse, and finding nothing, he grabbed the gun and went to the window. There was still no sign of Vashenko, but Maurice had certainly seemed convinced that someone was out there, and despite the fact that he was now armed, Jack had no intention of hanging around long enough to find out who it was.
The gun was cold and heavy in his hand, and after making sure that it was loaded, he edged over to the doorway and cautiously made his way outside.
It was late in the afternoon, but the October sky was still bright, and after the gloom of the storeroom, he winced in pain as his eyes struggled to adjust. He could hear the sound of sirens in the distance--the police had probably been called soon after the shots were fired--and so he headed towards the loading bay that was near the main entrance.
The remains of a brick wall cut through the undergrowth to his left, and as he approached, three or four crows jumped into the air, startled by his proximity. He threw himself to the ground, hoping that the birds hadn’t given away his position, but seeing no other movement, he was about to continue on when he noticed a pair of shoes sticking out from behind a row of broken crates ahead of him.
There was a strange smell in the air that for some reason reminded him of his high school chemistry class, and as he moved forward, the stench quickly became overpowering. There was no sign of a spill, but the fumes were strong enough to make his eyes water and he was forced to stop and wipe them with his sleeve. His vision still blurred, he peered through a gap in the crates, and there, lying on his back was Vashenko, his lifeless eyes staring skyward, a single bullet hole in his forehead.
Shocked and confused, Jack took a step back, his brain barely registering the two police cars that skidded to a halt beside him.
Seeing he was armed, the four officers exited their vehicles and immediately pointed their weapons in his direction.
“Put the gun down and step away from the body,” said the officer who was closest.
Jack could imagine how things must have looked, so he dropped the gun and placed his hands behind his head.
“There’s another body in the building behind me,” he said, trying his best to sound calm. “They were holding me hostage and I escaped.”
“Face down on the ground!”
Two of the policemen moved slowly in Jack’s direction, their guns still aimed squarely at his chest.
“Carter, take Hammond and go check the building,” said the officer who seemed to be in charge. “You! Get down on the ground.”
Jack knelt down. He understood that there was a procedure to be followed in situations like this, and so he made no attempt to complain as he was handcuffed and placed in the back of a car.
Less than a minute later, one of the men who had been sent to investigate the storeroom returned at speed and came over to the arresting officer.
“There’s another one in there, Redmond,” he said. “Dead, but still warm. You want to call this in or should I?”
“I’m gonna take this guy back to the station,” said Redmond, climbing into the car, “I’ll do it on the way. Get a perimeter set up and make sure you keep the scene secure. Half the guys that work here will be coming over to see what happened. And see if you can find out what that god awful smell is.”
“Sulphur,” said the other officer. “Must be some chemicals stored nearby.”
“Right,” said Redmond thoughtfully. “Well maybe breathe through your mouth or something.”
He closed his door and unhooked the handset from the radio. “This is Unit 451 responding to the 10-32 at Blackwood Dock.”
There was the customary crackle.
“Roger that 451, what’s your status?” The voice at the other end sounded distinctly uninterested.
“We’ve got a 187: two bodies at the scene, suspect apprehended. We’re bringing him in now; E.T.A. fifteen minutes.”
CHAPTER 2
Volston Ross
The seventy-second precinct police station was an amalgamation of every cop show cliché that Jack had ever seen. Fat, balding officers waddled along the hallways, and detectives in cheap grey suits scribbled hastily at desks piled high with case files. In the distance, a set of three raucous prostitutes, one of whom was wearing a leopard-print miniskirt, were being led towards the holding cells. It was like an entire season of NYPD Blue condensed into a single, archetypal moment. All that was missing were the donuts.
Officer Redmond looked at his watch and then scanned the room impatiently. “Kaminski!” he shouted at a young officer across the hall, “go get Dawson will you, tell him it’s the guy he was asking about from the double homicide at the docks. I’m going to put him in 401 if it’s free.”
Kaminski scurried away and Jack was ushered across to the custody sergeant who ponderously recorded his details in a shabby-looking book.
“What you got here, Steve?” said the man behind the desk, glancing at Jack’s battered face. “This guy resist arrest?”
“Nah, he was like that when we found him,” said Redmond turning to look at Jack. “You need to see a doctor?”
“I’m okay,” said Jack, trying not to sound too irritated, “I’d just like to get this over with as quickly as possible.”
“Right, well let’s see what we’ve got available.” The custody sergeant ran his finger down the list in front of him. “Who’s going to be doing this one?”
“Dawson wanted it. Is 401 free?”
“Yep, 401’s empty, you can go ahead and take him up.” The man behind the desk scribbled something in his book and then Jack was led down a long corridor that smelled of cheap air-freshener. He could see an elevator in the distance, and once they reached it, the two men stood in silence, waiting for it to arrive.
“When do I get my phone call?” asked Jack, sounding more annoyed than he had intended.
“There’s a phone upstairs. You got a lawyer?”
“Yeah, I’ve got someone,” said Jack, “what time is it?”
Redmond checked his watch.
“Nearly seven. Why, you got plans?” He started to smirk and then seemed to think better of it.
Jack shook his head. “Just trying to decide which number to call, that’s all.”
Regrettably, as a photographer and part-time private investigator, Jack had found himself needing legal representation on a regular basis. After much research, he had finally tracked down someone that he could actually afford, and whilst the quality of service was patchy at best, it was better than nothing. His attorney’s name was Henry Watts, and in his day, his reputation had been fierce. Unfortunately, over the years, Henry had developed a fairly broad spectrum of physical and psychological ailments, and after a long and fruitless search for an effective treatment, he had begun to self-medicate.
His medicine of choice was any fine single malt that had spent at least ten years in the barrel, and as Jack approached room 401, he decided that at this time of night, his phone call would be best directed to O’Connor’s: the bar where Henry did most of his drinking.
Redmond opened the interview room door and switched on the light. The smell of body odor and stale coffee flooded into the hallway, and looking slightly embarrassed, he hurried over to the table and cleared away some Styrofoam cups and a handful of papers.
“Grab a seat,” he said, pointing towards a brown plastic chair. “Someone’ll bring you the phone in a minute.”
“Any chance of some water and an aspirin?” asked Jack, tapping his swollen cheek.
“Yeah, sure, I’ll send some in with the phone. We got coffee if you prefer?”
Jack considered the acrid stench that had greeted him when the door was opened. “No, water’s good thanks,” he said politely, and the officer nodded and left the room, locking the door behind him.
#
A little earlier, in a part of the city where most people hoped they would never find themselves after dark, Henry Watts stepped out of a cab, took a lungful of the murky, pungent air, and made his way down a worn flight of steps into O’Connor’s Bar.
Henry was a large, barrel-chested man, who generally had the appearance of someone wearing far too many clothes. His gleaming red cheeks and propensity to swagger meant that he rarely passed unnoticed in the street, but inside the walls of O’Connors, he was just another face in the crowd.
O’Connor’s was not the kind of place that you would visit for a quick drink before catching a movie, nor was it ever likely to be considered as a possible venue for the office Christmas party. At O’Connor’s, there was no cheery barmaid to aggravate the serious drinker, and no designer beer to disrespect the real alcohol that was being served. The jukebox was filled with up-tempo hits from the sixties, but less than a week after it had been delivered it had mysteriously stopped working. These days, the only music that found its way through the smoke-filled air was vintage blues: the kind that you didn’t so much listen to, as drink down with your whiskey.
Henry took a seat at the bar, removed his gloves, and placed them to one side. “Getting cold, Pat,” he said, rubbing his hands together vigorously.
The barman nodded, and poured him a large drink.
A broad smile settled across Henry’s face and he lifted the glass carefully, holding it close to his nose as he savored the earthy, antiseptic aroma. He closed his eyes for a moment, almost as if he was saying a prayer, and then with a flick of his wrist, emptied its contents down his throat.
“Ah, liquid love, Patrick, liquid love.” He held the glass up to the light and then placed it back down on the bar in front of him. “Pour me another one in there while I go and make some more room in the old bladder,” he said, winking at the barman as he headed for the restroom.
When he emerged a few minutes later, a tall, elderly stranger had taken the seat next to his at the bar. There was some kind of scarf wrapped around his head and in the half-darkness of the poorly lit bar, he was wearing sunglasses.
As Henry sat down, the man cleared his throat.
“I was just saying to young Patrick here,” his voice was deep and distinctly foreign, “that a single-malt is drinkable at ten years, but is only really worth pursuing at fifteen. What say you?”
Henry raised his eyebrows, surprised at the directness of this stranger in a city where people tended to keep themselves to themselves. Whiskey however, was something about which he knew a great deal. If he had a religion, then whiskey was it, and nothing gave him more pleasure than sharing his faith with others.
“Fifteen years you say?” He turned in his seat to look directly at the other man. “I would suggest then, that perhaps you have overlooked the smoky allure of a twelve-year-old Glenfiddich Caoran Reserve.”
“Really?” The man in the dark glasses placed a finger to his lips. “I see,” he said, pausing thoughtfully, “well perhaps you will join me as I explore your recommendation? My name is Ross, Volston Ross.”
He motioned towards the bartender, who duly produced two glasses and after a brief search behind the bar, retrieved a dark bottle with a silver label and poured both men a good measure.
The glass that Henry had emptied before his trip to the bathroom had already been refilled, and so he quickly drained its contents and extended a hand to the stranger.
“Henry Watts. It’s a pleasure to meet a fellow admirer of God’s own drink.” The two men shook hands and he reached for his glass of Coaran Reserve and held it towards Volston. “Your good health, Sir.”
“And yours.”
They touched glasses and both men drank.
“How does that strike you then?” asked Henry.
Volston placed his glass down gently and sat for a moment in quiet contemplation.
“Smooth, certainly,” he said at last, “and I came upon one or two spicy top notes that I have to admit were quite surprising for a relatively young whiskey.”
Henry grinned triumphantly. “Your palette is most certainly that of a connoisseur, Mr. Ross.”
“Volston, please call me Volston. But before you become too enthused with the merits of your twelve-year-old, let us attempt to draw a comparison with something more mature.” He turned back to the bartender. “Patrick my man, what is the oldest bottle you have in this fine establishment?”
“I’ll check the cellar,” said Patrick, and he disappeared through a door behind the bar.
“So Volston,” Henry’s tone was cheerful, as always, “I detect from your accent and your manner of dress that you are not a native New Yorker.”
“No,” said Volston, laughing, “no, I certainly am not. I am truly a stranger in a strange land, but this is not my first time in the city.”
“I was trying to place your accent—Germany perhaps? Austria?”
Volston shifted a little in his seat.
“Well, I have traveled much over the years. I imagine that my accent is somewhat eclectic. Where do you hail from, Henry?”
“I was raised in Brooklyn,” said Henry, noticing the evasion, “but at least tell me where you were born; your name is quite unusual.”
Volston pressed a couple of fingers to his forehead and grimaced. He was about to say something, when Patrick reappeared carrying a small wooden box.
“There you go,” he said, placing the box carefully in front of the two men. There was a small brass plate attached to the lid, and wiping away a thick layer of dust, Patrick read: “Macallan: Celtic Heartlands 1968.”
With something approaching reverence, Henry reached forward and opened the box, removing the bottle gently.
“She’s beautiful,” he said as his finger traced the edge of the label.
“Yes, she certainly is handsome,” agreed Volston. “Crack her open, Henry, let us see how age has treated this fine Scottish Lass, and perhaps we can compare her to your twelve-year-old Glenfiddich.”
Henry looked up at Volston as if he had been wrenched from a beautiful dream. “Open her?”
“She is for sale isn’t she?” Volston turned towards the barman expectantly.
“Eighteen hundred,” said Patrick, wincing involuntarily. “I can’t let it go for less than that.”
Henry put the bottle back into its box and closed the lid.
“Ouch.”
“A bargain!” said Volston, and reaching into his pocket, he brought out a huge roll of hundred-dollar bills.
“You can’t be serious,” said Henry looking at the money in Volston’s hand.
“My dear Henry, if we are not to drink this precious liquid, then who on earth will?” He counted out eighteen hundred dollars and handed it to Patrick. “Two fresh glasses if you would.”
“Are you sure?” said Henry, somewhat apprehensively.
“Listen,” said Volston, his voice low and reassuring, “a fine whiskey such as this is made infinitely more pleasurable to me if it is shared with someone who can truly appreciate its value.” He opened the bottle and poured a healthy measure into each glass.
Henry looked at his drink for a moment and then lifted it into the air. The amber liquid seemed much like any five-dollar spirit, but in the world of whiskey, this was truly a work of art.
“To an exceptionally generous drinking partner.”
Volston raised his glass to the same level as Henry’s.
“Battle done, the victory won,” he said, and they both drank.
The two men sat in silence for almost a minute. It was Henry who spoke first.
“The finish is strikingly dry, but the malt comes through much earlier, with perhaps just a hint of peppermint. Remarkable. What did you think?”
Volston was staring away into the distance, lost in thought. “I tend to agree,” he said at last, “and I found it to be unusually earthy.” He refilled their glasses. “But let’s not jump to any conclusions.”
They both drank again. It was Henry’s fourth of the evening, and even though his tolerance for alcohol was remarkably high, he could feel the room beginning to drift slightly.
“Second time around I could taste a lot more fruit.” Henry’s voice had the earnest tone of a man skirting the border of inebriation. He reached over and put his hand on Volston’s arm. “More fruit, but still the peppermint.”
Volston nodded and refilled the glasses. “See what you make of the earthiness this time,” he said, smiling encouragingly as Henry knocked back another.
“Yes, peaty and very earthy. Fruity and earthy, like dirty fruit or maybe fruity dirt.” Henry raised a finger as if he wanted to make a serious point. “It’s really very strong though.”
“Certainly,” beamed Volston, filling Henry’s glass once more. “In a spirit like this, the alcohol content is distinctly elevated. Try another; I particularly want you to elaborate on this fruitiness you were talking about.”
Henry lifted the glass to his lips, and Volston watched closely as he drank. The lawyer’s eyes had already begun to glaze; the speed at which the Macallan was working was impressive.
Volston grabbed the bottle from the bar and held it in front of Henry to make sure that he had his full attention.
“I just have to make a quick call,” he said clearly. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes to hear more about the fruit. You go ahead and refill while I’m gone.”
Henry acknowledged this with a mock salute, and Volston lifted himself from his chair, and headed over to the payphone. After a few seconds of rummaging around in his pockets, he removed a scrap of paper, squinted at it briefly and then dialed the number. The voice at the other end was flat and soulless.
“Karen’s Quality Cabs, how may I direct your call?”
“I need to order a taxi if you would be so kind.”
There was a click on the line and Celine Dion barely had time to start her song before she was mercifully interrupted by the voice of a different, but equally dreary operator.
“Could I have your name please?”
“Yes, it’s Ross,” said Volston patiently.
“Thank you Sir, where are you departing from?”
“O’Connor’s Bar on Court Street.”
There was a pause as a keyboard rattled in the background.
“And where will you be traveling to?”
“The seventy-second precinct police station on Fourth Avenue.”
There was more rattling.
“Thank you.” A few seconds passed. “We can have someone with you in twenty minutes, Sir.”
Volston glanced over towards the bar where Henry was slumped, the bottle of Macallan wobbling hopelessly in his hand as he tried to pour himself another drink.
Behind the dark glasses, old eyes twinkled mischievously.
“Twenty minutes will be fine.”
CHAPTER 3
Old friends
The clock in room 401 looked as if it had seen better days. The gold rim was battered and scratched, and from where Jack was sitting, he was sure that he could see teeth marks. The time was now 7:35 p.m., and he had been waiting a little over thirty minutes when a young officer unlocked the door and entered carrying a phone, a small bottle of water, and some aspirin.
“Thanks,” said Jack as the officer placed the items on the table.
“You got ten minutes, then someone will be back in for the phone.”
Jack nodded, lifted the handset, and dialed O’Connor’s. It rang for almost a minute before it was answered.
“O’Connor’s.”
“Patrick, could you get Henry for me? It’s Jack Last.”
“Hey Jack, how’s it going? I’m afraid Henry isn’t really in much of a state to be using the phone right now.”
It was not what Jack had been hoping for.
“But I got a message for you.”
“A message? From Henry?”
“No, it’s from a friend of his; the two of them were drinking together pretty much since I opened. Guy paid nearly two grand for the oldest whiskey we had. Let me just go and get the note he left.”
There was movement at the other end of the line, and in the background, Lightnin’ Hopkins lamented the fact that he had lost his wife, his home, and all his money. Jack had no idea which of Henry’s friends would be leaving him a note, or more to the point, how anyone could have known that he was going to call.
“Right, I got it here.” Patrick clamped the receiver between his shoulder and the side of his face as he held the paper up with both hands. “It says: ‘Jack, Henry won’t be able to help you tonight, he is busy drinking himself into a stupor that no amount of coffee could ever hope to lift. He has however, sent me along in his stead and I will be with you shortly. Regards, Volston Ross.’”
“Volston Ross?” Jack said it more to himself than to Patrick.
“Yeah, that’s him. Seemed like a nice guy.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“Just handed me the note along with a twenty and said to expect your call.”
“Right, well okay. Thanks, Patrick,” said Jack, somewhat confused, and put the phone down.
Jack had no memory of ever having met someone called Volston, and as far as he was aware, Henry had never mentioned having a friend of that name either. Why then, was a complete stranger coming to the police station in place of his attorney, and how on earth could this person have known that he was going to be in custody?
The door to the interrogation room began to rattle, and Jack angled his chair slightly to face whoever was coming in. It sounded as if the key had become jammed in the lock, but after a few seconds the door flew open, its handle slamming heavily into the wall. A tall, forty-something man wearing a faded blue suit and a dollar-store tie, strode towards the table where Jack was sitting. Behind him, a second, older man entered, and closing the door gently, he rubbed his finger across the mark that had been left.
“Damn, Dawson,” he said, “you took a chunk right out of the paintwork there.”
The man in the blue suit stiffened. “Sweet mother of Moses, Larry, cry me a river why don’t you?” His voice was nasal and fairly high-pitched.
“Hey, I’m just sayin’ that you hit the door a bit hard, that’s all.”
“How come you care so much about the paintwork all of a sudden? Perhaps you should have been a God-damned interior decorator, then you could have spent all day looking at walls.” Dawson pulled back the chair across from Jack and sat down.
“Detective Carl Dawson,” he said, smoothing down his tie, “and this is Detective Greenwood.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the older man.
“Pleased to meet you both,” said Jack, trying to sound enthusiastic. “Just let me know what you guys need from me; the sooner we can get through this the better.”
“Sure, been a long day no doubt.” Detective Greenwood sounded friendly enough, and he grabbed the remaining chair and sat down heavily with a grunt. “We just got some questions; there’s a few things we need to clear up.”
“Right then,” said Dawson, “how do you know these guys?” He reached into the file he was carrying and put two photos on the table: one of Maurice and one of Vashenko; both taken after their death.
“I sometimes work as a private investigator,” explained Jack, “I was following a lead on a missing person.”
“Name?” Dawson interrupted, pulling out a pen and looking at Jack expectantly.
“Vincent Gambetta,” said Jack, “he worked as a driver down at the docks. I was over by some of the old storage buildings when this Vashenko guy steps out of the shadows behind me, and next thing I know, I wake up tied to a chair. Him and his friend were holding me prisoner; by the look of things, I’d stumbled across some kind of smuggling operation they had going.”
“Okay,” Greenwood leaned forward, a look of genuine interest on his face, “so explain how it is that we go from you, unarmed and tied to a chair, to our boys at the scene finding these two dead and you with a gun?”
“I talked Maurice--that’s the ugly guy--” Jack pointed to his picture, “into thinking that this other one was going to hand him over to the Feds. When he left the room I managed to slip the ropes and then before I could make a run for it, I heard three shots from outside. I took the gun from Maurice’s body, and I was trying to make my way out when I saw Vashenko lying on the ground with a bullet in his head.”
Neither of the detectives spoke. Dawson finished writing something on a piece of paper and then handed it to Greenwood who read it silently.
“Were you alone when you went to the docks?” asked Dawson, tapping his pen on his chin.
“Yes I was.” Jack’s patience was wearing thin. “Look, I’m being as co-operative as I can. I’ve answered all of your questions without an attorney; I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible.”
“Why would you need an attorney, Jack?” said Dawson, arching one of his eyebrows. “If you’re simply the victim in all of this, why would you need an attorney?”
Jack sighed and slumped back in his chair. There was clearly something else going on here, and although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it, it looked like it was going to be a long night.
“Larry,” said Dawson, turning to the other detective, “go see if we have anything on this Vincent Gambetta will you? And check the fax machine while you’re out there.”
Greenwood nodded and left the room.
Dawson waited until he had gone and then took out his wallet and placed it on the table.
“You don’t remember me do you, Jack?” he said, his tone slow and deliberate.
“No. Should I?”
“Open up that wallet.” Dawson pushed it towards him. “There’s a photo inside that I want you to take a look at.”
Jack picked up the wallet and popped it open. On the inside was a picture of a small Labrador puppy. It was wearing a tartan cap.
“Nice dog,” said Jack, looking up at Dawson, whose face was turning red.
“The other side, behind the dog.”
Jack flipped the photo. Behind it was a picture of Dawson and another man smoking cigars. It looked like they were at a wedding. The picture must have been at least ten years old, and he examined it closely before placing the wallet down on the table and pushing it back across.
“Okay, so do I know this other guy then?”
“Dave Carter,” said Dawson. “Ring any bells?”
Jack shook his head. “Can’t say that it does.”
Dawson’s nostrils flared.
“Let me refresh your memory then.” He gathered up his wallet and placed it back in his pocket. “About eight years ago, me and Carter were partners. I’d just made detective and we were working a gang who were running dope and hookers down by the waterfront. These guys were the worst kind of filth, and when we finally brought them in, believe you me, it was a good day for everyone in that neighborhood.”
Jack had a general sense of where this was going, but he waited silently for Dawson to fill in the details.
“When it came time for the trial, things were looking good until out of nowhere, the defense comes in and says that the investigation wasn’t handled right, and that there was photographic evidence that Carter had been using these same prostitutes himself.” Dawson was almost shouting now, his knuckles whitening as his fists pressed down on the table.
“I’m sorry,” said Jack, looking down at the floor, his voice a quiet contrast. “I’m sorry that I didn’t remember his name. That was a long time ago; I was just hired to do the surveillance, I had no idea what it was about.”
“It ruined him you know.” The detective shook his head in disgust. “His wife left him and they threw him off the force. Last I heard he was trying to get a job with some two-bit security firm.”
“I really am sorry that things turned out that way,” said Jack, genuine remorse in his voice, “but surely you can’t hold me responsible?”
“They were your photographs, Jack.”
“I realize that, but I didn’t fake them, I just recorded what he was doing.”
“The camera never lies, eh?” Dawson spat the words.
“I remember that day in court,” said Jack, “I wasn’t proud, but what has any of this got to do with the stuff that happened today?”
Dawson rose slowly from his chair and then crossed the room to stand near the wall, his back to Jack.
“I’ve been working homicide for quite a few years now,” he said, “and my instincts are telling me that something ain’t right with this one.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?” Jack’s patience was all but gone now. “Your men must have found the illegal guns and the chair I was tied to. Surely there’s a mound of forensic evidence that supports my story.”
“I don’t doubt that there was some kind of fight,” said Dawson, “but it was you who had the gun when we arrived.” He turned and came over to where Jack was sitting, a look of disgust on his face. “I always knew you were bad news, Last, and it’s going be a real pleasure to take you down.” With that, he went to the door and left the room.
Jack sat motionless, both stunned and exhausted. He had sensed that there was something strange coming from Dawson, but had not expected it to be so keenly focused on such a specific episode from his past.
Fifteen minutes went by, and he was beginning to feel his eyelids droop when the door opened once more, and both Dawson and Greenwood entered the room and sat down. Dawson was grinning.
“You own a firearm, Jack?” asked Greenwood.
“I have two,” said Jack, immediately suspicious. “A .357 Smith and Wesson revolver, and a Glock 9mm semi. They’re licensed.”
“You got any other guns?” asked Dawson, smirking across the table. “Maybe somethin’ smaller? Somethin’ more unusual? Manufactured in Hungary for example?”
“Alright, so the gun I took from Maurice was Hungarian was it? And you’re trying to imply that this was actually my gun?” Jack shook his head in disbelief. “Jesus, that’s weak.”
“Oh it gets much better,” said Dawson, who took a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it and handed it to Greenwood who read aloud:
“The FEG Model R: a heavily modified Walther PPK, manufactured in Hungary.”
“Well congratulations! One of you boys got on the internet and managed to identify it. You’ll forgive me if I don’t applaud.”
Jack’s sarcasm had no visible effect on Dawson who took a second piece of paper from his pocket and laid it down carefully in front of him. It appeared to be a fax.
“Three bullets were recovered from the scene.” His voice was calm, but Jack could see that he was barely able to disguise his excitement. “All three bullets were fired from the same gun. All three bullets were fired from the gun that you were found holding, and the only prints on this gun were yours.”
There was silence. Dawson sat back in his chair and placed both hands behind his head, a huge self-congratulatory grin across his face. “How do you like them apples?”
Jack went back through the afternoon’s events. The gun that Maurice had been threatening him with was certainly much larger than the one that Jack had taken from his lifeless hand a few minutes later. But how had he and Vashenko both been shot with the same gun? Dawson was right, there was definitely something strange going on.
Greenwood tapped his fingers on the fax. “Ballistics don’t lie, Jack, this here’s hard evidence. We got officers at the scene who saw you with the gun, and your fingerprints are on the murder weapon. You might want to be thinking about telling us what really happened.” He pushed the photos back across the table. “So who exactly are these guys?”
Jack was about to protest his innocence when there was a knock on the door and a young officer’s head appeared.
“There’s a man at the front desk who says he’s Mr. Last’s attorney.”
“Volston Ross?” asked Jack hopefully, half expecting to be wrong.
“Yes, that’s it: Mr. Ross. You want me to send him in?”
“Yeah,” said Dawson, sounding like a kid who had just been told the truth about the Easter Bunny, “send him in.”
The officer disappeared for a moment, and when the door reopened, Volston Ross strode into the room.
Jack hadn’t had the faintest idea what to expect, but Volston managed to surprise him nonetheless. The man was old, his face craggy and distinguished, and he wore some kind of embroidered scarf around his head like a bandana. He was also wearing a pair of dark glasses that obscured his eyes completely, and for a moment, Jack thought that he might be blind. This was clearly not the case however, and he came directly over to the table and placed a boney hand on Jack’s head, turning him so he could look at his swollen cheek.
“Yes, I see,” he said inhaling sharply. “I think we are just about finished here, my boy, if you’d like to come along with me.” He grabbed Jack’s arm and began to lift him out of his chair.
“Finished?” Dawson stood and faced Volston. “I’m sorry, but we’re not even close to finished. It’s Mr. Ross isn’t it?”
Volston released Jack’s arm letting him fall back into his chair with a thud. He turned towards Dawson and looked him up and down like a coffin maker sizing up a future client.
“Volston Ross, yes. It’s a…” he paused as if he was searching for the right word, “thrill to meet you. Now, if you don’t mind, I would like a moment alone with my client. Thank you for your co-operation.”
The two detectives rose to their feet looking somewhat bewildered, and then shuffled their way outside without saying a word. When they had gone, Volston pulled a chair next to Jack and sat down.
“It’s so very good to see you my boy,” he enthused, grabbing Jack’s hand in his. “Are you alright?”
“Well yes, I’m okay,” said Jack warily, “but without wanting to sound rude: do I know you?”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Volston, patting Jack’s hand, “and no, you do not know me. I will explain everything shortly, but if you could just bear with me for a while longer, I need to speak with these law-enforcement officials and get you out of here.”
“That would be very much appreciated,” said Jack, his voice betraying his fatigue, “but I have to be honest, on paper, things are looking fairly bad.”
“You may well be correct,” said Volston, clearly undeterred, “but when it comes to things on paper, I am a master of Origami.” He stood and took a deep breath, rubbing his temples vigorously. “Give me about five minutes,” he said, and then after a pause, “maybe ten. To be fair, I am still slightly drunk.”
With that, he crossed to the door, demanded that it be unlocked, and then left the room.
Jack sat in a daze, both tired and confused. If this Dawson guy had his way, it looked like he was going to be charged with double homicide. Henry’s friend on the other hand, whilst undoubtedly a little strange, had seemed remarkably confident, and if he could get him out of there, then that was all that mattered. There would be time for questions later.
The clock on the wall showed that seven minutes had passed when the door opened once more, and Volston poked his head into the room.
“You’re a free man, let’s go!”
Jack heard him clearly, but was a little reluctant to believe that it had been so simple. “Really?” he said, his voice betraying his underlying suspicion. “I can just leave?”
“Most certainly,” said Volston with a grin.
“What did you say to them?”
“Plenty of time for that later, best not to dawdle at this point I think.”
Jack followed the old man to the custody desk where he filled out the necessary paperwork and then headed back towards the main entrance. He could see Dawson watching them through one of the windows; the detective was clearly furious, and as childish as it was, Jack had to fight the urge to give him the finger.
They exited the building and descended the steps to the street below. There was a slight chill in the air, but Jack was happy to feel the cold breeze on his face.
“I have a car waiting just around the corner,” said Volston as they walked. “I imagine there are a few questions you will want to ask me.”
“Yeah,” said Jack wondering where to begin, “quite a few.”
“I have answers,” said the old man, “but please allow me just a short while longer. I need to be confident that we will not be overheard.”
“Okay,” agreed Jack as they rounded the corner, “but overheard by who?”
Volston seemed to ignore his question and pointed at a cab that was parked some distance away. “There we are,” he said, “just over there.”
As they crossed the street, a high pitched beeping came from the old man’s jacket and he stopped abruptly, pulling something from one of his pockets. He held the object up to his face and examined it closely.
“God damn that boy,” he muttered under his breath. “I told him it was unreliable, that’s why it’s so cheap.”
“Everything okay?” asked Jack.
Volston looked up for a moment. “Yes, yes, you go ahead and get into the taxi,” he said, waving Jack on. “I just need a few seconds, somewhere where there’s more light.” He made his way to a streetlamp and continued to study the object.
“Okay,” said Jack, “take your time.”
He walked over to the cab and was about to open the door when there was a loud bang behind him, followed by a brief hissing sound and Volston’s voice exclaiming a very clearly annunciated: “buggery!”
He quickly turned to see what was happening, but the old man was nowhere to be seen. The street was empty.
He walked over to the streetlight where Volston had been standing and was immediately engulfed by the same smell he had encountered earlier that day near Vashenko’s body. Retreating from the fumes, he crossed back to the taxi and signaled the driver, who lowered his window and bent his head forward.
“You take time, Sir,” he said, “I have been given enough money to wait here all night.”
“Did you see where he went?” said Jack, feeling slightly stupid. “The old man?”
“I am reading.” The driver held up a book with a painting of a bare-chested man on the cover. “I am afraid I saw nothing.”
Jack placed his hands on the roof of the car, closed his eyes, and reminded himself that he was a rational man, and that he had absolutely no reason to lose his cool.
“Do you know what that smell is?” he asked, as the wind carried the fumes over to the car.
“Smells like sulphur to me,” said the driver. “Are you wanting to leave, Sir?
“I’ll just be a minute,” said Jack, and he walked back across the street to the where Volston had been.
Despite his aching frame, he managed to run fifty yards in each direction, checking every doorway, and behind every parked car. There was however, no sign of the old man, and he returned to the taxi and slumped into the back seat, defeated.
“Did my friend give you enough money to take me home?” he asked, still slightly out of breath.
“Sir, unless you live in Miami, then yes he did.”
“That’s something at least,” said Jack with a sigh, and gave the driver his address.
CHAPTER 4
Eichelberger
As the day had progressed from bad to worse, Jack had understandably focused his attention on the areas of highest priority such as not getting shot, or being charged with murder. As he headed towards his apartment however, his thoughts turned to the next problem on a list that seemed to be growing longer every day: the two month’s rent that he owed Mr. Eichelberger, his landlord.
Jack’s particular line of work rarely delivered a regular paycheck, and so he was often late with his rent. Eichelberger, a huge bear of a man who seemed to have at least twenty children, had generally accommodated these delays by adding a sizable penalty, but this time, Jack had gone weeks without a single job and had found himself slipping further and further behind. If he had owned anything worth selling, he would have done so, but just as Eichelberger was about to throw him onto the street, he was hired to track down Vinny Gambetta and the small advance had been enough to buy him three extra days. Unfortunately, those three days were now at an end, and as he had failed to locate Vinny, it was unlikely that his family would want to pay him.
As Jack thought the situation through, the taxi came to a shuddering halt and the driver turned to face him.
“We are here, Sir,” he said. “Here we are.”
“Right, thanks,” said Jack, automatically fumbling for his wallet.
“No need for that, Sir. Tonight, I have been paid most abundantly.” The driver flashed him a contented grin.
Jack nodded approvingly and stepped out onto the sidewalk. A few yards in front of him, his drab, poorly maintained apartment building squatted in the orange light of a nearby sodium lamp, and not quite sure what he was going to say to Eichelberger, but hoping to get some mileage from his beaten face, he climbed the steps and made his way inside.
His apartment was on the second floor, and as he reached the landing he could see that there were several garbage bags and a selection of cardboard boxes stacked outside his door. Eichelberger had done this before, in fact he did it almost every time that Jack was late with the rent, and as this was pretty much every month, it now seemed like a fairly pointless exercise.
He removed a bunch of keys from his pocket, and as the sound echoed down the hallway, a scruffy head appeared from behind one of the boxes, gave him a look of haughty disdain, and started to bark.
Miss Cinnamon--the Eichelberger family pet--was an unpleasant rat-dog of mixed parentage whose entire life revolved around barking and urinating in the halls. Jack lunged for the ugly creature hoping to grab it before its owner was alerted to his presence, but Miss Cinnamon was too quick, and she hopped nimbly over a box of books and scampered away, yapping like her tail was on fire.
It seemed that Eichelberger had been waiting for this canine alarm, and Jack had barely placed his key in the door when the sound of heavy footsteps rumbled along the corridor behind him.
“Last!” roared Eichelberger at the top of his lungs, “you got some money for me? You better have some money for me!”
A huge sweaty head appeared at the top of the stairs and was quickly followed by the rest of Eichelberger’s lumbering bulk. Miss Cinnamon was skipping excitedly at his feet, eager to see what was going to happen next, and Eichelberger stormed down the hall, his enormous frame casting a huge shadow across the floor.
“I’ve been in an accident,” said Jack, grabbing at the first thing that came into his head. “Some guy in a Lexus hit me and I’ve been in hospital for most of the day.”
“You got some money for me?” grunted Eichelberger, clearly unmoved.
“I couldn’t do that job I was telling you about,” explained Jack, “because of the accident. But I got the driver’s details, and the insurance payout should be pretty sweet, so how about I guarantee you fifteen hundred as a supplemental payment if you give me till the end of the week?”
The big man rubbed the stubble on his chin with one of his enormous hands.
“Fifteen hundred dollars, huh?” He looked at Jack for a moment as if he was considering the idea, and then bellowed: “Randolph! Henrik!”
There was the sound of more heavy footsteps running up the stairs behind him, and two of the older Eichelberger boys appeared at their father’s side. They were in their early twenties but were almost as large as their Father, and one of them was carrying a tire iron.
“You think I am stupid then?” said Eichelberger with a scowl.
“No,” said Jack raising his hands, “but this time I really can have your money by the end of the week.” He took a step back as the three men advanced towards him.
“Henrik, Mr. Last is going to give you his keys now.” Eichelberger waved one of his sons forward. “Randolph, if Mr. Last says anything else about being able to pay me, I want you to keep hitting him until he can no longer speak.”
Miss Cinnamon trotted over and began to growl and snap at Jack’s feet. For a moment, he thought about kicking the annoying mutt over the banister, almost convinced that the satisfaction it would bring would be worth the beating, but he had been through enough for one day and without another word he handed the keys to Henrik.
“I give you ten minutes to get this crap out of my hallway,” said Eichelberger, “then it goes in the trash.” He patted his thigh and leaned forward as Miss Cinnamon pranced towards him and jumped into his arms where she lay like a distressingly hairy baby as he tickled her under the chin.
Jack looked at the collection of belongings in front of him. The only things that he cared about were carefully hidden inside his room, and he would need to come back for them later, but for now, he had had enough.
“You boys can keep it,” he said defiantly. “I know how much you like looking through my underwear.” He winked at the man with the tire iron.
“You piece of dirt” growled Randolph, and lunged towards him.
Even in his exhausted state, Jack was still considerably faster than the heavier man and he stepped to one side as Randolph over-balanced and stumbled forward.
Eichelberger let Miss Cinnamon jump down and took a step closer.
“If you want to walk out of here you will do it now.” His voice was calm, but Jack could see that it was time to leave and so he stepped past the big man and quickly made his way down the stairs.
“You’re a bum, Last! A worthless bum!” boomed Eichelberger behind him. “I see you here again, I will break off your legs.”
Out on the darkened street once more, Jack looked around and considered his options. The air seemed colder now, and every muscle in his body cried out for rest. He tried to think of somebody he could call, but drew a blank.
Hospital was a possibility as he looked rough enough to swing a spell in the emergency room, but he wouldn’t merit a bed and they would throw him back out once he had been cleaned up. A hotel then? It would have been nice, but his wallet was empty, what little money it had contained most likely removed by Maurice or Vashenko while he was unconscious. When it came down to it, he was completely on his own and so he headed towards the only place where he knew he could find shelter as the temperature dropped.
The old bus station on Union Street had stood derelict for years, having been deemed unsuitable for redevelopment, but also too expensive to demolish. Its crumbling brick facade still held the remnants of timetables long rendered useless by changes in public transport, and huge banks of weeds rose through the concrete at its base as if they were trying to hide it from the passers-by.
The police knew that the bus station served as a temporary shelter for the homeless, but the tolerance they exercised was based on an understanding that those who used it would not stay for more than a few nights. It was a fragile compromise, and although its occupants were often under the influence of crack, butane or cheap whiskey, nothing was sold or traded on the premises.
Jack was no stranger to the building as he had gathered information from those sheltering within its walls many times over the years and he made his way around the back, entering through what had once been some kind of an office.
The cavernous interior had at one time been able to hold twenty buses, but the decaying walls and thin aluminum roof now protected the homeless from the worst of the city’s unforgiving weather. In one corner, a small fire crackled and popped from inside an empty oil drum, and several figures huddled around it, their shadows dancing across the walls as they held their hands over the flames. Jack went over to join them and an old man shuffled to one side to make room, nodding in quiet acknowledgement of their shared need for warmth.
There were maybe thirty people in the station that night, some lying motionless on the floor, either sleeping or unconscious, others standing silently in the gloom, staring listlessly into the distance.
Besides the noise of the fire, the only sound came from an old man sitting alone on a pile of dirty rags. He was singing part of a Simon and Garfunkel song, repeating the same line over and over: “and the people bowed and prayed, to the neon god they’d made.” His voice was barely more than a whisper and occasionally disappeared completely, but Jack could see that the man’s lips continued to move, even when no words could be heard. It was a scene that most people would have found disturbing, but Jack felt as comfortable here amongst the lost and the addicted as he did anywhere in the city.