Deal Gone Bad - A Thriller (Frank Morrison Thriller Series Book 1) (4 page)

Morrison figured that the
ace digger was the dead guy. As soon as his ex-partner’s body crashed at the
bottom of the hole, the blond guy jumped on the tractor, started the engine and
floored it for a couple of seconds to get some heat into it. Then he went to
work. Rather clumsily. He started by putting the tractor’s backhoe in its
resting position. Then he used the front loader tilted at an angle to push the
mound of earth back into the hole. This made enough sense. But he operated the
beast with half-assed moves, like he knew the theory but seriously lacked in
the practice department. The tractor kept jerking back and forth in semi-controlled
short bursts. No way could this guy have dug such a precisely sharp-lined rectangular
grave with this digger. So if it wasn’t the blond guy, then it had to be the
dead slicked-back hair guy. Morrison knew Mike could never operate a tractor if
his life depended on it.

“Come on, we’re going back
to the house,” Mike said.

Morrison climbed into the Jeep
after him. As Mike turned it around, Morrison gave a last stare at the grave.
It was now almost filled with earth. In a few minutes, the blond guy would finish
leveling off the surface. In a month’s time, nothing would show. The grass and
wild flowers would grow back, and you would never suspect there was a slicked-back
hair jerk rotting in the dirt underneath.

The Jeep hummed back
toward the house on the meandering path. As he sat beside Mike, Morrison stared
into the empty space, still shaken by the execution. Goddamn violence. He hated
it. Always had, always would. He himself never used it. Well, not exactly. He
never initiated it. This would be a more appropriate way of putting it. In his
mind, violence was for idiots. For dumb, witless idiots. Like the Italians. All
those connected guys. Those mafia guys. All hollow swagger. Brainless
creatures. Violence, threat of violence, is all they had. They weren’t smart
enough to do without it.

What he hated most about
violence was that it was a spiral. A vortex that took you deeper and deeper in,
and that you couldn’t ever escape. It was a black hole that drew your mass to
its center where you would be crushed, obliterated, vaporized. If you established
your position with violence, you’d have to defend it with violence. In the
proceeds, you lost your freedom. Nothing you could do but continue to follow
that narrow path. And it led to a dead end. Sooner or later, you’d run into
someone stronger than you. And then what would you do?

Morrison preferred to be
smart. That way, you could preserve your freedom. You devised smart operations,
carried them out, then went back to the shade. Laid low. In and out. OK, on the
freedom front, his stock had taken a serious beating these last three years. No
question there. But he had enjoyed a long stretch of success before. And
besides, he was in it for the long term. He knew the odds. He played the long
game.

The Jeep threaded its way
back to the house on the long, meandering dirt track, raising a cloud of
reddish dust as it bounced from deep ruts to crested bumps. Morrison looked at
Mike on his left. His partner was all absorbed by his driving duties on the tight
and twisty path. Obviously, he no longer shared his outlook. When they had
formed their alliance for that operation three years ago, violence had been
deliberately excluded from the script. But Mike was Mike. Not an idiot. Not at
all. But not so sharp either. Too much inclined to take the easier path for his
own good, to cut corners. Morrison looked at him again. What was he up to now?
What was his line of business these days? Morrison had no clue, but for sure
he’d need to find out. What he was sure of was that he would be an uneasy
partner. Before his prison sentence, Morrison had been in front of him in the
pecking order. Didn’t call him Junior for nothing. But now, Mike seemed intent
on showing that the trend had reversed. At least that’s what he seemed to think.

Morrison looked around. It
was one hell of a property. Must’ve cost a fortune. A sly thought occurred to
him.

“You bought this place
with Tommy’s money, didn’t you?” he asked.

Mike didn’t really answer.
“I’m looking after his interests while he’s inside.”

Morrison beamed. “That’s
what I thought. You don’t have enough money of your own for a place like this.”

Mike sneered sideways at
him and said, “I bet after three years in the can, you’re not so flush
yourself.”

“You’re right. I’ll need
money. Thanks for offering.”

While he fought the wheel
with his left hand, Mike dug into his coat pocket with his right. He fished out
a tight roll of bills and threw it on Morrison’s lap.

“This should get you
started,” he said.

“I’ll also need a car.”

“You can take one of the
Navigators. I’ll give you the key inside.”

“A cell phone.”

“Check in the glove box. I
think there’s a prepaid there.”

Morrison thumbed the
button on the dashboard in front of him and rummaged through the compartment. While
he did so, he said, “And a place to crash.”

Mike cracked a grin. “No problem,”
he said. “There’s now one more free room in the house. You can have it.”

Morrison found the phone.
An old flip model. He opened it and tested it by calling a pizza chain whose delivery
number he remembered. It worked just fine.

They drove the rest of the
way in silence.

The house came at them
from its back, showing a wide open terrace shielded by a sloped shingle roof
that led to a big swimming pool complete with a waterslide.

“You want a gun?” Mike
asked.

Morrison waived off the
proposition. “No thanks,” he said. “I haven’t changed my mind on those.”

Mike shook his head in
disbelief. Morrison didn’t pay too much attention to him. Instead, he kept his
gaze focused ahead on the cluster of vehicles now becoming visible. The three
big black Navigators he had seen before still sat in front of the garage. Next
to them now stood one more car, a BMW X3. Rather intriguing. For in its
immaculate, plain arctic-white paintjob, the delicate German SUV stood out in
stark contrast with its three massive macho cousins.

*

The house was one of those
that looked a lot bigger once you’ve stepped inside. The illusion was probably
down to its perfect proportions, the harmony of its exterior lines concealing its
substantial volume. It was also older than it looked from the outside and full
of details that you just didn’t see anymore in new constructions bar the odd
McMansion. Like the big hardwood winding staircase and the matching trimmings.
Morrison was no expert, but he would have guessed oak or walnut. Went back to a
time when massive pieces of lumber were still abundant and the craftsmen who
turned them into pieces of art still abounded.

At the foot of the stairs
stood a credenza. Mike opened the single drawer and fetched a set of car keys. He
gave them to Morrison and led him upstairs.

There were a few creaking
steps along the way. If you missed the sound of the door opening then slamming
shut downstairs, you sure couldn’t miss someone making his way up to the second
floor.

A woman seemed to have picked
up on this. She was waiting for Morrison and Mike on the landing.

“I heard gunshots,” she
said to Mike.

Morrison stared at her. She
had dark brown wavy hair, shoulder length. Average height. Slim. Petite. He
scanned her down. A body that did not stand out. Rather pretty without being a
bombshell. Probably turned heads on Main Street, Acton, NY, but not at all on
Fifth Avenue, Manhattan. He had never seen her. Mike’s wife, obviously.
Morrison checked her left ring finger. She was not wearing a wedding band. His
girlfriend then.

Mike made a dismissive
gesture of the hand. “That was nothing,” he said. Then he made the
presentations. Rather dryly. Morrison suspected that Mike was probably always
sloppy with introductions.

The woman’s name was Laura.
Morrison shook her hand. What stood out about Laura was her face. Not her
features, even though you could definitely say she was pretty. No, it was her
expression. The eyes. Full of worry. Not just instant worry prompted by the
sudden ringing of those two gunshots. A heavier kind, borne by a prolonged, reticent
contact with fear and danger.

She stared back at Morrison.
Seemed intrigued by him. “Your eyes,” she said. “They’re really strange.”

Morrison’s eyes were of different
colors. His left one was brown and his right one was hazel green.

“It’s called
heterochromia,” Morrison said.

“Were you born like this?”
she asked.

“Doctors say it can be
acquired or genetic. In my case, it’s genetic.”

Mike cut him short. “Morrison’s
gonna take over the blue room,” he said.

Laura turned her head
toward Mike and started to say something, “What ha—” but she quickly
interrupted herself.

The worry exploded in her
eyes.

That was the slicked-back
hair guy’s room. She had put two and two together.

Just then the muted sound
of baby steps on the carpet attracted Morrison’s attention. A little girl had walked
in from a nearby room. Their daughter. She quickly threw herself to Laura, who
lifted her in her arms. The girl was about two years old. She had the same
worried look as her mother. Exact same look. Carbon copy.

Morrison disapproved of
this. It wasn’t right to expose a girlfriend and a child to this type of life. Guns.
Criminal associates. Shady dealings. Although he lived that kind of life himself
without any question, he would never expose a daughter or a girlfriend to this.
Never. It didn’t seem fair. An unnecessary violation of innocence.

Laura and her daughter
retreated back to the girl’s room. Mike showed Morrison his blue room and left
him there. Morrison closed the door behind him and perused his new
surroundings.

The room was all white and
blue with the same dark wood trimmings as in the foyer downstairs. Very clean. Very
nicely done. There was a queen size bed. Drawers full of XL clothes. Useless,
not his size at all. They would have to be thrown away. A private bathroom with
standing shower only. A cabinet with toiletry. Shaving foam. A new bag of
twelve disposable razors. Morrison looked at himself in the mirror. His cheeks
showed a dark five o’clock shadow. Ready for a new shave even if he had shaved just
before leaving prison that morning.

Morrison went back to the sleeping
room and lay down on the bed, his head resting on open palms. It was cozy,
comfortable. And he was all alone. He could hear absolutely no sound. What a
contrast.

That morning, as he’d been
lying on his thin prison mattress in a cacophonic pool of constant auditory aggression,
he’d never have thought he’d spend the night here. According to his plan, at
this hour, he was supposed to be in a different state, doing something else
altogether. Yet here he was.

You couldn’t think
straight on an empty stomach. Some people maintained that fasting could somehow
lead you to a form of enlightenment. Morrison had always taken that to be
unsubstantiated gobbledygook. Maybe it could work for undirected mystical
musings. Maybe. But certainly not for deep rational thought. The brain cells were
voracious beasts. They consumed twice the amount of energy as any other cell
found in the human body. They needed a steady supply of glucose, just the
right concentration. Not enough and you lacked focus. A little too much and you
were all bouncy and excited but would soon crash into a stupor. Morrison had
some deep thinking to do. And so far that day, he had only had a lousy prison
breakfast and an equally lousy fast food lunch. It was time for a proper meal.
So he decided to venture out into town.

He left his blue room, went
back down the creaky staircase, walked across the foyer to the front door and
stepped outside. All without encountering anyone.

In front of the garage, the
three big black Lincoln SUVs were still parked with the cute little BMW. The three
Navigators looked absolutely identical to one another, impossible to
differentiate apart from their license plate. Morrison dug into his pocket for
the set of keys, then pressed the unlock button on the remote. The lights
blinked twice on the one sitting at the far right. He aimed for it.

Before he set off for
town, though, he had one important task to complete. It began with him walking
around the vehicle to open the four massive doors and the rear hatch. Then he
set about a meticulous inspection of every side pocket, cup holder, glove box,
console cradle and carpet underside that he could find. He inspected every nook
and cranny for weapons, drugs, anything that could land him in trouble. When a
law officer found that kind of stuff in the car you’re driving, your neck was sticking
out. Try to explain it wasn’t yours. Good luck. Especially if you were now a
convicted criminal. For his part, Morrison preferred to be safe than sorry.

When he was finished, he
climbed into the driver’s seat. Adjusted its position by flipping a few
buttons. Did the same for the rear-view mirrors and then fired the big V8 into
life.

The sun was setting. On
the far horizon, a thin belt of clouds was turning all purple and pink. Morrison
drove the private dirt road all the way down, raising a cloud of dust behind
him. After a few minutes, he passed by the shredded “No Outlet” sign, then he
merged on the blacktop county road. As he did so, he paid close attention to
his surroundings, especially to his rear-view mirrors. Three years of prison
had not dulled his senses. He was still on the lookout for tails. It came with
the territory for a guy like him.

On the two-lane, he
settled the Navigator into a comfortable cruise. The big V8 engine hummed
smoothly. It had power to throw away, but it barely needed to pull two thousand
RPM to propel the vehicle at fifty miles per hour.

Morrison kept scanning the
rear-view mirrors. All was well. Nothing to report there. He was driving all
alone toward Acton.

OK
, he thought,
time to
make that call
.

He flipped open the prepaid
phone in his right hand.

Then, his eyes alternately
scanning the road and the screen, he punched a phone number with his right thumb
and pressed the mobile to his ear. Heard three rings followed by an anonymous
voicemail greeting.

After the beep, it was
time for Morrison to leave his carefully crafted message. He said, “Sorry I
can’t make it tonight. I have to see Anna at eight thirty. Talk to you soon.” Then
he hung up.

*

Morrison reached the
outskirts of town shortly after leaving his message. From the side of the
county road, the first sign of civilization rushed up to him. The Perkins
Electronics compound. In the dark, it looked no less stunning than in the
daytime. Some clever lighting had been applied to the office space, which
underscored the elegance of its lines. On the lawn, the floating signage seemed
even more ethereal. The diffused lighting coming from behind the stainless
steel letters created a smooth halo. Very slick. Very well done. Morrison noticed
that the parking lot was now about a third full, even at this hour. That meant
they had a pretty busy night shift.
Must be doing good business
, he
thought.
Must be doing really good business
.

He veered left on Acton Road
and drove through the thin industrial estate. It was not a big one. There
seemed to be as many buildings up for sale or rent as were operating. Just like
three years ago. Acton was that kind of town. Not a village by any means. It
supported a diversified economy, but it was far from a city. It had never taken
off as some of its farther regional neighbors had, and Morrison suspected it
never would. A perennial underachiever. You sensed it could easily do better but
somehow it never did. But it didn’t go crashing down either. It just always stayed
more or less the same.

Next in line, there was a small
shopping center with still the same stores too. Morrison was really hungry but
he also had some time to kill, so he made a stop there. At night, the air was
chilly. He could use a light coat. While he browsed the clothing store’s
alleys, he also picked up two extra pairs of pants, khakis and dark chinos, some
shirts, black T-shirts, socks and underwear.

Thirty minutes of shopping
was about all Morrison could bear in one session. And anyway, timing-wise, he
was now doing good. So he went back to the Navigator, stowed his bags in the cargo
and continued on his way.

A cluster of shops huddled
around the shopping center. Gas stations, car wash, convenience store, car
dealerships, fast food joints. The usual mix, taking advantage of the area’s bustle.
Morrison drove straight through them. No way was he going to eat junk food for
his first dinner out of jail.

As he progressed, the
stores gave way to houses. Big ones. Those built by Acton’s elite a hundred
years ago. Morrison was sure they looked better then. Now they were all right,
but they had lost their patina. Acton was not rich enough to support them all.
Some of its inhabitants indulged in more square feet than they could afford elsewhere,
but it seemed to be at the expense of diligent maintenance.

Sheriff Sanford counted some
supporters among these homeowners. Morrison could see lowlying banners planted
here and there on the lawns, advocating for her reelection as Acton County
Sheriff. Some guy named Young was running against her. Morrison saw some
banners for him too, but a lot less.

After about a mile, Acton Road
turned into Main Street. It featured a proper downtown with angled parking
spots and a variety of shops. The area had been through the classic American
development cycle. Post-war it was booming. That’s where everybody went shopping.
Then the suburbs had developed, shopping centers had opened on the periphery
and the downtown stores had closed one after the other. Main Street had
remained stale for a long time. But then, about ten years ago, a revival had
begun with cafés, bistros, art studios, local product shops, fueled by a good
chunk of state money so that it was no longer a zombie place.

A few shops had been
through it all. Elena’s Bakery, open for business without interruption for more
than fifty years but closed at this time of night, of course. The bakers were
only hours away from starting the next day’s shift. Too bad, those unbelievable
cinnamon buns would have to wait. And Miss Italia. A mom-and-pop restaurant open
since 1964. Served decent staples of Italian-American cuisine. Classics that
showed their age when you compared them with authentic Italian dishes served in
upscale restaurants but that had “comfort food” written all over them. Like spaghetti
with meatballs the size of baseballs. Exactly what Morrison wanted to eat for
his first real post-prison meal.

There was a free spot
right in front of Miss Italia. Morrison nosed the big black Navigator into it
and went in.

He had expected to see
Anna behind the cash register, the original owner, with her husband. An
indelible fixture. But in her place was a small Korean guy.

Morrison picked up the
day’s paper in a tray and walked to the far end, close to the kitchen doors.
There he slid into a booth, facing the front entrance, of course. Always better
when you can have it. And he got settled. There were patrons sitting at two
other tables. An old couple and a lone woman. Quiet music filled the air. Pleasant
enough after years of the noisy prison cafeteria.

A waitress showed up to
take his order. A new one he didn’t know. He inquired about Anna, and she told
him that she and her husband had retired. They had sold the restaurant to the
Korean guy.

Morrison enjoyed every
last bite of his meal. The spaghetti was exactly as he remembered it and the
meatballs were even better. Obviously, the cooks had not followed the owners in
retirement. On top of that, he had a glass of red wine, his first in three
years. A humble house Chianti, but it tasted as good as a
grand cru
on this
occasion.

When it was time for
dessert, he ordered a cannoli with a cup of coffee. Then he asked the waitress,
“Can you bring an extra cover? Along with a slice of coconut cream pie and a
cup of coffee? Half and half, two sugars.”

The waitress seemed puzzled
for an instant but she smiled and said, “Sure, comin’ right up.”

Morrison checked his
watch. It was eight twenty-five p.m.

Instants later, the
waitress came back with an extra paper placemat and set it up in front of him,
with a fresh set of silverware. Then she brought the two desserts. And the
steaming cups of coffee.

At precisely eight thirty
p.m., the front door opened and a man came in.

Morrison smiled.

There he was.

Right on time.