Full Ratchet: A Silas Cade Thriller Hardcover (13 page)

Not a question I’d answer, normally, but here we were. “New York.”

“Right. Park Avenue, whatever. Come out here like you’re slumming. Visit the rednecks, see how they live.”

“You think that’s what I’m doing?”

“Brendt and Dink and them all? They’re my
friends
.”

Well, he had a point. I wasn’t particularly happy to be here, and maybe I’d been taking it out on him.

Real America doesn’t
need
irony.

I stood for a while, looking off over the bluff, where it fell away at the end of the field.

“Car looks good,” I said. He’d finally buffed the wax, sometime late yesterday.

“Shit.”

“Hey, it was the
other
guys flattened your house, not me.”

“But—” He let it drop. “Fuck all.”

“Look,” I said. “I’ll tell you what’s going on.”

And the thing was, I
did
have to explain the situation to him. Not only did I owe him—for the ride, for the shop, for basically keeping me alive recently—but he was probably a target, too, now. I couldn’t walk away and let him be killed.

“Naw, forget it.” He pulled himself out of the car. “I’m just cranky for missing breakfast.”

“Let’s find a diner or something.” I held out my hand, and after a moment he took it. “And I’ll explain exactly how little I know about who’s trying to kill us.”

T
he first task was to get another damn car.

“I don’t mind driving,” Dave said.

“Yes, I know.” We were rattling down the mountain, jouncing along the dirt-and-chert fire road. For once Dave took it slow and easy, steering around the bigger rocks, trying to stay out of the deeper, muddier ruts. “But, and I mean no disrespect, your car is kind of . . . memorable. I need something anonymous and forgettable.”

“So, what, a rental?”

“Maybe.” But I didn’t want to go back to the airport—the cameras were unavoidable, and eventually, too many appearances, someone would notice. “I was thinking Craigslist. Seems like every other house around here has a cleaned-up car in their front yard with a
FOR SALE
sign on it.”

“Uh-huh. Plenty more than usual, too, these last couple of years. So you want to buy one?”

“Yes, but not from some old lady or laid-off millworker.”

“Why not?”

The truth was an old lady would remember far too many details about me, but I didn’t want to say that. “They’re amateurs. Anyone selling their own vehicle has no idea of its value, so you have to bargain them down, which pisses them off. But I don’t want to deal with a used-car lot, either. The best way to do this is find some guy who does it as a sideline, off the books. Buys a car every month or two from one of the old ladies, fixes it up, and then sells it himself for a little profit.”

“Sure. I know what you mean.”

“Of course they’re like rug merchants in the bazaar—try every trick in the book. Worse than a used-car salesman.”

“Oh, please.” Dave shook his head. “You think they could put something over on
me
?”

Exactly. “So . . . you know anyone?”

“I might.”

“Thought so.” I shifted the harness enough to pull out my wallet and checked inside. “We need to stop at some cash machines first. I’m about out of money.”

We finally reached a paved road, some state blacktop through the forest. Dave picked up speed. Wind whistled through the windows, engine noise waxed and waned, the wheels screeched and skidded through the turns.

“How is it you still have a license?” I asked.

“License?”

Super.

We made it to the interstate and had the eggs-pancakes-sausage-biscuits-and-grits special at a truck stop outside Morgantown. Dave filled the tank while I tried to clean up in the bathroom. They had shower stalls, but I didn’t want to put bare feet on the floor in there.

Another twenty minutes took us back to Clabbton. We drove past the town green, back out the east road. When the Super Duper came into view, I realized where Dave was going.

I didn’t say a word, but he must have realized what I was thinking.

“She’s off today,” he said. “Told me last night.”

“Really?”

“You said you wanted an ATM that wasn’t in a bank, right? There’s one in front. And I think we can find another at the Lukoil.”

“Okay.”

Cash is another of those persistently annoying problems for the privacy conscious. Usually I carry a few hundred dollars, sometimes more—enough for a day’s work. I can always replenish from my legitimate, Silas-owned bank account, especially in the city, where bank machines are everywhere.

But not on the job.

I had two more false-identity credit cards left, but I didn’t want to burn them. Not that a guy illegally selling cars out of his driveway would take one anyway.

Prepaid debit cards are the way to go. I buy them at check-cashing stores. Jesus would kick their ass over the fees, which are truly extortionate, but you can lie all you want on the application form and they don’t care. I put nine thousand dollars on each one, to stay under the CTR reporting limit—and then I can draw what I need, anywhere in the country.

For more than that, you need to use the big-dog money-laundering channels. The people who set those up wear nicer suits, and usually draw $400-per-hour fees in their downtown tax-law offices, but the rake-off is pretty much the same.

Anyway, I had Dave park on the other side of the lot—“Look, we want to
minimize
people seeing me get in and out of your car, okay?”—and walked over to the ATM next to the takeout Chinese place. First thing, I stuck a Post-it note over the camera window. When I got the default opening screen, the suggested withdrawals topped out at fifty dollars, in ten-dollar increments.

I took out a thousand dollars, which was the limit. We’d be making several stops today.

When I emerged, Dave was nowhere to be seen.

I muttered and looked around. The Charger sat where we’d parked it, empty as far as I could tell from a distance. Elsie’s spot was unoccupied. Midmorning, not much business—only the supermarket and the dollar store were open.

Dave finally wandered around from back, along the same truck alley we’d parked in yesterday.

“What?” he said, catching my look. “I had to piss.”

“If Chief Gator catches you publicly urinating, it’s a criminal offense.” I shook my head. “You go on the sex offender registry. Can’t step within half a mile of a school or a church ever again your whole life.”

“School or church? That’s no hardship.”

“Come on, I need to buy a toothbrush.” And some underwear. It looked like I might be on the lam for a few days yet.

—

“Ninety-five hundred,” the guy said. “I tuned this engine like a motherfucker. I used to work a NASCAR pit. I know what I’m doing.”

“Uh-huh.” Dave was in the driver’s seat. He started the engine, listened for a moment, turned it off. A moment later he switched it on again. “You hear that tapping?” he said. “Sounds like the valve lifters.”

“I cleaned ’em.”

“Could still be worn out.” Dave looked up at him. “Like if whoever owned it before wasn’t changing the oil regular.”

“Not what I saw.” The guy wasn’t giving ground.

We were in the indeterminate exurbia between Clabbton and Pittsburgh—steady traffic on the four-lane state highway nearby, seed dealers and self-storage businesses, a few old farmhouses amid the sprawl. Pootie—that was how he’d introduced himself, honest to God—had one of these houses, along with a falling-down wooden garage. We stood in the shade of a grand elm, on the cracked drive, watching Dave’s inspection.

He got out and started checking the outside of the car, studying the wheel wells, looking at the underside, peering down each side from the rear corner.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “Looks like the frame’s bent.” He switched to the other side. “Yup. Got a little curve on the right, and you can see how the left is crooked the other way.”

“Naw, that’s bullshit.”

It was a Chevy Aveo and looked fine to me, dumpy but clean, twenty-three thousand miles, six years old. No rust that I could see and decent tires. The engine compartment was spotless.

Dave shook his head at me. “It might be okay for driving down to the video store. Keep it under forty, forty-five, probably won’t be too bad when the engine seizes up and you crash.”

“Hey, fuck off. This ain’t no shit heap.”

“Look, Pootie. You know and I know you bought this car at the impound auction. Probably a repo, right? A fleet rental, the mileage would be two or three times as high. You did a good job, fixed it up as reasonable as anyone could. But the car’s got
problems,
man.”

Pootie shrugged.

“So here’s the question,” Dave said. “My brother and I, we do need a ride, and we’d be happy to pay a fair price. Three grand seems about right to me.” He held up one hand as Pootie frowned and started to object. “That’s cash, and we hand it over to you right here.”

I pulled out the thick wad of twenties we’d accumulated that morning—six more ATMs after leaving the Super Duper—and riffled the stack.

“But you don’t have to take it.” Dave echoed Pootie’s shrug back at him. “Some dumbass will pay your price. Someday. I mean, not
your
price, unless he’s a total moron. But you might get a little more. Right?”

“Yeah . . .”

“So the question is, how long you want to wait around and hope that happens? Hoping to get lucky?” Dave lowered his voice. “Or do you want to take the money we’re offering, right here, right now?”

Pootie grimaced, and scratched his forearm, and looked at the Charger where Dave had parked it on the street.

“That yours?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“It’s totally murdered out.” He said it like a compliment. “Do the work yourself?”

“Sure.” Dave grinned. “You come up to Lernerville sometime, you can see me race.”

“I ain’t bullshitting you. I worked hard on this car.”

“I know you did. I can see it. Engine’s running as smooth as anyone could get it without a new block and a total rebuild. Brakes are good. Could use a new tire, left rear, but we can afford that.”

“Fifty-nine hundred,” he said.

“Now we’re
talking,
” said Dave.

—

“What was it
really
worth?”

“About four grand, maybe four and a half.”

“What? I thought you bargained him down to an honest price. I paid
five
!”

“Hey, he worked hard on it. Like he said.” Dave laughed. “What’s a few hundred bucks?”

Not that much, true, but I didn’t have much left on the debit cards. Until this job wrapped up and I was back on familiar ground, cash flow was a concern.

“Anyway, just as well Pootie went away happy,” Dave said. “Don’t want him complaining about you to anyone, right? This way, it’s all good.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I admit, he was right.

We were parked a half mile down the road, in front of a shuttered restaurant. I finished tightening the screws holding my new car’s license plate—the one I’d taken from the attacker’s Nissan two days ago.

They wouldn’t return the number to circulation, not after the debacle at Barktree. Whoever supplied Harmony’s team had to know that canceling the plate would only attract even more attention from Chief Gator. The best thing would be to let it lie, and trust that the ghost status would deflect further inquiry.

Now I had my
own
ghost vehicle.

I closed the Leatherman’s screwdriver blade and stood up.

“Let’s go detect some clues,” I said.

A
s we drove up the winding forest road out of Clabbton, approaching Dave’s garage, a state police forensics van came down the other way. It was big enough we had to squeeze past each other, guardrails on either side, along a wooded ridge.

The driver nodded, but we were in the utterly forgettable Aveo, and didn’t attract further attention. We’d left the Charger at Brendt’s house, for lack of any better place.

The carryall full of weapons I kept with me.

“Wonder what they found?” Dave said. He had one elbow out the open window as he sat tipped back in his seat.

“A ton of brass.” The Aveo’s transmission had trouble with the grade, kicking back and forth between second and third gears. “And some wrecked cars. You should call one of those scrap metal companies, see what you can get.”

“Police will take all the good stuff with them.”

“If there’s anyone there, even if they’re
not
police, we’ll drive on by and come back some other time.”

But Barktree Welding was empty. Yellow tape sagged, and piles of debris here and there showed where the technicians had been sorting through the wreckage. It was midafternoon, shadows from the hills already falling across the field. Bullet holes pocked the brick walls everywhere.

“I’m supposed to see Gator sometime,” Dave said.

“Not now.”

“Think it’s okay if I get some clothes out?”

There wasn’t any mystery about what happened in the assault, so I couldn’t see any purpose in maintaining crime-scene inviolability. “Sure, why not?”

Dave wandered in, stepping carefully. I saw him become immediately distracted inside the garage bay, stooping to pick up some tool or other, checking behind the bench.

Most of his shop equipment might be salvageable, and not just by him. “Close and lock the doors when you leave!” I called over. He waved an acknowledgment.

I walked through the field toward the tractor. State CSI would have done a good job scouring the building and the lot—no need to follow them around. But out in the weeds they might have missed something, especially because they probably didn’t know for sure a third gunman had been out here.

The uncut grass near the tractor was trampled slightly, either by the shooter or someone later, but it had mostly bounced back since yesterday. I crouched behind the engine compartment and looked over. The office window was clearly visible. I pretended I was holding a rifle, pointed at the building.

The Russians had all been using similar weapons—short-barreled, extended stocks. The magazines might have been a little longer than typical. I guessed where the ejector port might have been, traced a trajectory with my eyes and looked in the grass.

A gleam of brass, exactly where it should have been. I bent to pick it up.

No head stamp, but the cartridge style was distinctive. There was another nearby, and a third farther away. I pocketed one and left the others in place.

Back at the car Dave had a bundle of clothes, a wrench set and a six-pack.

“My torque wrenches,” he said. “That’s a thousand bucks’ worth of tools there.”

“And the beer?”

“Aw, you know.” He stood, looking at the damaged garage, then turned away. “What’d you find?”

“They were firing 9x39. It’s a Russian subsonic round, high-powered.”

“That don’t mean much to me.”

“Their special forces use them. I think the rifles were SR-3 Vikhrs.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“I suppose it depends.” I opened the Aveo’s door. “Does anyone
want
spetsnaz commandos chasing after them?”

As we drove back to Clabbton, Dave untwisted the cap from one of his salvaged beers. The forest smell blowing through the car was stronger now.

“Seeing all that,” he said. “Man.”

“You can put it back together.” A lot of damage, but the walls were thick, and nothing seemed to have collapsed.

“I thought maybe, but now I don’t know.” He seemed discouraged.

“Find something else, then?”

I slowed at the blinking light and coasted through. No traffic.

“It’s the money,” Dave said. He put his hands on his knees, straightening his posture. “You’re right. There’s nothing wrong there that couldn’t be fixed up again. The problem—what I’m—well, I kinda owe some guys.”

“Van?”

He didn’t seem surprised. “Him and some others. Van’s been around Clabbton for—like—ever. Old as my dad—my foster dad, I mean. Not ours.”

“So . . . ?”

“When I got out.” He hesitated. “You know how hard it is to get started again? Once you’ve got a record?”

“Sure.” It’s difficult enough as an honorably discharged veteran—everyone says we’re heroes but just try to get a job. A résumé with prison time? Forget it.

“No one would hire me. Not even my buddies. Always had a good excuse, but, you know. I did all kinds of shit work there for a while—day labor on a jackhammer, that was probably the worst, but it weren’t none of it fun.”

The picture was clear enough. “Van helped you out.”

“Yup. I saw the garage was for sale, even talked to the old guy selling it. But he wanted the cash to retire out to Alabama on, and no one would talk to me about a loan.”

Maybe local underwriting hadn’t been as lax as I’d thought. “How much?”

“Hundred and twenty thousand. I had six grand for a down payment—cash buried in an aluminum suitcase in Brendt’s backyard, as a matter of fact. He didn’t know about it. Nobody knew, not even my asshole lawyer.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good thing, or he would have ended up with that too.”

“You needed financing for ninety-five percent.”

Dave nodded. “Van offered to put it up. No questions, no bullshit.”

“And now you owe him.”

“I keep paying off, every month, never missed a single payment. But somehow the nut don’t ever get any smaller.”

I took one hand off the wheel to scratch my other arm. Some welts there, red and itchy. The cabin blankets might have been hiding more than just dirt.

“What did you think I’d be able to do?” I said. “I don’t have a hundred grand either.”

“You’re a numbers guy, right? Adding machine and a CPA? Only with guns.” He smiled. “Perfect background to talk to Van with.”

“Talk to him?”

“Uh, yeah. Could you?” He grinned. “I mean, I
know
you can get me a better deal.”

Like life wasn’t complicated enough. Two death-dealing mobs after me already, Dave wanted to add a third. “I think the shop could be rebuilt, but insurance adjusters tend to see things different. Van might be the same.”

“Well, in fact, you know . . . no insurance.”

“Van won’t be happy to hear that. Not one iota.”

“I guess I was a bad risk after all.” Dave shrugged. “You’re right, I got nothing. All the more reason Van ought to back off.”

“Yeah, guys like Van
always
see it that way.”

“Exactly.” He stood up. “Let’s go!”

What could I do?

“Right,” I said. And we drove on into Clabbton.

Dave gave some directions—over the railroad bridge and then left, along the tracks. Just a few blocks away from the town green the streets got scruffy. Signs in low storefronts housed a pawnshop, two nail salons and
FOR LEASE
signs. Trash lay dirty and flattened in the gutter.

But when we arrived, it wasn’t the warehouse or pool hall or razor-wire-encircled junkyard I thought might be Van’s business office. Instead, we pulled into a blacktop lot beside a freestanding one-story with mirror windows and a drive-through. A patch of chemically controlled and neatly trimmed grass surrounded the front.

I stared.

“Don’t need these!” Dave said cheerfully as he picked my carryall off the floor and dropped it behind the seat. “Best not be carrying inside.”

Indeed not. We were about to enter the home office of Clabbton Savings and Loan—Clark Vanderalt, president and chief executive officer. I got out of the truck, bemused.

“David, come in, come in!” He shook hands and led us into his glass-fronted office behind the teller counter. Fifties, not much hair left on top, decent suit. “Thanks for stopping by.”

“Hey, Van.”

“And nice to meet you.”

“Silas Cade,” I said. “Dave’s brother. I happened to be visiting.”

Vanderalt looked like he was interested in that, but we let it drop. “Real sorry to hear about the shop,” he said to Dave.

“Yeah, I know, right? Ain’t nothing left but rubble.”

“What in the world happened? Gator was here yesterday, asking to see all the loan paperwork. Said they were still picking bullets out of the walls, and everything else was blown to kingdom come.”

“No idea.” Dave put a serious, sober, completely sincere face on. “Might have been meth gangs. Don’t know who else would be carrying around those kinds of guns and bombs. All I can think is they made some huge mistake, got the wrong address or something.”

“I’m just glad no one was hurt.”

And there you have it. Dave’s last-resort loan shark was the president of the local bank. A pillar of the community. The wall behind his desk held a framed degree from Duquesne, a series of gold Kiwanis plaques and a display of softball team photos. Everyone wore blue and gold uniform shirts.

Clabbton S&L probably sponsored the Boy Scouts, too, and raised thousands of dollars at Christmas for homeless families.

No too-big-to-fail bank here. The financial apocalypse wasn’t caused by local lenders like Vanderalt. No doubt he’d just kept doing business the way he always had: simple loans to people he saw on the street every day, uncomplicated deposit accounts, extremely conservative cash handling and investments. He sure wasn’t getting rich, not by megabank standards, but he had standing in the community and people who respected him. He’d probably known Dave from childhood.

They didn’t have to watch
It’s a Wonderful Life,
they were
living
it.

“So what are you going to do now?” Vanderalt asked.

“Yeah.” Dave kind of grimaced and looked down and nodded. “See, I know I should of—the thing is, well, I missed some payments on the insurance.”

“Hmm.”

“For maybe . . . let’s see . . . I think, a while?”

Vanderalt turned stern but sympathetic. “When did the policy lapse?”

“Maybe two years ago?”

“I see.”

We all looked at one another for a while, then the walls. Two customers were outside the glass, talking with the tellers, smiling. Vanderalt’s computer hummed quietly.

“Your principal balance is one hundred ten thousand,” he said. “I looked it up when Gator was here.”

Dave nodded. “But you know I sure don’t have
that
.”

“Yes.” He looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Silas?”

I shook my head. “Sorry. I’d help out if I could.”

“Well.”

“You can foreclose,” I said. “The building’s maybe a loss, maybe not, but the land has to be worth something.”

“Twenty thousand, maybe.” Vanderalt’s affect shifted again, subtly, to steel and business. “It’s assessed separate from the construction. Of course demolition and site remediation will cut into that.”

“Fifteen percent, then, with luck. Worse than a Greek government bond.”

“Indeed.”

“If it
was
a drug gang . . .” I glanced his way. “Dave certainly has grounds for a civil suit. Damages could cover the loss.”

“Possibly, after years of litigation.” He shook his head. “Years and years and years. And more years.”

Sounded like the voice of experience. “Could be.”

Dave perked up. “What about, like, the cops seize the gang’s cars and boats and all?”

“Asset forfeiture?”

“I could get a piece of that, right?”

Vanderalt sighed.

The meeting struggled to a close, no one happy, least of all the banker. But what could he do? We shook hands again, walked back past the counters and sat in the Aveo outside.

“That didn’t go great,” Dave said.

“Yeah.”

“Maybe I could declare bankrupt.”

“That would get you out from under the mortgage. Of course, not even Van would lend you anything else for a decade.”

“Well, fuck.”

“Yeah.”

I started the car and drove out of the parking lot. It was four-thirty, and three cars were stopped at the next corner—Clabbton’s rush hour had begun.

“I need some money,” Dave said.