GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) (4 page)

CHAPTER 5 - SKIPPER

I drove home from the ferry with that guilty sense of freedom all men experience when they are released, even temporarily, from the bonds of domesticity, no matter how blissful it is. And my relationship with Alice Watts would qualify as blissful in anyone’s book. She made few demands on me, and most of them were sexual, of which I graciously decided not to make an issue. She had moved into my house on my suggestion, and made it clear that it was a temporary, if delightful, accommodation. We both knew that her days as a professor at Wagner College were probably numbered. A couple of Ivies wanted her and underneath her normally sweet exterior was, I knew, a burning ambition. It was probably only a matter of time before she moved from New York City.

That thought obliterated most of my euphoria at being a “free” man. I found myself needing some solace. So, instead of turning for home, I headed to Castleton Corners, where Joe & Pat’s Pizzeria and Restaurant makes a thin-crust pie that always ranks in the top 10 in all of New York City. I didn’t bother calling ahead. I like to sit at the counter and drink some Chianti and talk to the kitchen crew while they make my pie. I’m a regular. They pour my Chianti into short little glasses that used to hold jelly. Half the time they don’t charge me for the wine. 

By the time I pulled down the driveway in my back yard, the aroma of fresh, hot pizza emanating from the back seat was making me dizzy. I looked around for Scar. He likes pizza almost as much as sausage. No Scar. Probably had brought down a wart hog. I opened the back door to my house and was half way through my kitchen when I registered a whiff of cigarettes over the pizza smell. Neither Alice nor I smoke, although I occasionally grub a butt if the occasion demands it. I put the pizza down on the table and slid my hand toward my gun.

“Don’t.”

The voice came from behind me. Whoever it was had been waiting in the dining room, just off the kitchen.

“Hands behind your head.”

No inflection. No nerves. Professional. But strangely familiar. I put my hands behind my neck. I caught a hint of good cologne as he came up behind me and reached around and took my gun. It took less than two seconds. He’d done this many times. I was glad I didn’t try anything stupid.

“You shouldn’t smoke on the job,” I said. “It’s a dead giveaway. If it wasn’t for the pizza smell, I would have had you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. You weren’t expecting to be rousted. Pizza didn’t hurt, though. It really does smell delicious. Thin crust?”

“Of course.”

“Outstanding. Glad you didn’t drop it on the floor. Most guys in your situation would have. But then most aren’t as cool as you are.”

Did he know me? Again, I tried to place the voice.

“Bottom line,” he continued, “pizza didn’t matter. If I was here to kill you, I might have played it different.”

I found that somewhat consoling.

“Put your hands in your pockets. Head into the living room. Sit on the couch by the window.”

I did as I was told. He sat in the Bennington Pine rocking chair in front of my fireplace. The same chair Nando Carlucci sat in when he came to my house and then tried to cut me into sausage. I may have to get rid of that rocking chair, even if it did belong to my grandmother and was sturdy enough to hold the late and very fat Nando. My latest guest had moved a small pedestal table from my TV room next to the rocker and placed a Waterford Crystal wine coaster on it to use as an ashtray. The coaster looked like it already had half a dozen butts in it. On the coffee table in front of me was a thick envelope. My mind raced. Then I looked up at the man holding a silenced automatic on me. It had a rosewood grip and looked like a SIG Sauer .380. The man liked his guns. In his other hand he balanced the Taurus revolver he’d taken from me.

“A .38 with only five chambers,” he said, smiling. “You always were a confident bastard, Skipper. Pretty good shot, too, as I recall.”

He saw my look of almost recognition.

“It’s good to see you again, Skip,” he said as he flicked open my revolver and let the rounds fall to the floor.

Then he casually flipped my empty gun onto the couch next to me. He had a look of anticipation on his face.

“Maples? Corporal Maples?”

He gave me a genuine smile of pleasure.

“I knew you’d remember, Skip. You were always good with faces. Always took the time to know all your men, even replacements like me. I can’t tell you how much that meant to us. You really cared.”

He was dressed in designer jeans and a black turtleneck. His silver-and-black boots gleamed with polish. 

“Why the gun, Vernon?”

He smiled grew even broader at my use of his first name. He waved the gun casually.

“Let’s just call it a necessary inconvenience, Skip. This is not your normal reunion. I have to tell you something. Something you might think you have to act on right away. I know you. You’re a tough guy. One of the toughest I ever met. You might want to do the right thing. Always liked you. Took care of your troops. Including me when I got wounded. But that was then, and this is now. So, don’t make any mistakes. I’ll give you a chance to do the right thing. Just not now, and not with me.”   

He put his gun in his lap and lit another cigarette. He wasn’t worried about me making a move. There were 10 feet and a table separating us. The fact that he wasn’t worried told me volumes. He’d figured the distance and calculated the odds, and knew I would, too. It was in his eyes. Vernon Maples didn’t want to kill me, but wouldn’t hesitate to shoot me if it came down to me or him. I respected that. It just happened to be my philosophy, too.

“How about one of those cigarettes?”

“Sorry, Skip. Too much hand movement. I remember how quick you were. Don’t worry. I’ll clean up the butts before I leave.” He smiled. “No D.N.A.”

He was taking no chances. Truth was, I could have used a cigarette. It was one of those special occasions.

“Tell you what, Skip. You can take your hands out of your pockets. Just keep them where I can see them.”

“Thanks.”

“I have to ask you, Skipper. What the fuck was that god-awful play about?”

“You were at the St. George?”

“Beautiful theater. One of the prettiest I’ve seen. Yeah, I was there. Sat through the whole thing. Two hours of my life I’ll never get back. What was the playwright trying to say, other than that he has no talent?”

“I could make something up, Vernon, but your guess is as good as mine. I was shanghaied into going.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Skip. You never appeared to be the type to put up with that kind of bullshit.” He smiled. “Who shanghaied you? That lady you dropped at the ferry? Nice-looking filly. Don’t think I’d let that one get away.”

I recalled Maples more clearly now. He was the kid from Kentucky always talking about hunting dogs and horses. I only had him in my outfit for a couple of months in Afghanistan before he got banged up and sent home. I remembered him as a good soldier. Tall, skinny kid, with chiseled features and pale blond hair.  A born killer who could shoot with the best of them, like a lot of kids who come out of the South. Every platoon needs a couple of Vernon Maples. You might not want them to marry your sister, but in a firefight you want them on your side. 

“You followed me?”

“Sure did. For two days.”

“That’s just terrific. I never caught a sniff.”

He looked embarrassed.

“Hey, Skip. Don’t sweat it. I do this kind of thing for a living. And it was a real loose tail. Not round the clock or anything. Just popped around occasionally to get your routine. I would have had to be wearing a clown suit for you to notice me. I thought the gal would be a problem, seeing how she’s been staying here with you. I didn’t want to involve her, so I was real happy when you took her to the ferry. Saw her overnight bag. Works out nice. She your main squeeze?”

“How about we leave her out of this?”

“Sure. Sure. Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry. Like I said. I didn’t want her involved. Always do my damndest to leave civilians out of the equation.”

“What’s this about, Vernon?”

He lit another cigarette.

“I was on Staten Island recently. Even thought about looking you up then, Skipper. But I was on a job. Turned out a bit more complicated than I expected. That’s why I’m here.”

He paused.

“I killed John Panetta.”

CHAPTER 6 - BLOOD MONEY

“You don’t have any idea who ordered the hit?”

Maples had spent the previous five minutes explaining, in clinical detail, how he’d killed Panetta.

“Doesn’t work that way. I get a name. They get a numbered bank account in an offshore bank. The money clears and somebody dies. Guy who contacts me is just a middleman. Who the hell knows? Maybe he has a middleman.”

I heard a car drive up the street. A neighbor’s dog barked. A moment later I saw why. A woman walked by the front of my house with another dog on a leash. The mutt stopped and urinated on the tree by my curb. Anyone on the sidewalk could look in the bay window near where we were sitting. But all they would see was two men having a friendly conversation. And, in fact, I didn’t want any interruptions. I was caught up in the story Vernon Maples had just told me.  

“The cops have hairs and D.N.A. from a black man,” I said.

“I planted that. A little misdirection.”

“What happens if they nab the wrong guy?’

Maples smiled.

“He’ll have a pretty good defense, unless he’s a zombie. The D.N.A. won’t match. Guy it came from is dead.’

He saw the look on my face.

“Hey. I didn’t kill him. I have people who can supply that kind of stuff to me. Comes in handy in my line of work. This batch came from a lifer in prison who had terminal cancer. You’d be surprised how much dead-end D.N.A. is harvested from prisons by the people in my profession. Has a lot of cops and D.A.s running around in circles.”

“What does all this have to do with me, Vernon?”

For the first time, a look of animation came to his face.

“I loved the Army, Skip. You knew that. Everybody treated me right. It damn near killed me when they mustered me out because of my wounds. Yeah, I know, they probably could have found me a desk job, given my record. But combat was out. Hell, I’m in better shape now than I ever was. Worked out like a bandit for years. Thought about trying to go back, but by then I had found this gig. Changed my name and some other things.” Maples held up his free hand to show me the tips of his fingers. “Did you know there’s a place in Mexico where they can erase your fingerprints? Anyway, when you’re making six figures a year, tax-free, taking care of other people’s problems, there’s no reason for nostalgia. Got no family anymore. I don’t even know where my disability payments are going. But that don’t mean I like some sonsabitches using me to kill a Medal of Honor winner. Never would have done it had I known.” He paused and leaned slightly forward. “I want you to find out who the cocksuckers who ordered the hit are, and see that they are punished.”

I stared at Maples. Despite his hardness and disrespect for life, he had that “trooper” look on his face I remembered well from him and others of my men in Afghanistan. Whenever the shit hit the fan, all eyes, even those of the most grizzled veterans, shifted toward their commander, especially if he’d won their respect. The “Skipper” would figure things out. Just tell us what to do, and we’ll do it. And, by God, they did. Despite the obvious delicacy of my current situation, I couldn’t help but feel a bit pleased.

“Why don’t you take care of this yourself?”

“Reasons I gave you, Skip. I don’t know who is behind the hit. I’m a shooter, not a detective like you. Hell, this is the first time I ever even came back to the scene of the crime, as they call it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Why not go to the cops, even anonymously,” I said. “Tell them Panetta was a hit. They’ll start turning over rocks.”

“Come on, Skip. I hate cops. For me, that would be like going to the Taliban back in the day. Besides, you know as well as I do that they’ll only clomp around in their muddy boots and fuck things up. It will get back to the people who ordered the hit and they’ll cover their tracks even more than they already have.”

“What’s to prevent me from just going to the cops with this?”

“Nothing. But I don’t think you will, for the same reasons I just gave you.”

“Withholding evidence of a felony is a felony,” I pointed out. “I could lose my license.”

That got a real laugh out of Maples.

“Skip, you’re still a pisser. Withholding evidence is what you private eyes do. You could put it on your business card.”

I’d almost forgotten that Maples probably knew more about the criminal justice system than I did.

“Whatever I do, it’s bound to get back to the guys who hired you, the middlemen? And then get to you.”

Maples shrugged.

“I work off burner phones and numbered accounts that I change every week or so. To my contacts, I’m just a voice on a phone. Hell, like I said, I’m not even Vernon Maples anymore, in case you’re thinking of tracking me down. That name is dead and buried.”

“Those contacts will know what you did.”

“Not necessarily. But, hell, nothing is perfect. Even if they put it together, I may lose one source of income. I have several, none of whom know about the others. I’ve been thinking of cutting back, anyway. I got a couple of million in the bank. I could retire right now. Go to the cops if you want. It’s your call, but I think you’re too smart for that.”

“What makes you think I want to get involved in this at all? I didn’t know Panetta.”

“Like I say. It’s your call. But I did a little research on you. When I learned you were a private dick, it made up my mind. You’re a gift from heaven. I know guys who know guys. The word on the street is that you’re still a straight shooter. You won’t let this rest. Personally, I have my doubts you can get to the bottom of it, but it’s the best I can do under the circumstances. Hell, maybe you have a chance. I mean, you found someone in witness protection once.” Maples laughed. “Don’t look so surprised. That one made the rounds.”

Maples took a quick glance at his watch. It was a Rolex. Business was indeed good.

“I have to wrap this up, Skip.” He pointed at the table in front of me. “There’s 20 grand in that envelope. Untraceable.”

“I don’t want your money.”

He ignored me.

“It’s what I earned for killing Panetta. I don’t want blood money for killing a Medal of Honor winner, even if it’s been laundered.”

“What makes you think I want it?”

“Because you didn’t do anything to earn it, yet. And now you can use it against the scumbags who wanted Panetta dead.”

Maples stood.    

“Well, I’ve got to be going. Have a plane to catch. Skip, despite everything, it’s been great seeing you. I know you’ll try your best. You always did. Please be careful. You might have to go up against some really bad dudes. Shoot first and ask questions later.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out another gun. It looked like a target pistol.

“Sorry about this, Skip.”

He pointed the pistol at me and shot me in the left side. It made a “thutt” sound and I realized it used compressed air. I felt a sharp sting in my side. I looked down. There was something with red plastic feathers dangling from my shirt. I started to rise.

“Don’t,” Maples said, calmly. “You might fall over and hurt yourself. Give it time to work. Maybe a minute.”

He saw the look on my face.

“Tranquilizer gun. I had to estimate your weight for the dose in the dart. Brought some epinephrine in case I gave you too much. I’ll stick around to make sure you don’t asphyxiate. When you wake up, I’ll be a thousand miles away and you’ll have a small headache. Take a couple of Advil. Had to be done.”

My legs had already begun to feel heavy. The room started to swim.

“I’m really glad your lady friend isn’t here,” Maples said. His voice was very hollow. “I had a dart for her but I wouldn’t have liked using it.”

I stared at Vernon Maples, who slowly started to disappear down a long tunnel. I was having trouble keeping my head up. And I don't mean in polite society. Something was wrong with my neck. The last thing I heard him say was, “Just relax. It can’t be as bad as that fucking play.”

***

I woke up lying on the couch, with my head propped on two pillows. I sat up, and was rewarded with the promised headache. On the table next to the envelope with the money was a bottle of my Maker’s Mark bourbon and a fresh glass. Also a couple of Advil. Thoughtful. I poured myself a stiff drink and downed the pills. I’m pretty sure there is a warning on Advil boxes about doing that. When I stood up, I felt a small sting in my side where the dart had gone in. I wobbled out to the kitchen to throw some water on my face. The wine coaster Maples had used as an ashtray was in the sink rack, washed. The pizza wasn’t on the kitchen table. I looked in the fridge. The box was there. I opened it.

Three slices were missing. There was a note in the box.

“Outstanding. Now I know why you didn’t drop the box.”