Deadly Dozen: 12 Mysteries/Thrillers (171 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

THE PRINTER IS ALREADY connected to the computer via a USB cable. While I print out the title page, I grab hold of one of the stacks of paper, tear off the paper packaging. I muss the paper up a little bit, bending some of the ends to make it look like it’s been handled by big dirty fingers for a period of weeks. Then I set Roger’s title page on top of it. Retrieving two thick rubber bands from an unused ashtray that’s filled with paper clips, pens, and pencils with the tips broken off, I wrap them around the paper stack. One horizontally and then other, vertically.

I set the “book” down onto the table.

I’ll be damned if it doesn’t look like the real thing.

Drinking down the rest of his present beer, Roger glances down at it. “Did I write that?” he says, his face still beaming with an all-teeth smile.

“You know what, Roger?” I say. “You goddamned well did write that.”

“The magic is back, Jack,” he sings.

I turn to Suzanne who is now standing in the living room, her iPhone in her hand.

“Well?” I ask. “Alexander? Is he in?”

“He’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

“Can the present day Stalin be trusted, Good Luck?” I ask.

Suzanne’s frown turns upside down.

“He’s a killer and a drug dealer, Moonlight.”

“Oh yeah,” I say. “There’s that.”

I go to the basement door, open it.

“Georgie!” I shout. “Grab the girl and let’s move out!”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

WE ALL PILE BACK into Georgie’s white van. Roger takes the shotgun seat since it’s his house we’ll be driving to. For obvious reasons, we’ll take the scenic route over the most out-of-the-way country roads we can find. Some of the roads unpaved.

I sit in back with Suzanne and for the first time, listen to Detective Miller’s messages. As I suspected, he’s asking me to surrender myself for further questioning now that they have Sissy’s body in custody at the AMC morgue. If I don’t respond to his request by three o’clock today, he’ll consider me fleeing his demand and he’ll officially issue a warrant for my arrest. He also tells me that although they haven’t gone public with any of their findings, a preliminary examination of Sissy’s body suggests foul play. Obviously that initial exam occurred before we stole the body.

“If we find your man chowder floating around up inside her, Moonlight,” he adds, “God help you.”

Man chowder…

I have to wonder if Albany cops require a negative IQ in order to be employed. But then, I was a cop once. I should know. Or perhaps they changed the rules since the unexpected initiation of my so-called retirement.

Hitting the number seven on my keypad, I delete both messages and silently pray that we can pull off our little plan for Sissy and Alexander Stalin and have her back in the morgue by three o’clock.

#

We enter into the town of Old Chatham, Roger leading us on a maze of narrow, gravel-covered roads that bypasses the little township entirely. I’m sure he’d love nothing more than to make a pit stop at his favorite tavern, but that will have to wait.

Time check.

Twelve noon.

We have at best an hour and a half to pull off my plan and then pack Sissy back up and get us all back on the road to Albany. Arriving at the Walls’s driveway, the first thing we see is that the front wood gates are cordoned off by yellow crime scene ribbon. It looks slightly less formidable than Roger’s “Keep Out” sign nailed to the fence post.

Not wanting to mess with the ribbon, Georgie puts the van in park and gets out, leaving the door open. Gently he peels away the ribbon and allows it to drop to the dirt road. He then gets back into the van and pulls into the open gate. He stops the van once more and replaces the ribbon, like we never drove in here in the first place. Leave it to Georgie, master pathologist and detail man.

Slowly we make our way up the drive, knowing all the time that not only will Alexander be in the house waiting for us, his goons will no doubt be eyeing us the whole way.

“Just because you can’t see them, doesn’t mean they won’t see you,” Roger points out.

“You’re preaching to the choir, Roger,” I say, feeling for the .38 holstered under my left armpit. “I’ve had a bellyful of experience with the Russian mob. We go back a long way.”

Suzanne turns to me, sets her hand on my leg.

“I know you do,” she says. “You wrote about them in
Moonlight Falls
. You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Depends on who you’re talking to,” I say.

We pull up to the house and Georgie kills the engine. I hand Suzanne the fake novel while remaining out of sight in the back of the van. Georgie remains behind the wheel for now to act as Suzanne’s official driver.

“Go,” I say. “We don’t have a lot of time.”

“What are you going to do, Moonlight?” Roger says, opening his door.

“You’ll know what I’m doing when I do it. Just play it for real. You have the first draft of his book and you’re delivering it to him for his approval.”

“And what if he demands to read it on the spot?” Suzanne begs while opening her door.

“He won’t have time,” I say. “Just go.”

Suzanne and Roger exit the van and begin making their way to the front door. As they walk, I hear Roger say, “I hope Sissy didn’t drink the joint dry.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

“READY, GEORGIE?” I SAY.

“Sure you wanna do this, Moonlight?” he begs. “It’s creepy.”

“Don’t worry,” I say. “Sissy is gone now and it’s all for a good cause. Besides, look who we’re about to be dealing with. A Russian mobster who claims to be directly related to Uncle Joe Stalin. Stalin killed more innocent people than Hitler. Only reason no one ever heard about it is because he was an ally.”

Georgie reaches into the glove compartment, pulls out two lengths of rope, and a tube of KY jelly. He makes a swift little underhanded pitch and tosses the items onto Sissy where they settle on top of her black body bag.

I pull out my .38, open the van door and step on out while zippering up my leather coat.

“You take the front door, Georgie,” I say. “And I’ll take the back. Let’s do this before she starts to smell.”

Georgie pulls out his own .9mm, thumbs off the safety, slips on out of the van and starts jogging to the front door. If anyone has had their eyes on us, there’s no doubt about our intentions now, which is why I need to move fast.

I pop out of the van and sprint around the back of the house. I immediately spot a big wood deck that wraps itself around the entirety of the big farmhouse’s backside. I recall the back door that leads into the kitchen, I climb the stairs onto the dock, head straight for it.

Transparency reveals the truth.

Before I even get to the door, I can see what’s happening through the floor-to-ceiling kitchen window. Suzanne and Roger are down on their knees. Suzanne’s shirt has been ripped off, along with her bra, her pert, pale breasts exposed. The man standing directly over her is dressed entirely in black. He’s got his pants pulled down around his knees and he’s making her take him in her mouth, while he’s forcing Roger to swallow the barrel on what looks to be a chrome-plated .44 Magnum. The kind
Dirty Harry
used to carry. The hammer is thumbed back on the pistol. The thug’s trigger finger is tickling the trigger while Suzanne is sucking him off. If the metal gun is truly loaded with real live bullets, it’s possible that trigger finger is going to retract when the fleshy gun shoots its own particular load.

Even from where I’m standing outside the window, I can almost see the beads of sweat pouring off of Roger’s brow. I can feel the agony in Suzanne’s tears. The literary duo have no choice but to kneel there and take it. Standing behind the goon I take to be Alexander are two more Russians. Both of them dressed in identical black outfits. Black jeans, black leather coats, black shoes, black sunglasses. Gripped in their hands are identical .44 Magnums, one bead a piece planted on Roger and Suzanne. If Alexander doesn’t get them, the backup squad will.

I see Georgie enter into the picture. He’s made his way quietly from the front vestibule down the short hallway to the kitchen. No one seems to have noticed his presence yet, which is exactly the way I want it. I’ve got a choice here: I can either try and negotiate with the mobsters, or we can cut to the chase by rescuing Roger and Suzanne.

I vie for the latter.

I grab Georgie’s attention through the plate glass window. I raise the two fingers on my left hand to indicate the number two. Then, with the same fingers closed together, I point them in the direction of the two goons on the backup squad. He gets my meaning, flashes me a single raised finger on his free hand. I then pat my heart, meaning, “Don’t kill them. Just shoot to wound.” He nods in total understanding. Georgie and I have known one another as close as two non-biological brothers can for nearly forty years. We don’t need to speak directly to know what each other is thinking.

My left hand held back up, I hold up three fingers.

“One,” I mouth, dropping the first finger.

“Two.” Dropping the second.

“Three.”

I hear a shot, just as I burst through the door. At the same time, I fire the .38 at the legs of the backup goons. They never get a shot off before they drop on the spot, the blood from the wounds in their thighs already spurting blood. Alexander is on his back, the .44 still gripped in his right hand. He gets off a shot that shatters the chandelier over the kitchen table. It falls from the ceiling in a resounding crash.

He’s screaming “Shit! Fuck! Motherfucker!” in Russian-accented English.

I kick the other .44s out of reach of the wounded men and nearly break my big toe doing it.

“Drop it!” Georgie screams. “Drop the gun!”

He fires again, the bullet hitting the ceiling, plaster reigning down on his still erect penis.

Suzanne is screaming. Roger is still on his knees. He’s grabbed hold of Alexander’s still stiff manhood and he looks like he’s about to yank it off. His face is so red with rage I’m afraid he will.

I lean down, press the barrel of my gun against Alexander’s forehead.

“Roger, let it go!” I scream. “We need him and his dick.”

He issues me this scrunched-up-brow look of confusion.

“Get his gun,” I add.

Roger does it, turning the barrel back onto the thug.

“What are you going to do to me, motherfucker?” Alexander begs, the wound in his lower shin draining blood like a bad leak. His face is pale with pain.

“We’re not going to kill you yet,” I say. “We’re going to finish what Suzanne started.”

The look of pain on his face shifts from pain to disgust.

“What kind of creepy, perversion man are you?” Alexander spits.

“It’s perverted, Alex,” Roger corrects, standing back up on his two feet. “It’s per-ver-ted. If you’re going to say it in English, say it right.”

“Alexander,” Suzanne says, pulling her black T-shirt back over her head, tucking it into the waist of her jeans. “Meet my newest client. Mr. Richard ‘Dick’ Moonlight. Part time author, part time private detective, full-time hater of the Russian mob.”