James Swain - No Good Deed

“Now that you mention it, I am. What have you got?”

“Colt 45.”

“Some things never change.”

“What do you mean?”

“That was always your drink. You went around the house singing that stupid slogan, ‘Works every time,’ until Mom got pissed, and yelled at you.”

Logan looked at him and laughed. Pushing himself off the bed, he went to the small fridge tucked in the room’s corner, removed a bottle of Colt 45 malt liquor, took a swallow, and passed the bottle. Lancaster took a sip to be sociable and nearly spit it out.

“That’s awful. How can you drink that stuff?”

“It’s an acquired taste.” Logan returned to the bed. “First of all, I don’t know where the girl is, or if she’s even still alive. She wasn’t the target.”

“You went there for the grandmother.”

“Yeah, only she fought back, so Dexter killed her with a miniature baseball bat called a tire thumper he keeps in his car. We grabbed the girl and threw her in the trunk. Dexter dropped me off here, and left. I don’t know where they went.”

“What’s Dexter’s last name?”

“Hudson.”

“Is that who you were talking to on the phone?”

“Yeah. He called to check up on me.”

“How did you meet him?”

“In the joint. He recruited me to be part of his gang.”

Florida’s prisons were overrun with violent gangs. Many were well funded, with money coming from the outside that allowed their leaders to wield influence inside the prison. Was one of these gangs responsible for the abductions taking place around Florida? It felt like a stretch. Gangs made their money selling drugs and seldom strayed from that endeavor. Kidnapping did not pay the bills unless the victim was a celebrity or rich. As far as he knew, none of the Florida victims were famous or had wealth.

“What was your gang’s name?” he asked.

“The Phantoms,” his brother replied.

The name was vaguely familiar. “They’re out of Central America.”

“That’s right. Started in Colombia and spread to Honduras and Nicaragua. They’re just getting their toe in the States.”

His brother stared longingly at the bottle of beer. Lancaster passed it to him, and watched its contents disappear in one long swallow.

“Is Dexter the Phantoms’ leader?” he asked.

“No, but he could be. Dexter’s smart, used to be with the Outlaws motorcycle gang. When he went to prison, he joined the Phantoms, and ran their smuggling operation.”

“The Phantoms were smuggling stuff out of the prison?”

“No, we were smuggling shit into the prison. Mostly drugs and cell phones, but also laptop computers and hot boxes so we could get internet service.”

“You must have had inside help.”

“That we did. Dexter would bribe a guard to bring in a carton of cigarettes. Then he’d ask the guard to bring in more stuff. If the guard balked, he’d threaten to expose him, which would lead to the guard getting arrested. He turned a lot of guards that way.”

“I’ve been inside Raiford, and security was tight. How could a guard smuggle in a laptop computer, and not get caught?”

“Dexter had an employee in the kitchen on his payroll. The laptops were hidden in a fifty-pound sack of potatoes, and the employee hid the sack in the storeroom. When you’re feeding fourteen hundred guys a day, it’s easy to slip stuff in.”

Logan smothered a belch. The beer had loosened his tongue, and Lancaster decided it was time to find out where Skye was being held. He was going to eventually take Logan to the police, but chances were Logan would get a lawyer, and stop talking.

“Twelve women have disappeared in Florida, including the teenager you and Dexter snatched,” he said. “Were you and Dexter involved in those abductions as well?”

“I sure as hell wasn’t,” Logan said.

“How about your friend?”

Logan’s jailhouse instincts kicked in, and he fell silent. Lancaster thought he understood; this piece of information was Logan’s bargaining chip, and his brother was not going to share it with him, fearing Lancaster might tip off the police and ruin whatever leverage he might have.

“If Dexter wasn’t the gang’s leader, who was?” he asked.

“Cano.”

“Was that his first or last name?”

“I never asked. Cano’s a shaman. He put spells on the guards so they wouldn’t bother us. One time, I saw him wave his hands in front of a guard’s face, and tell the guard to get the fuck out of our cellblock, and the guard walked out. It was crazy.”

“It must have been a trick.”

“No trick. Cano’s the real deal. He had a crystal ball that he used to find people. Cano could track down anyone in the world using that thing.”

“You believed that crap?”

“It wasn’t crap. An inmate paid Cano five thousand bucks to track down some guy who’d stolen all his money. Cano found the guy, no problem.”

“How did you find Elsie Tanner and Skye?”

“I just told you, Cano’s a shaman.”

Cano wasn’t a shaman, he was a con man, and Logan had been conned. He decided to change the subject.

“You said that Cano had laptops and hot boxes smuggled into the prison. Where did he keep this stuff?”

“In our cellblock. Cano used to say that prisons work both ways. The walls keep guys inside, and they also keep people on the outside from looking in.”

“Was Cano running a criminal enterprise inside Raiford?”

“That’s right, little bro. Look, I’ve said all I’m going to say. Now I’ve got something to ask you. Are you going to help me, or not?”

“Yes, I’m going to help you.”

Lancaster’s plan was simple. He would tell the sheriff that Logan had sought him out, and offered to help run down Dexter and locate the missing women. This would put Logan in a favorable light, and let his attorney negotiate a better deal after Logan helped the police. Logan would go back to prison, but not for the rest of his life.

“You’re going to lie for me,” his brother said.

“That’s right, I’m going to lie.”

“Too bad you didn’t do that twenty-five years ago.”

The words stung, and he momentarily looked away.

“Put your clothes on. We need to get out of here,” he said.

His brother got dressed. He wore ragged jeans and a denim shirt missing a button. His shoes were worn out, and he wore no socks. He didn’t own a watch. It was a sad statement for someone who’d been on the planet for as long as he had.

They started to leave. Taking the real estate brochure off the night table, he waved it in his brother’s face.

“What’s this about?” he asked.

“I was going to buy a house,” his brother said.

“With what money?”

“Dexter was going to give it to me.”

He wanted to ask his brother how that worked, but didn’t want to stay there any longer than he had to. He slipped the GLOCK back into his pocket, and they went outside to the parking lot. He unlocked his car, and Logan started to get in.

“We need to tell the manager you’re checking out,” he said.

“Fuck him,” Logan said. “He set me up.”

“We still need to tell him.”

“What are you, a fucking Boy Scout?”

“Shut up, would you?”

The entrance to the motel office was on the side of the building that faced the parking lot. As they got close, a large man emerged from the shadows, and blocked their path. He was dressed in black and cradled a sawed-off shotgun. It was Dexter.

“This is what happens to rats,” Dexter said.

Then he pulled the trigger.

Logan shoved him hard.

Growing up, it had been one of his brother’s favorite tricks. They’d be standing on the playground and Logan would give him a playful shove, sending him a few inches off the ground. Then his brother would laugh like hell.