Thomas Scott - Voodoo Daddy

“Okay. But it was a van? You’re sure of that?”

“Yeah. White cargo van. Like a delivery van or something.”

“Okay. Sit still. I’m going to get the medics to look you over.”

“Aw, jeez, I don’t need that. Let me work this with you.”

“It’s not a request, Sandy. They’re going to look at you.” I stood up. “I’ll be right back.”

I went to grab my phone from my pocket but realized it was still in the truck. I jogged back down to where I’d parked a few minutes ago and the phone was ringing when I got there. The caller ID showed a blocked number. I hit the button. “Jonesy.”

“Uh, Detective Jones? This is Cauliffer, up at the house? The Governor’s? He gave me your number.”

“Yeah, Cauliffer, what is it?”

“Well, you think you could come up here for a minute?”

“Why?”

“It’s, um, the Governor. He’s pretty pissed that I won’t let him out of the house.”

I could hear the Governor in the background. Cauliffer was right. He sounded pissed. “Alright. Just sit on him for a minute. I’ll be right there.” I pressed the end button then hit the speed dial for my boss, Cora.

She answered immediately. “What the hell’s happening, Jonesy?”

“Aw, we’ve got a hell of a mess is what’s happening. You better get out here. Be nice if you could handle the politics for me.”

“Turn around, Slick.”

I turned and saw Cora walking toward me. I hit the end button and stuck the phone in my pocket. At fifty-two years old, Cora stands little more than five feet tall, carries about twenty extra pounds, is dark skinned, and keeps her salt and pepper hair high and tight like a man. She began her career as an Indianapolis Metro patrol cop, and the stories of her days on a foot beat are legendary. She once found herself cornered by three gangbangers jacked on meth in an abandoned warehouse. When they closed ranks to take her down, she left her gun in its holster and instead took her nightstick from the chrome loop on her belt and proceeded to offer a free demonstration on the quality of hand to hand combat training offered by the Indiana Police Academy. When it was over she shook a cigarette out of her pack, lit up, and stood over them, the ashes from her cigarette scattered around their broken limbs and bloodied faces. She finished her smoke before she called for EMS on the radio. No one messed with Cora LaRue more than once, and only then at their own peril.

She walked up and put her hands on her hips. “Jesus Christ. I heard it’s Barney Burns.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t believe it.”

“Alright, I’m going to go up and talk to the Governor. Get this scene locked down, then come up and join me, will you?”

“You bet.”

“Jesus Christ,” Cora said again. “Barney Burns. Who’d have ever thought…”

The Sids sat across from each other at their kitchen table, Senior lost in thought, Junior amped from the adrenaline rush.

“I still think we could do them all,” Junior said. “I want to do them all.”

“We’ve been over this before. It’s too risky.”

Junior’s hand slapped the table. Hard. “Then what the fuck did I drive all the way up there for? Answer that for me, will you? Jesus, an entire week of surveillance in that God forsaken shithole of a town and now you want to just let it go? Who retires to Osceola anyway?”

Senior sucked in his cheeks and exhaled through his nose. Maybe he’d trained his child too well. Or too hard. Sid Jr. could be a handful, that was for sure. Junior wanted it all, and anything less than that would be considered a failure. Sid Sr. shook his head then pointed at the map on the table. “Look, everyone else is either right here in Indy or within fifty miles. He’s the only one that’s out of the area. You want to blow the whole deal over one guy?”

Junior didn’t answer. Asked a question instead. “You’re turning chicken shit on me, aren’t you?”

Senior pointed a finger at Sid Jr. “Don’t you talk to me that way. Did it look chicken shit to you when that Trooper’s melon popped? Chicken shit my ass.”

“It was pretty good shootin’, I’ll give you that,” Junior said. “But listen, we may have a little problem.”

“What?”

“I lost some brass.”

This time it was Senior that slapped the table. “God damn, girl. That could be a problem, right there.”

“No, no, listen. I think it’s okay. It’s not good, but I’m not printed anywhere and neither are you, so if they find it, and they probably won’t, what good can it do them?”

“Aw, they’ll find it,” Senior said. “We killed a cop. There’s no way they won’t find it.”

Junior wasn’t so sure. “I still think it’s okay. They don’t know to look for it. We fired four shots total, right? Yours, and my three. I picked up two, but the third was hot. That’s how I lost it. Slipped out of my hand and rolled right down the storm drain. Unless they pull the grate and look in there-and why would they-they’ll just think we took them all. Besides, you know the cops aren’t all that smart to begin with. Hell, half the time they can’t find their own ass with a GPS unit and a how-to video.”

“It’s not the cops, though, don’t you get it? If the cops don’t catch us in the act, we’re probably okay. But those fucking crime scene techs? They scare me. They can figure some shit out.”

“Aw, that’s a bunch of TV bullshit.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, like I said, we’re not printed anywhere, so all they could do is hang us after the fact anyway, and if it comes to that, it won’t make much difference. It’ll be fuck you very much and good-bye, know what I mean?”

They bantered back and forth like that for a bit before they got back to work, checking their gear, loading their supplies for the next run, but all the while, somewhere in the recesses of Senior’s mind, he heard himself say it wasn’t too late to back it down, to toss the whole thing in the shitter and flush it away like a bad memory. Live and let live and all that jazz. But he wasn’t really listening to himself and so in the end he never really heard. It was too bad for that cop, no doubt about it, but it really was the only way-the banker had to go.

They still had another one to do later today. By tonight the city would be shocked. By tomorrow they’d be worried. By the end of the week they’d be shit-faced with panic.

And this was just the beginning.

I walked into the side entrance of the Governor’s mansion without knocking, stepped through a short hallway, around a corner, and into the kitchen. The Governor’s chief of staff, Bradley Pearson was already there along with the Governor, and Officer Cauliffer. I pulled out a chair and sat down. “Morning Governor,” I said by way of a greeting.

“Jonesy,” the Governor said. “What do we know so far?” Then, without waiting for an answer, “And perhaps we should excuse Officer Cauliflower here.”

Cauliffer reddened. “It’s, uh, Cauliffer sir.”

The Governor tipped his head sideways and closed one eye. “Yes, of course. Sorry. Cauliffer. Got it.”

I caught Cauliffer’s eyes and gave him a nod that said, ‘you’re done in here.’ Cauliffer gave me a look back that said all at once, ‘got it’ and ‘thank God’ and went back outside.

The Governor looked at Cora. “Is Sandy out there? Is she hurt?”

I thought, hmm. Cora looked at me but spoke to the Governor. “She’s fine Governor. But Trooper Burns is dead, along with your neighbor directly across the street.”

I could see the Governor’s jaw muscles clench tight. “Yes, I know. It’s all over my Blackberry already.” He held his phone up and wiggled it in the air, then tossed it on the counter. Governor Hewitt McConnell was ex-military and looked it. Tall, hard and lean with a military buzz cut, slightly gray at the temples, clear blue eyes and a salt and pepper goatee he wore off and on. Today it was on. The gray in his hair and beard contrasted perfectly against his black over black three-piece suit. Pearson, his Chief of Staff, was the polar opposite. Narrow shoulders, a soft stomach that strained the buttons on his wrinkled shirt, and a polyester suit that looked capable of surviving nuclear devastation. His hair was drug store bottle black but left gray along the sides. The common consensus was he was trying for Mitt Romney, but the reality was he looked more like Pauley Walnuts from the Sopranos.