John Miller - Smoke and Mirrors

Alexa kept her eyes on the floor in front of her, thinking in ten directions at once. “We’ll take your vehicle,” Styer said. “Wouldn’t be good if Massey saw it sitting here, what with you supposed to be in Memphis meeting with those FBI agents.”

As they exited the casino, Alexa spotted Albert White climbing into a limousine. He stooped to get his considerable bulk into the Cadillac, reminding Alexa of a fat groundhog slipping into a narrow opening in a wall.

At Leigh’s pickup, Alexa unlocked the door and handed Styer the keys. He aimed Cynthia into the rear seat and placed the valise on the floorboard beside her feet. He watched as Alexa opened her door and climbed into the cab. She started the engine and backed out carefully.

“So what’s in the valise?” she asked.

“Maybe I’ll let you look if you behave yourself. Aren’t you going to try and use psychology on me? It’s a long drive out to the plantation, and I like entertainment where I can find it.”

She shook her head.

“Well, then, what’s your listening pleasure?” he asked, turning on the radio.

Albert White squeezed past Finch’s pals in the jump seat and crabbed back to the rear bench, lowering his bulk to the cushioned leather. The other two men, whose names he hadn’t bothered to learn, were large and serious individuals who didn’t look like they were going to enjoy this any more than he was. Only Steffan Finch was smiling, and as soon as the car rolled away, he opened the bar on the side bench and started fixing a drink, dropping ice cubes into a crystal highball glass, then pouring in scotch from a decanter.

“You know how to get to the steak house?” Albert called to the driver as they stopped at the entrance to the casinos, facing the highway.

The driver shook his head.

“You shouldn’t be driving for the casino until you know the area,” he said, annoyed. “Take a left.”

The driver looked into the rearview and lit a cigarette, illuminating his features for a couple of seconds. He didn’t look familiar to Albert-at least the back of his head didn’t, but the cap made it hard to tell.

One of the two large men coughed.

“Put out that cigarette,” Albert commanded.

Instead of tossing out the cigarette, the driver took a deep drag from it and turned right onto the road, pushing down the accelerator.

“Fuck’s sake,” Albert mumbled. “I guess he doesn’t want to keep his job. Well, then close the glass.”

The driver slid up the glass partition.

“And turn around, damn it!” Albert said, his anger rising.

The man who had coughed leaned to the side, reached down under his leg, and took out a pistol tipped with a thick black silencer. Resting the gun on his knee, he aimed the automatic directly at Albert’s chest. Albert froze.

“Albert,” Finch said, tasting the scotch. “This is very good, by the way. Would you like some?”

“No,” Albert heard himself say. “I quit drinking ten years ago.”

“Never too late to go back,” Finch said, bringing smiles to the two goons’ faces. “Unless it turns out that way. It’s entirely up to you.”

Albert said, “This isn’t funny. Don’t aim that thing at me.”

“No, it isn’t, is it? Not funny at all. Here’s the deal. We’re going to make a stop a few miles from here. You are going to make a tape for Herr Klein. On this tape you will tell the story of how you hired Jack Beals to kill Leigh Gardner so her ex-husband could sign over the land Mr. Mulvane so desperately needed. He had already purchased the land from Jacob Gardner when he found out that Gardner did not own it, his ex-wife did. When Mulvane discovered that she would never sell it as long as Jacob needed her to do so, he became desperate because he had intended to take the land from Gardner by force and say he paid a million dollars for it in order to cover the embezzling he has been doing for a long while. Beals killed the wrong person and panicked. Mulvane had Tug Murphy, or yourself, if you’d like to go to prison, kill Beals and Jacob Gardner to keep them quiet. You, being a decent man, couldn’t live with this sin on your head, so you’re making the tape to incriminate Mulvane and Tug Murphy. Then you leave town, or die by your own hand. I don’t care which, though you might. I think that’s about it.”

“That’s crazy,” Albert said. “Who’s going to believe that?”

“Some of it is true enough.” Finch took a small recorder from his coat pocket. “People will believe it because it explains everything nicely, and people like for things to make sense. And Herr Klein will make sure they do. He is investing over a billion dollars locally, and you are a fat, stupid, crooked ex-cop who works for a casino. The alternative is that Herr Klein will have Tug make the tape and blame you, which seems just as logical to me. All the denials you can muster won’t help you. One way or the other, Mulvane is going to take the rap. So is it going to be you or Tug in a cell with Mulvane?”

“I have a lot of money,” Albert said. “Let me go and it’s yours. Half a million dollars. Cash.”

“No, you don’t have that kind of money. Does old Albert here have any money, Gregory?”

The man who wasn’t aiming at Albert said, “We visited your home to look around and we found your twenty grand.”

“It’s nine hundred grand,” Albert growled.

“Nine or five, we only found twenty grand. Isn’t that right, Carl?” Steffan said.

The man with the gun nodded. “That’s right, Steffan.”

“Better for us. People will believe you took twenty from Mulvane for dirty favors,” Finch said. “Any more than that just complicates things. And Beals got what the cops found in his place for getting rid of troublesome individuals for you. It all works in more than one way.”

Sweat oozed from every pore in Albert’s large body.

“So,” Finch said holding out the recorder. “You choose. You have thirty seconds to begin your confession.”

Albert took the recorder and, shifting uncomfortably, promptly emptied his bowels.

“Nice,” Finch said. “Carl, roll down some windows.”

Winter sat watching hamp play a video game. To everyone’s great relief, Cyn had just sent a text message saying she would be home by ten P.M.

Seated on the floor with his legs crossed, the controller in his small hands, Hamp worked his fingers expertly, his eyes glued to the screen where muscular figures dressed in tight outfits traded punches and kicked at each other.

“Which one are you?” Winter asked.

“The white one,” Hamp replied. “The good wizard.”

Winter’s cell phone rang and he opened it, stood, and walked out of the room so he wouldn’t disturb Hamp.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Yeah, what?” Sean’s voice said.

“Yeah, hello, my dear.”

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I was sitting in a room with a child that reminds me of my son.”

“How’s it coming?”

“We’re winding down. We have a meeting in a little while to transfer some land that has already cost three lives.”

“Three?”

“Yeah. I’ll tell you later.”

“What about you-know-who?”

“He who must not be named?” Winter said, infusing the joke with a joviality he didn’t feel.

“Yes.”

“Nothing but tracks,” he said truthfully.

“You’re being careful?”

“Of course I am. How’s Trammel doing?”

“Hank’s really proud of Faith Ann’s deer. He is getting the pictures blown up for the wall. Is Alexa with you?”

“Not at the moment. She had to go handle some Bureau politics.”

“The FBI getting involved?”