Jeff Abbott - Cut and Run

‘Chad Channing says it’s really important to delegate, and you do that beautifully,’ Bucks said.

‘Delegate your ass,’ Paul said. ‘Don’t lecture me this morning. I’m not in the mood.’

‘The money being lost is a matter of trust, not delegation,’ Bucks said. ‘You trusted the wrong woman.’

‘I don’t trust anyone, Bucks. Except my mom.’

Bucks, nervous, no coffee yet, lit a cigarette, blew smoke away from the comatose figure of Tommy Bellini.

‘Don’t smoke in here around my dad, for God’s sakes.’

‘He doesn’t have a lung problem,’ Bucks said, but he inched open a window and thumbed the cig out into the garden.

‘If the trellis catches fire, I’m kicking your ass.’

‘Paul. Has it occurred to you I’m pretty much all you’ve got right now?’ Bucks said. ‘If you and I don’t stick together, we’re sunk. Frank’s useless. Eve’s gone. Kiko’s gonna go nuclear if we can’t deliver the money. You’ve got Nicky dead after the moron shoots up a diner. I’m the one who’s standing by you, man, and you treat me like I’m a leper.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Gratitude lightens the heart.’

‘Did Chad Channing say that, too?’

‘No, Sister Mary Clarence.’

‘That was Whoopi Goldberg in those nun movies.’

‘And my algebra teacher back in school.’ Bucks shut the window. ‘Fine. You want to talk with the hit guys, that’s fine. They get caught, they sing, they finger you instead of me. It’s really no skin off my back. All I want is this thieving bitch caught and punished for the hell she’s put us through.’ Bucks forced himself not to glance over his shoulder at Paul to watch for a nervous tic of reaction.

He knew it was Paul’s hot button. Paul would either trust him or not. The silence stretched to ten seconds, and Bucks thought I’ve played the wrong card. But then Paul said, ‘Fine. You handle it. But I’m picking who you work with. MacKay. The Wart. Jerry Smacks. You got it? And I expect detailed progress reports from each of them. I want to know exactly what’s going down. At all times.’ He jabbed a finger toward Bucks’ face. ‘Don’t mess up.’

‘Yes, Paul,’ Bucks said. Now he could capture Eve entirely on his own terms. He kept his smile inside. It was important, Chad Channing stressed, to keep certain victories private.

The tacqueria on Mandell, not far from the heart of the artsy Montrose district, was a faded jewel. The door flaked once-bright paint like shredded lettuce. The young cook who had taken over for the gifted old woman who had run the kitchen for four decades inevitably scorched the beans and served runny eggs. Therefore the restaurant was empty in the early haze of Saturday morning, when Bucks slid into the back booth. The waitress brought him coffee and he drank half of it down in a long, steady gulp.

If the new owner had half a brain she’d torch the place for the insurance. He’d suggest that to her, burn the building with the beans, take a cut. Say eighty percent. The place looked starved for goals and resolve.

Bucks had summoned three of them and they arrived within five minutes of each other. For an odd reason he thought of the Magi, the Wise Men in loud garb. MacKay was a tall, dark fellow, a Jamaican with dreadlocks that had once hung to his waist but had now been trimmed to a more modest shoulder length. An ugly scar bisected his upper lip and he wore a plain white shirt, untucked, loose green pants and sneakers. He smelled like sandalwood; too much scent in the close air of the tacqueria.

‘Hey.’ MacKay slid into the booth. ‘Who else you taking bids from?’

‘Wart and Jerry.’

‘Aw, man. Wart is a sick one,’ MacKay said. He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘He killed a family, you know that? A family, man, there are lim-its.’ He gave the last two syllables the emphasis of disgust.

‘Not if he got paid.’

‘Jerry can’t shoot his pee in the bowl,’ MacKay said. ‘How ’bout you give me the deal and we close it right now. Save you from dealing with an ass like the Wart.’

‘I’m opening it to all three of you. Competition is good for the soul,’ Bucks said.

MacKay lit a cigarette. ‘Man, do you keep plaques in your jacket so you always got advice to offer?’

‘Yes, and they’re bulletproof.’

MacKay laughed. ‘Bucks, I set you up with Bob Marley, Ziggy, Miles Davis, instead of that self-improvement tripe. Too much prepackaged advice, it’ll soften your head.’ He looked at Bucks’ face. ‘Man, order yourself a raw steak for that eye.’

‘I fell and hit a stair railing.’ No one was believing that lie. Bucks fought the urge to put a bullet through MacKay’s skull and instead sipped at his bad coffee.

The other two men arrived at the same time. Darrell Branson, called the Wart, was fortyish, balding, with the carefully cultivated look of a CPA. He wore a summer suit five years out of fashion, no tie. The third man was called Jerry Smacks, and Bucks hated the habit of marathon gum chewing that had earned Jerry his nickname. He was thirtyish, always sunburned because whatever money he made got spent down in Cancun. He rearmed his mouth with a fresh stick of spearmint as he sat down, folding the foil into a perfect square and tucking it into his shirt pocket.

The waitress brought them coffee and then Bucks said, ‘Maria, why don’t you and the cook go for a walk. Get yourself doughnuts down at the 7-Eleven.’ He slid her a twenty.

The woman vanished into the kitchen and after a moment, she and the cook left, turning the OPEN sign to read CLOSED, shutting the morning cool out behind them, all without a word or a change in their poker faces.

‘Gentlemen,’ Bucks said. ‘The deal is simple. We’re looking for a woman named Eve Michaels. She’s stolen cash. A large amount. She stole it practically right under my nose, so the pressure’s on me to get it back. Fast.’ He cleared his throat, fixed each man in turn with the kind of forceful gaze corporate VPs blasted at hopeless underlings. They waited, blank-faced, unimpressed. ‘I’ve got to have the cash back; I believe she’ll keep it on her or close at hand. She has two men who are working with her. One of them is a killer. He’s ugly as a baboon, about six-six, big, broad-shouldered, goes by the name Leonard. He killed one of our men. The other is smaller, around six-foot, normal build, hair blondish and a little long, looks like a surfer type. His name may be Michael or Whitman Mosley, or he may be using a credit card in that name. Him I want hurt badly.’

‘Man, I’d pick a cooler alias,’ said MacKay. ‘Whitman sounds like a school principal.’

The Wart said, ‘They local?’ He had a voice as soft as just-washed baby clothes, little more than a whisper.

‘Eve we know.’ Bucks pushed a picture of her he’d taken from Frank’s house to each of them. ‘The men, we’ve never seen them before.’ He pushed pictures of Gooch and Whit, slightly grainy images recorded on a Club Topaz security camera when they had paid at the door and entered.

‘You said the deal was a single hit,’ Jerry Smacks said. ‘Now you’re talking three-for-one. This ain’t coupon day, kiddo.’

‘I sure don’t mind a multiple job,’ the Wart said and dosed his coffee with milk. ‘Assuming multiple job, multiple paycheck.’

‘Getting Eve is priority one. I want her dead. The other two guys, box ’em if you want. I’ll pay a bonus of ten biggies for each of them. Mosley hurt as much as you want before you’re done.’

The three mulled this. MacKay finished his cigarette, lit another, sipped at his coffee, gave Bucks an odd little smile.

‘You got any idea where they at?’ the Wart asked.

‘We believe Eve is using a credit card under the name Emily Smith. She used it last night at a Hilton at the Addicks exit on I-10 but she abandoned the room. She matches the description of the woman who checked in. Try there; she doesn’t know we’re wise to her and if she returns to the hotel you get an easy mark. She uses the card again, all three of you get the call on where she’s at. Her shelter’s got to be coming from these two guys. We got her cell phone number. We’re gonna offer them a meeting time tomorrow, trap them, maybe offer Eve’s boyfriend to them alive for a share of the money. If you haven’t boxed them by then, you’re invited to the meeting to wrap ’em up and you can split the pot or you can bow out.’