James Grippando - The Abduction

“I don’t want to see one more cotton-pickin’ commercial showing Lincoln Howe shaking hands with a black man. That demographic is already in our hip pocket.” He paused, still pacing as he listened with the phone pressed to his ear. “I don’t care if it does send a new message. Messages are lost on these people anyway. Hell, half the black men in America think Lincoln Howe was named after a fucking town car. I want a new ad by five o’clock, and I want it geared toward white women. You got it? That’s our target group. White women!”

He slammed down the phone, then belted back the last of his bourbon. A knock at the door brought a groan from his belly. What now? he thought.

He checked the peephole. His lips curled into a smile as he opened the door.

In walked a man dressed in torn Levi’s, a flannel shirt, and an insulated hunting vest. His dark red hair was shoulder length. He took off his Atlanta Braves baseball cap, exposing his shiny crown of baldness.

“Pay dirt,” the man said with a devious grin. He pitched a manila envelope on the desk.

LaBelle eagerly opened the envelope and inspected the large glossy photographs. He shuffled through the entire stack, sucking on his cigar more intently as he moved from one to the next. They’d obviously been shot in quick succession, all of the same subject: Lincoln Howe, sobbing in the backseat of his limousine.

LaBelle grimaced as he looked up from the stack. “I can’t use a single one of these.”

The photographer leaned against the wall, stunned. “It’s what you wanted. Lincoln Howe in a sensitive moment.”

“Sensitive, yeah. Something that will make a hard-nosed old army general more appealing to female voters. Maybe a shot of him consoling his distraught daughter. Maybe even the general himself getting a little choked up and misty eyed. You didn’t bring me sensitive. You brought me a grown man blubbering like a baby in the face of personal crisis. How on God’s green earth do you expect me to get a marshmallow elected president?”

“You should have been more explicit.”

“Damn it, Red. Five years ago did I have to tell you to bring me a picture of Congressman Butler bopping his secretary? No. All I had to say was get him in a compromising position. That’s all I’ve ever had to say. You knew the drill. Except now, on the most important job I’ve ever given you, you suddenly go stupid on me.”

He shook his head. “Look, I did my job. It wasn’t easy tailing Lincoln Howe with all the extra Secret Service protection around him. And at least the first part of the assignment went off without a hitch. I made Leahy look like a political whore down by the river. I’m sure the FBI thinks she hired me herself to do a photo shoot of the attorney general on the crime scene. I was damn lucky to get out of there before Leahy caught on. I earned my five grand. A deal is a deal.”

LaBelle glared. He felt like telling him to take a flying leap, but he didn’t want to risk trouble from a malcontent with the election so close. He laid his briefcase on the desk, unlocking it with the combination. He removed a thick envelope and handed it over. “Fifty one-hundred dollar bills,” he said, chomping on his cigar.

Red peeked inside, then stuffed the envelope inside his vest. “Pleasure doing business with you. You can keep the photos.”

“Screw the photos. I want the negatives.”

He smirked coyly. “Well, now, that wasn’t exactly part of our deal. I never sell my negatives. That’ll cost you extra.”

LaBelle grumbled as he opened his briefcase. “You bastard. How much?”

“Fifty grand.”

The cigar nearly fell from his mouth. “For negatives I can’t even use?”

“Maybe you can’t use them,” he said with a shrug. “But now that I’ve taken a closer look at them, I can think of somebody who might be able to use a photograph of a presidential candidate looking…how did you put it? Like a blubbering baby in the face of personal crisis?”

LaBelle clenched his fists. The veins in his thick neck were about to burst. “You son of a bitch. This is extortion. I’m not forking over fifty grand.”

“Fine,” he said as he started for the door. “I’m sure somebody will.”

He was fuming, then blurted, “All right, all right.”

Red stopped at the door. “That’s more like it.”

“I don’t keep that kind of money just lying around a hotel room. Give me till noon tomorrow.”

“Nine A.M. Not a minute later.”

LaBelle made a face, but he didn’t argue. He unlocked the door. “I don’t appreciate being treated this way by people I trust.”

“Hey, I still love you, Buck.” He winked on his way out. “But you know what they say about love and war, right?”

“All’s fair,” he said, losing the smile as he closed the door. And there are casualties in both.

Since leaving Nashville, Repo and Tony Delgado had taken turns driving virtually nonstop. They cruised well below the posted speed limits, taking no chances on being pulled over by highway patrol. By 2:00 A.M. Wednesday they were fifty miles outside Richmond, Virginia, heading north.

“You think she’s awake yet?” asked Repo.

Tony didn’t respond. He was slumped in the passenger seat, eyes shut.

The glow of the dashboard illuminated Repo’s worried face. He switched on the radio, trying to wake his partner.

Tony stirred. “What the hell?”

“Sorry,” he said, switching off the volume. “I was just thinking, you know. That injection you gave the girl. How long is she out for?”

“Twenty-four hours, at least. Don’t worry about her.”

“I-” He stopped, reluctant to speak his mind. “I just thought, you know, somebody should kind of be there when she wakes up. Maybe explain what’s happening. She’s only twelve. It’s gotta be pretty scary to wake up with a bag over your head, not knowing where the hell you’re at or where you’re going.”

Tony snorted, then shot him a funny look. “What are you, a mommy?”

“No. I just don’t see no need to scar the kid for life, that’s all.”

Tony straightened up in his seat, giving his partner an assessing look. “You’re making me real nervous, the way you’re talking. I picked you for this job because I thought you had guts.”

“I got guts, sure. Just we agreed wasn’t nobody supposed to get killed.”

“Are you still fucking obsessing about that old man?”

“It’s murder, Tony. You guys killed him.”

Tony paused, then turned very serious. “Do you have any idea how many people I’ve killed in my lifetime?”

“All I know is you killed that guy for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing. We had to do it. Those are the rules. We all gotta be willing to do whatever it takes to get the job done.”

Repo stared into the oncoming headlights, thinking. “Maybe. But an old man is one thing. I don’t see any reason why we gotta make it any worse for the kid than absolutely necessary. She’s just a girl.”

Tony grabbed him by the wrist, seizing his attention. “She’s not a girl. She’s a bargaining chip. Don’t ever forget it.”

Repo’s eyes darted, meeting Tony’s glare.

He released his grip, then looked away.

Repo’s attention turned back to the road. He said nothing, steering down the expressway in uneasy silence.

Red Weber stumbled up the stairway at the Thrifty Inn, an old motor lodge that offered rooms by the week, day, or hour, and that provided clean towels and sheets only with a cash deposit. After leaving Buck LaBelle, he’d stopped at a bar to celebrate his renegotiated deal. He closed down the Tennessee Tavern at 2:00 A.M., but it took him another forty-five minutes to find his way back to his hotel. He knew he’d have a tequila hangover in the morning. But he’d also be $50,000 richer.