Victor Gischler - Suicide Squeeze

All Conner could think was that Teddy Folger was a dumb fucking asshole. He’d pulled off the most useless insurance scam in history, burning down his own property only to lose the payoff to his creditors. How could he sail off to Costa Rica or the Dominican Republic without a stash of cash?

Conner opened the file again, scanned all the same stuff, hoping it would look more useful this time. It didn’t.

Jenny lit another cigarette, nodded at the file. “Can I see that?”

Conner handed it to her.

She started reading, flipping pages, the cigarette dancing between her lips with nervous puffs. She scrunched her eyes severely as she read. Too vain for glasses maybe.

Conner turned the Labatt’s bottle around in his hands. He was pretty sad about how empty it was.

“Son of a bitch.” She flipped pages rapidly. “Son of a fucking bitch bastard!”

“What’s the matter?”

“I married a shit. That’s what’s the matter.”

She dropped the file folder on the coffee table. Pages spilled out. She stood, crossed the room to the front window, arms folded, her foot tapping away pent-up anger. She let her cigarette ash fall on the carpet. Her shoulders bunched tight, knotting in frustration.

Conner let her stew for a minute, then said, “You might as well tell me. Maybe I can help.”

She thought about it a moment, spun, looked hard at him. “You said you were looking for the boat.”

“That’s right.”

“How would you find it?”

Conner said, “Systematic investigative techniques.”

“You don’t have a fucking clue, do you?”

“Nope.”

“That’s why you came to me,” Jenny said. “You thought I might know where Teddy went.”

“I’m new at this,” Conner admitted. “Usually someone hands me a name and an address and says to go get the car. There’s no mystery about it. I wait until it’s dark or the guy’s at work, then jump in the car and take off.”

“You hot-wire it?”

“Sometimes I have an extra key. Most of the work is done with tow trucks nowadays.”

“Same with the boat?” Jenny asked. “When you find it, you’re going to steal it back?”

“It’s not stealing, but yeah. I’d just as soon never meet Mr. Folger. Better I grab it while he’s napping or on the crapper. It’ll be a problem if he’s hauled it out of the water. I don’t have a trailer or a hitch.”

The tendons along her hand twitched. Her jaw muscles tightened. She was thinking something, and it was giving her trouble. She said, “What if I could show you where the boat is?”

“That would completely kick ass.”

“I mean, what’s in it for me?”

“The satisfaction of knowing you’ve thwarted your husband’s evil schemes.”

“Get real.”

Conner sighed. “Mrs. Folger-”

“Jenny.”

“Jenny, I’m not being paid a lot to do this. Cutting you in for even a small chunk makes the job more trouble than it’s worth.”

She dropped the cigarette butt into the ashtray with the others. It looked like she was trying to build a little fort. She snatched up the pack, pulled another out, and lit it. Conner had her figured at about three packs a day.

“I know Teddy. That rat-fuck, little turd. He has money. Something. He was always squirreling it away. Stocks and things. It’s half mine. I’m not going to get screwed on this, goddammit!”

“I’m just supposed to get the boat.”

“He probably sold all the stock or something,” Jenny said. “And I want to see his face when we steal the boat out from under him.”

“What’s this we shit?”

“I’m going with you.”

“No.”

“Yes, or fuck you. I know where he’s got the boat. I think I do.”

“Fine.” Who cares? “Where?”

Jenny grabbed the file, tucking the loose pages back into the folder. She sat next to Conner on the couch, smelling like coconut oil and Pall Malls. She opened the file and showed him a listing for some property in Pensacola.

“So what?”

“He owned this property before we were married,” Jenny said. “It was just a lot, weeds and grass. He told me he sold it.”

“Didn’t he?”

“Look, see what it says there?”

He read the document. “It says there’s a house on the property.”

“That sorry bastard built it.”

“You’re a very angry person.”

“He said he was going to sell the lot, but instead he built a little bungalow. Fucker. He didn’t even tell me. It’s probably where he screwed his little whore.” Jenny lit another cigarette, forgetting she already had one in the ashtray.

Conner let her get a lungful, then asked, “What’s this got to do with the sailboat?”

“The property is on a canal,” she said. “Big enough for the Electric Jenny, no problem. It’s probably sitting there right now. You’d be pulling your pud another week looking for it if I hadn’t told you.” She grabbed her purse, fished out a jingly collection of keys, picked one out, and showed him. “Also, I have the other key.”

She looked at him. He looked back.

Conner held up the empty Labatt’s bottle. “So can I have another beer or not?”

Billy Moto was still numb from his encounter with Joellen Becker. She had rattled him. Japanese women were not like that. At no point during the dinner did Moto ever have control of the conversation. He felt steamrolled. Bludgeoned. She was out there somewhere shaking Pensacola by the lapels in search of a small rectangle of cardboard that probably still smelled faintly of stale bubble gum.

At least he’d had the presence of mind to insist on a copy of the file. He refused to leave the investigation in this woman’s hands and fully intended to pursue the matter independently. Moto went back to his room at the Airport Hilton and pored over the information. The VHS tape was of Folger showing the card to some expert on a public television show. Moto watched the tape. He studied Folger’s facial expressions as the expert appraised the card for insurance purposes. Moto watched Folger’s body language as the expert described the best way to maintain the card and prevent corrosion.

Based on Folger’s brief television appearance, Moto decided he did not like the man. Folger was impatient and selfish and a little weak it seemed. He’d expected the card to be worth more and felt slighted by the expert’s low appraisal. At heart, Folger was a spoiled child and a bit of a sissy. Five minutes was a very short amount of time to sum up a man’s heart and soul, and Moto realized he could be way off in his estimate. But Moto was seldom wrong in such matters.

Moto’s cell phone played Darth Vader’s theme from Star Wars .

He flipped open the little phone. “I’m here, Mr. Kurisaka.”

“Billy, I sent you a package by FedEx. It should have been delivered to your room.”

Moto looked around, saw the box in the middle of the desk. “It’s here.”

“Open it.”

Moto opened it. A heavy-duty metal attaché case.

“Use it to transport the card,” Kurisaka said. “I had it specially made. It can survive one hundred fathoms or a fall from twenty thousand feet. Fireproof. Also a small homing beacon built into the lining.”

“Mr. Kurisaka, I’m just not sure all of this is necessary.”

“I want the card well protected.”

Moto hesitated a moment, then said, “Mr. Kurisaka, things are going a bit more slowly than anticipated. I’m having trouble locating Folger. He’s seems to have gone missing and has taken the card with him.”

A long pause. “You don’t think he’s selling the card to… someone else?”

“I couldn’t say,” Moto admitted. “I just wanted to make you aware this may take a few days. But as soon as I find him, I will make your offer. A million dollars is much more than the appraised value of the card. I’m sure he won’t refuse.”