Corridor Man (2 page)

Chapter Four

At about the same
time and no more than six blocks away,
a burgundy Escalade colored pulled alongside Sexton’s, a neighborhood institution known since the dawn of time for cheeseburgers, homemade fries and free-pour drinks. Directly across the street a woman cutting lilacs along her chain link fence gave the vehicle no more than a passing glance.

Later, when interviewed by the police, she could only describe the vehicle as large and guessed the color incorrectly, insisting it was black. She was unable to describe any of the individuals or even tell the police how many there had been.

The driver remained behind the wheel, shielding the three small teardrops tattooed on his left cheek with his hand while he pretended to talk on a cellphone. His two passengers, brothers Dubuque and Mobile, quickly entered by the side door and casually approached the bar.

Mobile was the taller of the two, ginger-haired and neatly dressed in casual clothes. He ordered a couple of tap beers, buying time to get the lay of the place while they waited. Kevin O’Brien, their intended target, sat on his usual stool at the far end of the bar with his back to the door. He was involved in a phone conversation and casually scanned yesterday’s newspaper as he talked.

There was a bartender, which was to be expected, and unfortunately a table with two, thirty-something sisters lingering over a late lunch and a second glass of wine. The brothers couldn’t see any wait staff as they glanced around, and they completely missed Kate Clarken passed out in the corner booth next to the front door.

The bartender placed their beers on two round coasters and slid the frosted pints across the bar. “You fellas interested in some lunch menus?” he asked as he pushed his bifocals back up the bridge of his nose.

The brothers looked at one another for a long moment as if weighing their options, then nodded in unison and pulled out the Glocks. They looked overly large, the Glocks. Of course the four-inch silencers screwed onto the barrels would have that effect. Dubuque, the brother sporting dark, curly hair and a pug nose calmly raised his weapon. Before the bartender could voice an objection Dubuque placed a round into the bartender’s forehead from a distance of no more than two feet. Blood and brain matter sprayed across the bar’s selection of twenty-one different whiskeys as he crumpled to the floor.

At the far end of the bar, O’Brien remained involved in his phone conversation, oblivious. He casually turned on his stool as his ginger-haired assailant leisurely strolled toward him. Mobile’s Glock spit a round through O’Brien’s cellphone ending the conversation before exiting out the far side of his head.

Before they had the chance to scream Dubuque had turned from the bartender and shot both women. The bleached blonde was dead before she hit the floor. Her sister sort of jumped backwards in her chair as a slug slammed into her chest so Dubuque fired a second round into her forehead just to be sure.

Both men quickly walked to the rear of the place, leisurely checked the kitchen area and both restrooms, but didn’t see a soul. They calmly walked to the bar, clicked their frosted mugs together and took a celebratory sip. Dubuque took a couple of French fries from one of the women’s plates, ran them through a puddle of ketchup and tossed them into his mouth before he exited out the same door they’d entered just a few minutes earlier. The brothers climbed into the burgundy Escalade and leisurely drove off down the street.

The woman across the street was just bringing her lilacs in through the back door, lost in their lovely fragrance.

It would be close to twenty minutes before the police were called and another four or five minutes before they actually arrived. Kate Clarken was still passed out in the front

booth when the cops finally entered the gruesome scene.

Chapter Five

It was probably a
good thing his brother Andrew and Fern hadn’t come up to the third-floor efficiency since there wouldn’t have been enough room for the three of them. Fortunately, Bobby didn’t own any furniture so there was some space to move around in.

The efficiency apartment was basically one room, barely three times as large as the cell he’d been confined in for four-plus years. Through a grimy cracked glass window it offered a nice view of the dumpster and three recycling containers. There was a bathroom and a closet in one corner and a kitchen area with a stove, an antique refrigerator and a sink in the opposite corner.

The kitchen counter was a sort of dingy-white Formica with a gray spot worn through on either side of the stainless steel kitchen sink. A protective coating of crumbs that looked like very old burnt bread or maybe chocolate cake were scattered across the counter. Bobby didn’t plan on doing a taste test to find out what the crumbs actually were.

The kitchen faucet had a drip pattern that dinged audibly as the drops hit the aluminum sink. The former tenants were kind enough to leave half a tomato and some milk in the refrigerator for him. At least he thought it was a tomato, the light didn’t work in the fridge so he wasn’t quite sure.

Whoever the last person in the bathroom was, they’d forgotten to flush, maybe because the door didn’t close completely and they were just embarrassed. They’d left an open tube of eyeliner and some lip gloss on the bathroom sink, neither one in Bobby’s color palate.

The linoleum on the bathroom floor was in a paving brick pattern. It almost looked real except where it had curled up and away from the tub. The shower head dripped in time to the kitchen sink and had left a rust-colored stain on the tub that directed ones eye to the drain. Home sweet home.

Still, it was bound to be better than counseling sessions three times a day at the halfway house. He wasn’t going to miss lights out at ten and living with a dozen other men with a recidivism rate hovering right around ninety percent.

It took him just a moment to unpack. He placed the three paper bags side by side, then unzipped his suitcase, pushed it against the wall next to the bags and he was finished. All settled in.

He learned later that night that the large front burner on the gas stove didn’t work so he grilled his dinner over one of the smaller burners. He had snapped a branch off a dead bush back by the dumpster and used it to impale two hot dogs. He slid the gourmet treats onto the buns sitting on the counter, squirted a line of nuclear yellow mustard along the length of the dogs and
voila!
Dinner was served.

He sat quietly on the floor opposite his suitcase and paper bags with his back against the wall. He slowly ate the hot dogs and tried to tune out the steady drip coming from the kitchen sink. He didn’t have to listen to fantasies about women, talk about basketball, hear complaints about the system or comments about the man. There was no reminder of a group session starting in ten minutes. It seemed like heaven.

As the sun began to set he realized he’d forgotten to buy light bulbs. Shortly after that he was sitting in the dark, alone in his thoughts. No one whistled, made cat calls, sang off-key or shouted “Shut-the-fuck-up.” He sat alone in the dark relishing the peace and quiet.

He woke before sunrise, wide awake on the worn carpet. He felt his way to the bathroom, showered in the dark and dripped dry looking out the window at the dumpster before he got dressed.

After a breakfast of another grilled hot dog, he walked two and a half miles to the Ramsey County Courthouse. Built in the midst of the great depression it served not only as the St. Paul Courthouse, but as the City Hall as well. Although his purpose was to simply apply for a driver’s license he was worried about who he might possibly run into. His apprehension grew as he approached. By the time he could see the twenty-story building just a few blocks away he was seriously considering turning around.

Chapter Six

Meyer’s was a dingy
working-class bar known for strong drinks and agreeable women. It served a daily private breakfast to the very limited clientele of one customer and one customer only.

“So let me get this straight,” Morris Montcreff threw the newspaper back on the table and glanced up at the barroom ceiling in an attempt to collect his thoughts. He ran his tongue over his teeth extracting the last of the blueberries and a hint of maple syrup.

“You take out the intended target, O’Brien along with three other individuals and you miss some broad sitting all by herself in a booth next to the front door?”

The brothers, Dubuque and Mobile, glanced quickly at one another, each one silently blaming the other for the error.

“Well?”

“We checked the place out, Mister Montcreff, honest,” Mobile said.

“Checked behind the bar, the kitchen, men’s room, women’s can. We didn’t see shit,” Dubuque added.

“Isn’t that just wonderful. Great job, except you two jackasses just happened to miss this bitch sitting by the front door, no doubt watching everything happen.”

More worried looks between the brothers.

“Listen here you two morons. You find out who she is and where she is and you take care of her. Jesus Christ, a simple job and you screw the thing up. Headlines for the past two days, now this,” he pointed at the front page of the Pioneer Press. “She was sitting in there apparently watching the whole thing go down and you two just couldn’t be bothered. Honest to God, what the hell am I paying you for?”

“You ain’t got to pay us none, Mr. Montcreff, leastwise till we make this right by you,” Mobile said.

Dubuque shot a quick glance at his brother but didn’t say anything.

“You’re right about that. Let me make you two a little promise. You get this situation taken care of quickly, and need I remind you quietly, or I’ll have someone else tie up all the loose ends. And I mean
all
the loose ends. Do I make myself clear?”

The brothers nodded in unison.

“Get the hell out of my sight. I don’t want to see or hear from either one of you until this is taken care of, now go, damn it.”

“Yes sir,” the brothers said and then sort of just stood there and stared at their feet.

“Go on, get the hell out of here and make this right while I’m still in a forgiving frame of mind,” Montcreff shouted, and then glared, providing some additional incentive, not that any had been needed.

Chapter Seven

Bobby took the driver’s
license test on a computer and in less than twenty minutes was informed he’d managed to fail. Do you park five, ten or fifteen feet from a fire hydrant? Who the hell cares? He knew enough not to park in front of one, but apparently the Minnesota Licensing Bureau cared a little more than Bobby did. The clerk flashed a quick civil service smile from behind the counter before she handed back his exam.

“Apparently
we
have some work to do. Here is your exam booklet, you might want to study this. There’s an online site listed on page three of your booklet. This will allow you to take a practice exam. Maybe a couple of them,” she added as an afterthought. “You can sit for your next exam five days from now, that would be on the, let’s see, yes the seventh. Questions?”

He felt like asking why the questions on the exam were so stupid, but instead said, “No, see you in five days, thank you.” Then he folded the exam in a half-hearted attempt to disguise his failure and headed for the door.

The main lobby of the courthouse had floors of polished white marble. Black marble piers rose up three stories to a gold leaf ceiling. Bobby had spent a good part of his previous life in here groveling and working various angles and schemes on behalf of clients.

Back then, he’d known all the nooks and crannies, which restrooms were empty and when. He had developed an internal radar that apprised him of when and where court was in session. He knew which deputies were friendly and which ones to stay clear of. He knew who liked bourbon, who liked beer and who was a teetotaler. He knew a lot of the secrets and made up some of the lies. But that was then. Now, he was an outsider, just another tourist, or even worse, well, best not to go there.

He wandered past some old haunts before he’d taken the elevator up to the third floor, lost in distant vague memories, the hustle, the drama, the pressure, the…

“Bobby? Bobby, is that you?” As he inspected Bobby his flushed face moved up and down, audibly scraping his chins against the heavily starched collar.

“Well hello, Ben, yeah it’s me.”

Bennett Hinz, Esquire. A prick if there ever was one. He’d been ahead of Bobby in law school, light years ahead of him in the scheme of life. On one side a family fortune he had nothing to do with other than inherit, on the other a seemingly bottomless trust fund. The sun seemed to rise and set on Bennett, which probably accounted for the tan face contrasting with his white shirt and the mane of silver hair combed back like some retired rock star. Bennett was the Hinz in Denton, Allan, Sawyer and Hinz the law firm who was going to hire Bobby with the help of some federal persuasion. The firm was known as DASH in hallway parlance.

“When did you get back? It was seven years wasn’t it? God, has it really gone by that quickly?”

“I made it out in a little more than four,” Bobby said almost in a whisper.

“That-a-boy, can do. Fresh start, eh, Bobby,” Ben said, giving a go-for-it sort of nod. It was one of the many negatives with Benny. Always sounding like Mr. Positive although Bobby was pretty certain Ben Hinz never, ever had had to deal with anything remotely resembling adversity.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m doing, Ben starting fresh.”

Ben nodded as if he had some vague notion of what Bobby was talking about. Then he gave the proverbial, “Great chatting, Bobby. I’d better get a move on, things to do, places to be, you probably remember what it’s like.”

“Nice seeing you again, Ben.”

Bobby watched as Ben waddled a few steps toward the bank of elevators. He was just about to give Ben the finger when he turned round and in a booming voice bellowed, “Say, Bobby, momentito. You’re not actually thinking of reapplying after your disbarment, are you?”

Bobby quickly looked around as he thought, thanks for broadcasting that little fact, Ben.

“To the bar? No Ben, I don’t think that would be a wise career move, at least not at this time.”

“Career move,” Ben half laughed and nodded knowingly, he glanced left and right, stepped a little closer and in a conspiratorial tone said, “Just wondering, my friend. Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do? You know, employment, finances, how to get the old jingo?” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and raised his bushy eyebrows.

Bobby thought about hitting him in his fat, perfectly tanned face, pushing him over the brass railing and watching him drop down a couple of floors to bounce off the marble floor of the lobby.

“Working on it, but haven’t come up with anything definite yet, Ben. I’m exploring a number of opportunities.” He didn’t feel the need to mention that the feds had arranged a one o’clock appointment with Noah Denton at Ben’s firm.

“Reason I ask is my firm just may have a need for someone like you.”

“Gee thanks, Ben.”

“Now, Bobby, I wasn’t about to suggest you practice. Good Lord, we’re not crazy. They’re hardly about to reinstate you.” He must have seen the humor before Bobby did because he chuckled again and said, “I mean we’re not that stupid.”

Bobby nodded ever so slightly and thought, we’ll see about that.

“But, actually we might be able to use someone of your, oh, ahhh, talents, shall we say.” Ben chuckled again.

Bobby wasn’t sure what the joke was.

“What, exactly, do you have lined up, Bobby?”

“Lined up?”

“For employment.”

“Actually that’s my next stop, start looking. I’ve got a number of people who want me to contact them. I was just planning to sort of catch my breath for a day or two, before I jumped in.”

Ben nodded, but looked like he didn’t believe a word. “I see, I see, well look, when that falls through please consider us, might not hurt to stop by and just chat,” he said, then produced a business card out of thin air and handed it over.