Corridor Man (25 page)

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Bobby drove past his
old apartment just to see if he might spot Prez’s car. He didn’t. The sun was at an angle and reflecting off the window making it virtually impossible to determine if the kitchen light was still on and he could see no advantage to actually entering the place. Instead he thought it made more sense to pick up a thick pork chop and a bottle of wine for dinner, then head home.

He ate his dinner at the kitchen counter, sipped a pleasant Cabernet and surfed online. He had the deadbolt locked on the front door and from time to time stared at his cell phone sitting on the counter. He finished the wine and went to bed halfway through the news at ten. He slept fitfully and dragged himself into the shower the following morning.

On the way into the office he used the pay phone at the Super America to call Prez. He didn’t get an answer and he didn’t leave a message. He phoned Prez from a pay phone in the First Bank building early that afternoon and from a different Super America again on his way home hanging up both times once the message recording began.

He locked his deadbolt the moment he closed the door behind him, then turned on his laptop and got online. He left the laptop on, viewed the occasional video on YouTube and worked his way through a bottle of Merlot until he went to bed a little after midnight.

He set his breakfast aside, ate a moderate dish of frozen yogurt to calm his stomach and left for the office. The large figure leaning against his Mercedes in the secure underground parking lot looked ominously familiar.

Hippo leaned against the driver’s door of the Mercedes with his arms folded. He wore a pair of camouflage trousers cut off about mid-calf, possibly the largest pair Bobby had ever seen. His enormous upper body was stuffed into a grey T-shirt with the moniker
Swim Team
, which would seem to lead to all sorts of questions.

Hippo remained focused and made no effort to move as Bobby approached. For his part, Bobby was calculating how quickly he could outrun the big man provided he didn’t have a gun and then considered which of the two exits was the closest. Bobby stopped maybe fifteen feet from his Mercedes and didn’t say anything.

Hippo continued to lean against the Mercedes and study Bobby. Eventually he exhaled audibly, then said, “Dubuque and Mobile, they were my brothers.” It wasn’t so much a statement as it was an explanation.

“I’m sorry to hear that. I didn’t realize they were related, were family. Really sorry.”

Hippo nodded, then said, “Montcreff said it was you that found out about it, this fuck named Precious, called himself Prez. You told Montcreff he’s the one snuffed Dubuque and Mobile.”

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s right, at least as I understand it.”

“How’d you find out?”

“I was giving a woman a ride, name of Kate Clarken, they were after her, I guess, I didn’t know her, I was just doing my job. Anyway, this Precious, Prez guy, he was her son. He kept following me, showing up at my apartment, threatening me and shit. I figured it was something Mr. Montcreff should know about, ‘case this bastard led to problems down the road.”

“You know where I can find him.”

“You give me your cellphone number I’ll get that information to you in about the next ninety minutes.”

“You don’t have it with you, you don’t remember it?”

“I’ll give you an address, his cell number, his license number, I don’t keep that in my head. I can tell you he has at least two weapons, pistols, automatics, big. Oh, and he’s got a silencer for at least one of them.”

Hippo thought about that for a moment, then gave his cell number to Bobby and walked over to the elevator and pressed the button. As the doors opened he turned to Bobby and said, “Ninety minutes, I expect to hear from you.” Then the doors closed and Bobby was left alone in the parking garage.

Chapter Seventy-Eight

He wrote down Prez’s
cellphone number and the license number of his SUV, copied Arundel’s address off the power of attorney document and headed for the office elevators.

“Will you be back today, Mr. Custer?” Marci asked, flashing her shark smile. It was just a little before nine in the morning.

“Back in fifteen minutes, just a short errand.”

Bobby took the elevator down to the second floor and hurried along the skyway system of second-floor corridors through two other buildings until he came to the First National Bank building. He took the escalator down to the first floor, walked over to one of the few remaining pay phones and dialed Hippo’s number.

After the third ring Hippo answered with a grunt.

“I’ve got that address for you,” Bobby said, then read off the address to Hippo. “Here’s the license number on his SUV, it’s black with chrome wheel rims, the kind that spin. You want his cellphone number?”

“Give it to me.”

Bobby reeled off the number, Hippo repeated it.

“That’s it,” Bobby said. “I should tell you the cops might be looking for him, too. I guess he got some cop’s wife strung out, some ex-junkie who got herself raped, robbed, traded her car for another fix. Ended up in the hospital, guess she’s back in rehab now. Anyway, just be careful and make sure the cops aren’t watching him.”

“Are they watching him?”

“Not that I’m aware, they may not even know about him yet. But they will sooner or later, just make sure it’s not sooner.”

“‘Preciate the heads up,” Hippo said, then hung up.

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Bobby was in the
living room lounging on his couch in front of the flat-screen, sipping the last of his wine. He was not looking forward to tomorrow and was in the process of watching the news on the flat-screen when he saw the report of a car that had been set on fire in the State Park down along the river. The camera panned to show what was left of a burned out SUV. It could have been Prez’s, maybe those were the same distinctive forty-inch wheel rims beamed on the flat-screen for a second and a half, maybe not. Then again, it could have been any one of a thousand vehicles in the metro area. No further information was available and after sixty seconds the News broke to a yogurt commercial, but it had been just enough to let Bobby feel hopeful, maybe.

He suddenly heard something. He gave a casual glance over his shoulder and there was Hippo standing behind him.

“Jesus Christ, how in the hell did you … God you scared me half to death. What? Where? God, sorry, it’s just that I didn’t expect to, to see you. How did you get in here? Is everything all right?”

“Mr. Montcreff is downstairs. He’d like to see you, should probably bring your car keys.”

“My car keys?”

“Now, he don’t like to be kept waiting.”

They rode the elevator down to the garage level. Neither of them spoke on the way down. When the doors opened Bobby saw the black SUV pulled into the parking spot next to his Mercedes. The front passenger door opened and a thick-necked thug stepped out of the vehicle, walked to the rear and opened the rear hatch.

Hippo gave Bobby a push from behind and they headed toward the vehicles. As they drew closer the window on the back seat lowered and Morris Montcreff looked out at Bobby.

“Glad you could join us, Mr. Custer. Need some of your help, your expertise as it were. Would you mind opening your trunk?”

“The trunk, to my car?”

“Yes, the Mercedes, the white vehicle just next to us. Would you mind terribly? We need your help.”

“Sure, sure, not a problem Mr. Montcreff, no problem at all.” Bobby said hurrying over to the Mercedes, he clicked the unlock button on his keys, the lights blinked in time to the two quiet honks of the horn and the trunk rose up.”

“Very well, Dennis,” Montcreff called and the thick-necked thug at the rear of the vehicle hoisted a black trash bag out of the rear of the car and half swung the bag into the trunk of the Mercedes. From the way he carried it and the thump it made as it settled into the vehicle it held some weight.

“What, what is this?”

“All in a day’s work, Custer, all in a day’s work.” Montcreff said just as the thug swung a second bag into the trunk.

Bobby shook his head and looked at Montcreff, afraid to ask anything else.

The thug placed a third bag in the trunk, this one substantially lighter. He laid it down somewhat gently, then carefully rolled the sides of the black plastic bag down. He kept his arm outstretched as if he were trying to remain as far away as possible from whatever the contents were.

“Go ahead, Custer, take a peek at your handiwork,” Montcreff chuckled.

Bobby slowly edged over toward the bag the thug held open, taking half steps and leaning forward in an effort to remain as far away as physically possible.

Hippo sudden stormed in from behind, grabbed him by the arm and slammed him into the rear of the Mercedes.

The thug held the bag open and Bobby glanced in at Prez’s head. There was a hole roughly between his eyes, slightly off center and up toward the left by just a bit. The upper back portion of his skull was gone.

Bobby felt his legs begin to shake and then fail him altogether as he dropped to the floor of the garage, bouncing his head off the rear of the car as he went down. He landed on all fours, took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his stomach and vomited.

“Jesus Christ,” the thug shouted and jumped out of the way.

Hippo and Montcreff chuckled.

Bobby coughed, spit a couple of times, then looked up at Montcreff smiling out the window. The thug was just climbing back into the front seat, grumbling, “Stupid bastard almost got my shoes.”

“Appreciate you cleaning up this little matter, Custer. I’ll expect a call from you first thing in the morning.”

“But what am I supposed to do with….”

“We’ll chat tomorrow,” Montcreff said, then raised his window and the SUV drove off.

“Thanks for your help,” Hippo said. He reached inside his pocket, pulled out his cell phone and took a quick picture of Bobby kneeling on the floor of the garage next to his Mercedes. The hand on a severed arm hung out of one of the black plastic bags. “Better hurry, with this hot weather he’s gonna start to smell like shit.”

“Oh yeah, one other thing, you get any upstanding citizen sort of ideas,” Hippo said and pressed the screen on his phone a couple of times and held it up so Bobby could hear. It wasn’t the clearest recording, somewhat scratchy, but unfortunately, there wasn’t any question.

“I’ve got that address for you,” Bobby’s voice said, then read off the address. “Here’s the license number on his SUV, it’s black with chrome wheel rims, the kind that spin. You want his cellphone number?”

“Give it to me.”

Bobby’s voice reeled off the number, Hippo’s voice repeated it.

“That’s it,” Bobby said. “I should tell you the cops might be looking for him, too. I guess he got some cop’s wife strung out, some ex-junkie who got herself raped, robbed, traded her car for another fix. Ended up in the hospital, I hear she’s back in rehab now. Anyway just make sure the cops aren’t watching him.”

“Are they, watching him?”

“Not that I’m aware, they may not even know about him, yet. But they will sooner or later, just make sure it’s not sooner.”

“‘Preciate the heads up.” Hippo chuckled then clicked off his phone and looked down at Bobby. “Guess we sort of got you by the balls. Better get this shit cleaned up, then call Mr. Montcreff in the morning, and you know he don’t like waiting.”

With that Hippo walked back to the elevator, stepped inside and disappeared.

Bobby looked at the black trash bags stuffed with Prez’s head and body parts in the trunk of the Mercedes and wondered what in the hell he was going to do?

The End

Sorry to leave you hanging, but you’ll find the first chapters of
Corridor Man 2, Opportunity Knocks,
following this brief message. Check it out and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what Bobby’s up to, that is, if he can get out of this mess.

Mick James

Corridor Man 2

Opportunity Knocks

Chapter One

Bobby checked his forehead
in the rearview mirror as he pulled onto the interstate and headed east. The goose egg was red, throbbed in time to his racing heartbeat, felt like it was still growing and frankly, was the least of his problems right now.

He had no idea where he was going. He just knew that he had to get out of town and dispose of the cargo in the trunk of his car. For the umpteenth time he replayed the evening’s events, Hippo suddenly appearing in his apartment and dragging him down to the underground parking level. A smiling Morris Montcreff lowering the window in the SUV, asking Bobby for help and then telling him to open the trunk on his Mercedes. That thug loading the black trash bags into Bobby’s trunk and holding one of the bags open so Bobby could get a good close look at Prez’s severed head. Last but not least, there was Prez’s head with a perfectly round bullet hole in his forehead and the back of his skull blown off.

Bobby had lost it at that point and bounced his forehead off the rear of the car as he’d momentarily fainted and then threw up. He smacked his lips as he passed the 694 interchange, then ran his tongue over his teeth still tasting a hint of acrid vomit.

He was suddenly on the bridge over the St. Croix River heading into Wisconsin and he nervously joked to himself that it was a federal crime to transport trash bags filled with body parts across state lines.

He drove past Hudson, the River Falls exit, an hour later past the three exits leading into Eau Claire. He continued south for another hour, seemingly on auto-pilot before he pulled off the interstate and into a twenty-four hour truck stop to refuel. He went inside to pay cash in advance rather than leave a credit card trail. While he was waiting to pay he spied a children’s display; beach towels, little metal shovels and sand buckets. He grabbed three buckets and shovels and placed them on the counter.

“Got kids?” The cashier asked, taking Bobby’s cash in her hand.

“Yeah, three, little girls. Pack of Marlboro’s and some matches, too please.”

“They’ll love it, the buckets, supposed to be a perfect weekend for the beach,” she said, grabbed the cigarettes, rang up his sale and handed him the change.

Bobby grabbed the pails and little shovels, the cigarettes, along with a pack of matches and hurried back to his car. He pulled a copy of the Milwaukee Journal from the trash can next to the gas pump then got behind the wheel and drove away.

Rather than pull back on the interstate he headed west along the county road then took a right onto a gravel road two miles later. He drove on for a few minutes until he reached a point where he was almost out of sight of any farmhouse lights and turned onto another gravel road that appeared less traveled.

About a mile later he passed what looked like an abandoned farm house. The fields around it were planted with corn that looked almost ready to harvest, although Bobby didn’t really have a clue.

The house was two stories tall with a peaked roof and a lot of peeling paint. The middle of the front porch sagged a good four feet where one of the posts was missing. The windows all appeared to be broken and a portion of the chimney had fallen onto the roof. He turned off his headlights and slowly drove up the overgrown drive to the rear of the house. Behind the house and across a weedy patch the walls of a barn had fallen in on one another. What was left of the roof had collapsed on top.

Bobby stepped out of his car and approached the rubble. Trees and brush grew up in the spaces between the ancient siding boards and timbers that had to be at least a hundred years old. What had been the door to a hayloft sat just a few feet in from the edge of the rubble.

Bobby grabbed the newspaper, tore the pages apart and crumpled them into the hayloft opening then added small bits of siding. The lumber was light, dry and easy to break across his knee. He built a small pyramid over the crumbled newspaper then hurried back to his car and opened the trunk. He hoisted the heaviest bag out of the trunk and dragged it over to the pyramid, then ran back and pulled out the second bag, leaving only the bag containing Prez’s head in the trunk.

He used some pages from the paper as a protective pad and pulled first an arm, then a foot, next a hand until he had everything except Prez’s head arraigned around the small pyramid. He stacked larger and larger boards and timbers over the body parts until he had constructed a pyre a good seven to eight feet high. He bent over, struck a match and lit the paper.

Within a minute the wood began crackling, at eight minutes the fire was beginning to roar, quickly spreading to other areas of the barn rubble as Bobby made his way back to the county road.

He guessed it would be a volunteer fire department that would respond. They wouldn’t be there for at least a half hour and then, only if someone had called. If they did arrive, hopefully they’d take a look around, make sure the fire didn’t reach the abandoned house and probably just let the thing burn.