Montaro Caine (30 page)

“Sure, there are drugs on campus, Chief,” he said. “People pass joints around fairly openly. I have heard of the selling and buying of marijuana on and around campus all the years I’ve been a student there, and I know more than a handful of people who have occasionally indulged. But, to the best of my knowledge, Priscilla is not one of them.”

Whitcombe twisted uneasily in his chair, regretting that he would not have a crack at questioning this slick pretty boy. There was something dangerous about this kid, the lawyer thought, something too
cool and smooth, something that someday could cause harm to Priscilla and her family. But for the moment, Nick seemed to be winning over Chief Masterson, and as the Caines’ lawyer, that was precisely what Gordon Whitcombe needed the kid to do.

When the chief stopped questioning Nick and turned his attention to Priscilla and her parents, Nick Corcell smiled, proud of himself. He felt suddenly flushed with a sense of his own power. It was the second time that day he’d felt that way. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the most dramatic events of the day had already played out hours earlier. First thing in the morning, he had been cruising west along the Massachusetts Turnpike in his Volkswagen Beetle convertible, gusts of summer wind warm against his bare, suntanned torso. His mind was in high gear, too, moving methodically over the few remaining points that needed to be smoothed out before the business transaction awaiting him could close.

Nick’s Volkswagen exited the turnpike and picked up US-20. His left hand was draped lightly on the wheel while his right hand rested on the overnight canvas bag on the passenger seat. He checked the car’s clock and saw that he was running ahead of schedule, so he relaxed his speed as a Bruce Springsteen song came blasting from the speakers. Nick changed the station before he could even identify the song; the Boss was his stepfather’s favorite, and the only time Nick ever listened to Springsteen music was when he was trying to impress naïve, upper-crust Connecticut girls like Priscilla Caine with his blue-collar street cred. For the remaining fifteen miles of his drive, Nick blasted Eminem.

Nick had grown up in South Boston in a small two-bedroom apartment. He had lived there with his mother, Angeline Corcell, and her husband, Nick’s stepfather, Anthony Stavros, who every weekday evening brought home with him the nauseating stench of the fish market where he worked. One time, long before he had begun to shave, Nick spent his entire weekly allowance on aftershave lotion, which he’d splashed around his room to chase away that smell he hated so much.

Nick had been only six when his father left for reasons that Nick still couldn’t understand. Piero Corcell had worked in the fish factory,
too, but his smell was different; Nick had associated it with a time his family had been together long before Stavros entered the picture. Even now, Nick wore a healthy splash of aftershave lotion every day, even on days when he didn’t shave.

When Nick arrived in the parking lot of the Holiday Inn in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, the hotel was busy. A weekend convention of manufacturing associations was being held there, a fact that Nick had taken into account when he had chosen this date and location. The parking lot was nearly full. Nick paid close attention to every vehicle in the lot, making sure that there wasn’t a gray Mercedes in sight, eventually guiding his car into one of the few available slots before turning off the motor.

Nick reached into his overnight bag, fished out a T-shirt, and slipped it on before he exited the car, overnight bag in hand. Upon entering the air-conditioned lobby, he checked out everything and everyone. Looking behind the hotel’s front desk, he made sure that there was a small white envelope in the key box for Room 371. Then he casually altered his course in the direction of the coffee shop. The place was packed with an early lunch crowd, but he found a seat at a vacant window table, which afforded a perfect view of both the lobby and the lot. When the waitress came by, he ordered a Coke.

From his table, Nick watched the battleship gray Mercedes as it entered the parking lot and cautiously circled the area twice before it came to rest in an empty spot by the hotel entrance. The Mercedes’s windows were tinted, so Nick couldn’t see inside, but soon his eyes focused upon Millard Wilcox and Norton Lightman, who were emerging from the vehicle. Wilcox was a tall, handsome man in his midthirties, with wavy black hair and a Mediterranean complexion. Though Lightman may have been about the same age, he was a striking contrast to his companion; he had an overhanging gut, an accumulation of fat under his chin, and he wore a preposterous red bow tie.

Nick’s eyes tracked the two men into the lobby where they requested the key to Room 371, which was registered to a Mr. MacAllister Brown.

“Right away, Mr. Brown.” The smiling clerk turned toward the key boxes where Lightman caught sight of the small white envelope.

When the clerk handed Lightman the envelope, Lightman ripped it open. Inside was an unsigned typewritten note: “Minor changes necessary. No problems. Will explain later. Go to the phone booth across the street from the Main Street CVS. Repeat, no problems.”

Nick sipped his Coke as he watched Lightman pass the note to Wilcox before the men left the lobby. They returned to the Mercedes and sped off. Nick paid for his drink, then strolled briskly back to his Volkswagen and started it up. He gunned the car over a familiar back-road shortcut that quickly took him to the rear of the CVS. He entered the store, then walked toward the windows at the front of the store.

When Nick saw the big Mercedes approaching, he waited until it nestled close to the empty phone booth across the street before he dialed a number on his cell phone. Nick watched Lightman leave the car and approach the phone booth; there, the man picked up the receiver, looked at it suspiciously, then answered, “Yeah?”

“I’ll see you at the Berkshire Motel. Room 63 is booked under the same name as before, MacAllister Brown. I’ll meet you in fifteen minutes.”

“What the fuck is up?”

“No problems. Save your questions,” Nick replied, then hung up.

The Berkshire was a no-frills establishment, one of the few in the region. A few minutes after Lightman and Wilcox made their way to Room 63 on the motel’s second floor, there was a knock on the door. Wilcox sprang from the plastic chair where he had parked his beefy body. He thumped across the room and yanked the door open, revealing Nick Corcell.

“May I come in?” Nick waited until Lightman waved him forward with an impatient gesture. After Nick entered, Wilcox closed the door and moved behind him. Nick stopped a few feet away from Lightman. “You wanted to see me, sir?” he asked.

“What the fuck is this? What’s going on?” Lightman whispered.

“What do you mean? Nothing’s going on. You said you had something to show me. That’s why I’m here, to see what it is.”

Lightman gave Nick a long, searching look, then glanced questioningly
around the room. “How come we’re here instead of the other place?” he asked.

“What other place?” queried Nick.

Lightman’s jaw tightened. He centered Nick in the crosshairs of a cold, threatening stare. “Are you crazy? What kind of game is this, kid?”

“Game? I don’t know what you’re talking about, mister.”

A look of understanding flashed in Lightman’s eyes. “Oh, he thinks we’re wired. Isn’t that right, kid?” he asked.

“Son of a bitch,” Wilcox said and laughed.

The tension seemed to drain from Lightman. “Relax, kid. If anyone in here is wearing a bug, it’s you.” Listening to his own words, Lightman seemed to tense up again. “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

“No bugs,” Nick said with a shrug. He tossed his overnight bag to Lightman. “Take a look.”

Lightman caught the canvas bag, looked inside, and found only a change of clothes and a bottle of aftershave. “O.K., kid,” he hissed. “Explain. Get to the fucking point.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Nick said. “May I see what you said you wanted to give me?”

Lightman nodded to Wilcox. The pudgy man laid his briefcase on the bed and opened it to reveal stacks of hundred-dollar bills.

Nick looked down at the money, then up at Lightman. He smiled.

Lightman did not return the smile. “Now, have you got something for us?” he asked.

Nick studied the two men at length before he answered. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I better get outta here.” He turned abruptly and headed for the door.

“Hey, wait a fucking minute,” said Lightman. Nick opened the door, made as if to step through it, then suddenly stopped. He looked down—there was a package in the doorway. He spun around to face Lightman and Wilcox.

“It looks like a package has been left here for you. Want me to bring it in?”

“Sure,” Lightman answered.

Nick picked up the package, closed the door, and reentered the room. He handed the package to Lightman. They held each other’s gaze for a moment before Lightman gestured to the money lying on the bed in the open briefcase.

“Why don’t you check the package to see if it’s exactly what you were expecting.”

Lightman and Wilcox huddled over their package to make sure the six pounds of pure cocaine they were paying for was all there. Meanwhile, Nick counted twenty stacks of hundred dollar bills. When he was done counting, Nick dumped the money into his canvas bag.

“Thank you, gentlemen, for being so generous.”

Lightman extended his hand to Nick. “You’re a pretty strange kid. But I guess a guy can’t be too careful, can he?”

Nick took his hand. “Whatever you say, mister. Whatever you say.” He turned to the door, slinging the bag over his shoulder.

“Maybe we’ll see you again, if the price is right,” Lightman called out.

Nick looked back at him. “Maybe,” he answered. Then he opened the door and was gone.

In the quiet, empty hallway, Nick could taste his own fear; he could smell it, too. As he started toward the stairwell, his awareness of his surroundings heightened. Entering the stairwell, he began to sweat. When he reached a first floor hallway, he saw a maid carrying linens and towels into an empty room; an elderly couple hobbled past him. Nick continued briskly along the hallway until he reached Room 21. He knocked lightly.

Frankie Naples, a wired and wiry young man in his midtwenties, opened the door just enough to let Nick slide in, then slammed it shut. Inside, Frankie turned from the door to face Nick. “Everything go okay?” he asked.

“Smooth,” Nick replied, then moved quickly to the bed.

“Great. Fucking great. You did good, kid.” Frankie watched Nick unzip his bag and dump the hundred thousand dollars onto the bed.

“It’s all there. I checked it. You check it again; then I’m outta here.”

Frankie, a courier for a sophisticated Boston-based narcotics syndicate, grabbed a stack of bills and started counting while Nick
glanced at his watch. His job was nearly done. From here, according to the plan, Frankie would take the money to Boston where it would be processed, stored, and eventually shipped out of the country to be washed.

“It’s all here,” Frankie finally said.

“Good,” Nick replied, and the men shook hands.

“See ya.” Nick broke for the door.

“Where you heading?” asked Frankie.

“Gonna pass by school, pick up some clothes, then pop down to Manhattan to hang out for a day or two.”

“Ain’t you graduating this week?”

“Yeah. In three days.”

“Then what?”

“College, eventually. Look, Frankie, I gotta split. Don’t break the speed limit going back with that stuff.”

A half-hour later, at his dorm room, Nick was packing his carryall bag when he heard the hallway phone. A half-minute later, he heard a voice call out: “Nick Corcell, phone for you. Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” Nick yelled back. “Who is it?”

“Some guy named Albert Masterson wants to talk to you.”

A shiver ran through Nick as he walked down the hallway and picked up the phone. He knew that name. “Hello?” he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“Hi there, Nick, this is Police Chief Masterson again. Remember me?”

“Yes, sir, of course.”

“I’m calling to ask you to come down to our offices. Mr. and Mrs. Caine are coming up from Connecticut with their daughter, Priscilla. The last time we talked, you offered to speak on her behalf. Would you mind?”

“Oh, no, be glad to. What time?”

“Soon as you can. They should be here any minute.”

The hardest part of the day seemed to be over for Nick. He had already done his part in defending Priscilla, and at this point, most of
what he was doing was listening. The chief was continuing to drone on and on as Priscilla reached out to touch Nick’s hand. He turned to her. She looked into his eyes and he smiled.

“Mr. Whitcombe,” the chief said as he faced the portly lawyer, “would you care to add anything to what’s been said here?”

“Well, Chief, as you know, I’ve known this young lady from the day she was born,” he began.

Priscilla scowled. It wouldn’t take much more of this bullshit to make her throw up, she thought. She hoped Whitcombe would choke on his words. But Whitcombe’s remarks were not the snot-nosed flattery she had anticipated. The lawyer was critical in the same tough, honest way that her father usually was. He ripped her to pieces, but only in those areas where she knew she deserved it.