The Perfect Crime (21 page)

CHAPTER 26

AT ALMOST THE SAME precise time as Grady and Whitney were stopped at the light, Grady’s motel room was being visited by two swarthy individuals with suspicious bulges under the sport jackets.

Unknown to either of them, who were under instructions from their boss to kill whoever they found inside, the person inside at that moment wasn’t Grady Fogarty, but his new friend Sally Graziano. Sally was on an errand for Grady, delivering a neighborhood parking sticker. He’d gotten a key for the room by flashing his badge at the clerk.

Also unknown to the pair as they entered the room, was that Sally’s wife Veronica was sitting out in the parking lot, working on a particularly bad hangnail that had been pestering her all morning.

Veronica wasn’t so engrossed in her sore finger that she failed to see the two men slip inside the same room her husband had just gone into. She reached beside her to the sawed-off 12 gauge she always kept under the front seat and eased the car door open. With a swiftness that belied her massive bulk, she quickly walked to the motel door.

Not bothering to knock, she simply hauled off and kicked the door in.

It was lucky that both men were standing together or else some of the pellets might have struck her own husband. That he was kneeling beside the bed also helped.

“What took you so long?” was all he said, standing up and brushing his knees.

“I ain’t as young as I used to be,” was her retort. “You wanna call or you want me to?”

“I will,” he said. “You’ve done your share, I guess.” Sally looked at the two dead men. “I never saw anybody get two shots off that quick, sugar. I doubt they even knew what hit ‘em, do you?”

When the cops arrived a few minutes later, they had their story straight. Luckily, the chief officer on the scene was an old friend, a guy they’d both served with.

“I understand,” he said, clicking his tongue in appreciation. “We’ll take care of this. Like you said, looks to me like these guys just came after the wrong cops. An old grudge, you say? They been following you for weeks? Some guys you had a run-in with at the bar?” He winked. “And the guy who’s staying here? You were just coming to visit him? I get all this right?”

At the car, a few minutes later, Veronica handed the keys to her husband.

“Here. You drive.”

Sally noticed her fingers were trembling.

“Sure,” he said, his voice tender. “How ‘bout you take the rest of the day off? Go see that movie you been wanting to see? I’ll take care of the bar.”

It sounded like a good idea to Veronica. In the car, she leaned over and kissed him full on the lips.

“Or maybe,” he said, putting the key in the ignition. “We can go home for a while. Fuck the bar. Call Andy, see if he can stay a little bit longer.”

That, too, sounded like a good idea to her. An even better idea.

CHAPTER 27

C.J. ST. IVES caught himself thinking about something that hadn’t entered his mind in years. Alligator hides. He was seeing himself at ten years old, rubbing salt on a hide, working it in with the leg bone of a cow, probably from one of the Brahmas that roamed wild in the scrub pines around the swamp. His father, sitting in the corner of their shack, nipping on a jug of ‘shine, eyes steady on him the whole time, watching to see he didn’t slack off. C.J., then known to his family as Jimmy LeBarre, was aware of his father’s eyes on him and especially aware of his leather boots that caught him in the slats more than once when his father thought he was slacking off. His mother too, washing out clothes by hand on the back porch, eyeing her husband from time to time, estimating the times it was safe to take a breather without incurring his wrath.

Bad as that was, right now he wished he was back out in the swamp packing gator tails for the trader that came by. The trader gave them ten bucks apiece for the big ones and sent them off, packed in dry ice, to restaurants, mostly in Louisiana, but some in odd places like New York City and Boston--restaurants that proudly served such exotic foodstuffs as barbecued alligator, elk steaks, things like that.

For once, he was in a situation that he had no control over, with no way out. Tears spilled down his cheeks and he wiped his face with the back of his hand, the good one, the one without the broken finger and missing nails. A hand that was handcuffed to its mate. The smell from the closet was beginning to get worse and he swallowed hard to keep from throwing up.

What was he going to do? Castro was going to kill him. He couldn’t dream of going to the cops to get the bomb defused, the way this Kincaid explained it...and he believed him. God! That was awful! That dog...half its body disappearing...

C.J. harbored no illusions about Kincaid. He wasn’t going to disarm the bomb no matter what he said. This guy enjoyed killing. He could see it in his eyes, read it in his voice. Eyes like his father’s. He’d seen eyes like those before, knew the cruelty that lay behind them.

God, what was he going to do? He put his head in his hands and sobbed, trying to keep the sound muffled lest the two men hear him and come in.

Amanda, he said, silently. Amanda, I’m sorry. I’m sorry you’re dead, I’m sorry I didn’t get the divorce and leave with you months ago.

His mind whirled. He should have gone with the million in his possession. If only there were some way to still do that. He’d leave without the million, go work in the cane fields down there, whatever they raised. Anything to keep his life.

He tried to think, but couldn’t. He kept seeing that dog and picturing that happening to him. He wondered what it felt like to be blown up and shuddered. He started shaking and couldn’t stop. It was like a fever. He hunched over in the bed, his knees up to his chin, shaking and shivering and sweating. His fingers quit hurting for a while, well, not
quit
. Died down to a dull ache for a while, but they were on fire again. The stink of his own fear and the smell from the closet hit him and he couldn’t help it, it all came up and there was
that
, right in front of his nose and this time he didn’t bother to keep his weeping silent, only let it go, not much caring when he heard the bedroom door open.

***

“Fuck it,
you
clean him up.”

Eddie was mad. And inches away from pulling out. Reader was at it again, ordering him around like he was some broke-dick dog. Like he needed this shit or something.

“All I do is what you tell me. You think I’m your nigger? Get yourself another nigger.”

“No, Eddie, you’re not my nigger. You’re my
associate
. You’re my
associate
on a job that’s going to make you a millionaire. Go ahead, you want to clear out, quit on me. That’s okay. I can do it by myself. I’ll be thinking of you when I’m sitting in a cabana, got me a movie star with the sex drive of a president on each side.”

Reader stood at the doorway, looking at the banker lying in his mess on the bed and Eddie standing beside him, his face all wrinkled up from the smell. He turned and went back to the other room knowing Eddie would grumble and bitch and cuss him out under his breath, but that he would think about the money and how close they were. In the end he’d clean up the man. Just like he’d do everything else he made him do.

“Keep that door closed,” he said, walking away. “You can smell that shit.”

Later on, he sent Eddie out for something for lunch and he didn’t make a peep.

“Get something besides chicken,” he said. “I’m turning into a fucking chicken. Get me a po’ boy. Shrimp. Dressed.”

While Eddie was gone, Reader got busy. He uncuffed St. Ives.

“Go on,” he said, indicating the bathroom. “Get yourself cleaned up. Shave, shower, shit, you know. I want you to look good. When you get done, we’re going to get you dressed in clean clothes. I’ll lay them out for you. Don’t put on anything but your underwear yet. I got a new corset I want you to wear.”

He went back out into the living room, not too worried the man would try anything. For one thing it was plain all the spirit was gone out of him; for another, thers no way out except past him and if he couldn’t handle an out-of-shape, middle-aged banker, well, he didn’t deserve to score on this job.

When he came out, Reader said, “You didn’t shave none too good, Mr. St. Ives.”

“I tried,” St. Ives said, his eyes downcast. “My fingers hurt too bad. I...I couldn’t hold the razor good.”

“Well, Mr. St. Ives, it’s important you look sharp. Why don’t you go back in and try again? Here’s an incentive for you. Think about how much more it will hurt if you was to lose another fingernail. Be harder to hold that razor, wouldn’t it? You think about that and let’s see how good you can do this time. Be careful--don’t nick yourself. You know how nasty those razor cuts can be.”

When he came out the second time, Reader nodded his head in satisfaction. He looked the nude man over coldly. “Well, there, see? You can do a good job. Get these shorts and trousers on and I want you to lie down on the bed.” He looked at the man’s crotch and smirked. “I guess we know why your girlfriend liked you so much, don’t we? Money’s better than Spanish fly, eh? Enough money, stretches out your dick, makes it look like you got something there. Is that the way it was? I bet when your little girlfriend sucked your cock she thought she was chewing on a c-note.”

As he snaked the connector cables around the man’s neck, middle, and crotch, he talked.

“This is what we call a foolproof setup, Mr. St. Ives. See, the way it works, the wires go through these cables. Some of ‘em are live, some are dummies. Like Eddie!” St. Ives didn’t laugh along. He stared lifelessly at the far wall.

“Your bomb squad, they’ll go nuts, they see a layout like this. Why? It’s rigged like a climbing harness, the kind mountain climbers wear. There’s no fucking way on earth to defuse it. Absolutely no way. Well, there’s one way.
I
can defuse it. With the transmitter. Nobody else can. ‘Less they want to take a chance and take a guess on the right frequency. You want somebody to take a guess at that? No? You’re pretty smart, Mr. St. Ives. That would have to be one lucky guesser, being as how there’s a few hundred possible frequencies. Maybe thousands. And there’s a kicker, something you need to know. There’s another frequency sets it off, different from the one defuses it. That makes you kinda set up and think, doesn’t it?”

When he got all the connector cables where he wanted them, he snapped them into place and picked up a can of Bondo.

“Now, we got to seal this. Way it works, Mr. St. Ives, you break any of the cables, it sets it off. And the way it’s hooked up the only way you can get it off is to break it. This is what mountaineers would call a climbing harness. Are you listening? I hope so, I don’t want you making any mistakes and hurt yourself. You do what I tell you on this job, after, I’ll call you on the phone, tell you which wires is which.” He finished with the Bondo, “Sit up and get your shirt on. Pull your pants up. I want to see how it looks.”

St. Ives tried to button his shirt, but couldn’t. Reader tsk-tsked and went over and buttoned it for him. He helped him with his trousers and the zipper as well.

He eyed his work and nodded approval.

“Come over and put on your suit coat. We’ll save the tie for later. Might as well be comfortable, eh? You can’t say I’m not concerned for your comfort, can you?”

He checked the way the coat hung, satisfied the bomb couldn’t be seen.

“Good thing you’re not fat, wear one of those jackets too small for you.”

“What do I have to do?” St. Ives spoke for the first time, in a lifeless voice.

“We’re getting to that, Mr. St. Ives. By and by. First, I’ve got to make sure you understand the situation completely. Come on. Let’s you and me go in the living room. It’s getting pretty ripe in here. Good thing we’re pulling out in a little bit, eh? You sure pick some stinky girlfriends!” He was having a wonderful time, making jokes. He got some towels from the bathroom, soaked them down and put them at the foot of the door to help keep the odor from wafting out to the living room.

Back in the living room he motioned St. Ives over to a chair and handcuffed his ankles together. He didn’t bother with his hands yet. Himself, he stretched out on the couch, hands behind his head.

“So you understand, I hope, that there’s no way you or anybody else can take this thing off?” He wasn’t expecting an answer and didn’t get one. “Good. There’s a couple other things. This is a pretty simple setup. There’s three six-inch pipes in that contraption you’re wearing. Inside those pipes there’s black powder. Enough to blow this whole room up, maybe two, three rooms.”

He went on, enjoying watching St. Ives’ face grow more haggard by the second.

“There’s a flashbulb inside each bomb, wired to a circuit, some double A batteries, and some switches. The switches are open now, like this. “He showed him with his forefingers. “The switch gets closed, the juice goes through and the flashbulbs go off. You get the picture?” He nearly broke a rib trying to laugh silently, shaking with mirth. This part he loved. What he wouldn’t give to know what picture was in St. Ives’ mind!

“We got us three choices. Well, 
you
 do. One, you can try to take off the connectors, in which case, that’s a no-brainer. That closes the circuit and you blow up. Two, you can call somebody knows about bombs to help you out. Say our local friendly bomb squad. I got to tell you what good that will do, C.J.! The ones who don’t call in with the flu--once they find out what they got facing ‘em--the ones dumb enough to answer the call are going to be standing around outside, drinking decaf, taking bets on how long it’s gonna be before you go up. Ain’t nobody gonna want to be near you, I guarantee. Your third choice is, I deactivate it. That’s your best bet and the one I advise you take. Oh, there’s a fourth possibility. I almost forgot. You can take off, make a run for it. You’ll have your chance. We’re not going to be with you when you pick up the money. Fact, we won’t be within a mile of you. No reason to. We’ll be off somewhere, busy getting set up for you to bring us the money. I can’t tell you where that will be quite yet. You understand.”

He swung his legs down and leaned over right in front of
St. Ives’ face, head in hands and elbows on his knees. He was grinning.

“Yep, you got a fourth choice. You can make a run for it all right, see if you can get out of range of this thing”--he waved in the direction of the transmitter, sitting on the coffee table--”but I wouldn’t advise it. Not a smart move.” He sat back against the couch and crossed his legs.

“You see, once those batteries go dead--which they will, sooner or later--
that
 closes the circuit. You get the same result as if you’d hit the juice to it. 
Boom
!” He said it so loudly that St. Ives all but jumped out of his skin.

“I want to make sure you understand all your options,” Reader finished and all the smile went out of his face.

“You explained all this yesterday,” the banker said dully, his eyes downcast. “I understand how it works. I saw...the...dog. How do...how do I know you’ll deaivate it,” he croaked, his voice near to breaking.

“Why, Mr. St. Ives,” Reader said, a smile returning to his lips. “I guess you’ll have to trust me to do the right thing, won’t you? He got up and walked into the kitchen. “Would you like a beer? I believe I’ll have one. This is right thirsty work.”

He presented his back to St. Ives, bending over to retrieve a couple of beers in the refrigerator, and said, “Oh. If you have some idea about grabbing that transmitter before I get back in there, I wouldn’t if I were you. You don’t know which button to hit, do you? ‘Course,” he straightened up and turned around, beers in his hands, “you might want to take a chance. You a gambler, Mr.
St. Ives? I mean, a 
real
 gambler? I didn’t think so.” He sauntered back into the room and over to the man, handing him a beer.

“Me, I’m a pure gambler, Mr. St. Ives. You don’t want to play poker with me, I don’t think.”

As he worked a beer loose from the plastic holder, his lips parted in a huge grin. He had another piece of information he wasn’t going to share with Mr. St. Ives. A private joke. Thinking about it, he tried to keep from it, but couldn’t keep from chuckling. He turned, opening the beer.

“Yeah,” he smirked. “You want to stay away from gambling with me. A good gambler always has an ace up his sleeve.”

He walked over and patted the Plaster of Paris mold strapped to St. Ives’ back. A giggle escaped his lips, then another, and then he threw back his head and guffawed until he had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve.

“I got one hell of an ace.”

There was just a few more things to do. He led St. Ives back to the bedroom and shoved him down on the bed. When he left, he closed the door.

***

When Eddie returned, he took one look at St. Ives and said, “Jesus Christ. He’s got the bomb on, don’t he?”