Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (11 page)

Thirty

“Do you really have an early day tomorrow? Or did you just want to get me alone?”

Luci ignored the question and searched for the window control with her soft fingers. Cool night air filled the car. She cautiously turned onto Main Street and checked the rear-view mirror before speaking.

“When it starts to get late, I go home. I’d rather not be around when people start getting louder and looser. Besides, I can only take being stared at for so long before it starts to get creepy.”

“I wasn’t sure if you noticed all that.”

“Seriously? Do you think women are idiots, Mark?”

He held his hands up over his head in mock surrender.

This is not going well.

“Don’t shoot. I give up!”

Luci laughed and kept one hand on the steering wheel while she ran the other through her straight, black hair. Mark watched and wondered if he would ever get another chance to hold a handful of it against his face and inhale slowly through his nose.

If angels exist, I bet they smell like her.

“Sorry, I’ve been a bit annoyed since the
Valley Insider
’s latest.”

Mark furled his eyebrow.

“What’s that?”

“I texted you about it earlier today. Print newspapers are dying. So three
journalists
,” she said, momentarily taking her hands off the wheel to make air quotes, “got together and created the
Valley Insider
, an online local news site. It’s a cross between a low-budget
Boston Globe
and an even lower-budget
National Enquirer
. They produce mostly pseudo-news and baseless gossip, but hey, it’s a free country. Get my tablet from the glove box and check out their latest. “

Mark removed the tablet and closed the compartment. He pulled up the browser, and the
Valley Insider
loaded automatically.

“You hate it so much you made it your homepage?” he asked.

“I never said I hated it. I just don’t like reading about myself.”

He scrolled to the latest post and read the headline aloud: “Growing Concern over Liaison Officer.”

Under the headline was a picture of Luci with a smile on her face, one arm extended, with the palm of her hand resting flat on Latin King graffiti. The accompanying article was unnecessary; the picture said it all. 

“Don’t read it—at least, not to me. I already know it by heart. Complete B.S., anonymous sources, a pure hit piece. This is the fourth post about me in the last month, and the bitch has never even asked me for a comment. Not that I would give one, but you’d think she would at least want to give the impression she was a professional journalist.”

Mark scrolled to locate the author.

“Lisa Lemon?” he asked.

“That’s her.”

“Two-hundred thirty-eight comments.”

“Don’t read those either. They boil my blood.”

Mark flicked the screen with one finger and quickly scanned some of the comments.

“Jesus, some of these are pretty awful. Have you guys checked out any of these people?”

Luci rolled her eyes and laughed out loud.

“Sounds like a great idea
—
investigate anyone who says something on the Internet that we don’t like.”

“Not everyone
—
just the ones making the threats. Some of these are pretty explicit.”

“Welcome to the twenty-first century, Mark. Control the things you can, try to ignore the things you can’t. Know what pisses me off most? That picture looks like it could have come from my dash cam.”

“Yeah, what about those body cams? Are those always on or what?”

“No. The department and the town are still trying to figure that out. For now, it’s up to us to turn them on at our discretion. Which means some cops always have them on while others, like Charlie, never do. Next subject, please.”

He returned the tablet to the compartment and seized the opportunity to redirect the conversation.

“So where are we headed? Are you going to show me your place?”

“You must be out of your mind, Landry. The only reason I drove you is because I believed you when you said you didn’t have a license. Now I’m thinking I should have left you back there with Andy.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“Because you’d probably end up getting in a tussle and I’d prefer to just drive you home now rather than be woken up and have to get you at the station.”

“A tussle? Hmmm … I don’t think I’ve ever been in one of those. Or a fight, if that’s what you’re saying.”

“You’ve never been in a fight?” she asked incredulously.

“Not one.”

“I don’t believe you. And you spent half your youth training in a basement with Father Peck. I suppose he was teaching you how to cook.”

Mark opened his window and let his arm hang outside the car.

“Peck didn’t teach me how to fight. He taught me how to survive.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Quite a bit. Nobody wins a fight. I have never willingly fought anyone in my entire life, and that’s the truth. I avoid trouble like the plague, and the few times it has found me, I’ve walked away. I would never lie to you, Luci.”

Neither spoke until she was about to turn onto Chestnut Lane.

“Just let me out at the top of the hill. I could use some air.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it’s nice out too.”

“No problem,” she said as she brought the car to a stop. “Did you mean what you just said?”

“About what
—
fighting? Yeah, Peck beat that one into me pretty good. Only idiots fight. How do you think I’ve maintained my good looks so well? By not getting punched in the face
—
that’s my secret.”

“I believe you about fighting. I meant about never lying to me.”

Mark locked his eyes on hers and leaned forward.

“I have no reason to lie to you, Luci. I never have and I never will. Scout’s honor,” he said, holding up two fingers.

She leaned away and smirked.

“You were never a scout. Get out of my car. And please get a driver’s license because I don’t plan on being your taxi.”

Luci winked. Mark felt lightheaded as his pulse quickened and all the blood rushed below his waist.

Don’t do it, Mark. Don’t blow it. Be patient and get the hell out of the car.

“Thanks for the lift. I guess I’ll see you when I see you.”

Thirty-one

Hector Gonzales was already running ten minutes late when Lourdes stopped the car in the alley next to the abandoned warehouse. He pulled down the passenger-side visor and examined his face closely in the small mirror. After wiping the inside of both nostrils with his index finger, he squeezed several drops of Visine into each eye and pulled two mints from his pocket. He was sweating profusely, but his mouth was bone dry.

              “You want me to wait for you here,
mi amor
?” she asked.

              “Fuck no. I got business so just get out of here fast.”

              “Can you give me a little bump for later then?”

              He bent down, pulled up his pant leg, and fished around in his sock.

              “Take this and get the fuck out of here. And don’t talk to nobody, right?”

“Whatever you say, baby. Just don’t forget about me.”

“Just a little bit longer and I’ll have enough for both of us to disappear forever, okay? Just trust me, Lourdes. I know what I’m doing.”

He watched the car until it was safely out of sight. Then he turned and sprinted two blocks in the opposite direction to the real meeting site.

Never trust a puta.

Hector, known in the Almighty Latin King and Queen Nation as King Heavy, slipped into the building through a broken window and stopped to catch his breath. He glanced at the illuminated hands on his fake gold Rolex—he had pawned a real one for quick cash months earlier—and forced his skinny frame to start climbing the stairs toward the meeting room on the top floor.

Relax. Breathe. Nobody knows.

He paused on the fourth-floor landing and nodded to the two Kings who were standing in the shadows, handguns at their sides and index fingers carelessly on the triggers.

“
Amor de Rey, hermanos
,” he said before continuing the arduous climb.

“
Amor de Rey
,” replied both in unison.

When he reached the tenth floor his heart was pumping so hard that he did not hear the same greeting from the final two Kings guarding the door to the meeting. Instead of returning the salutation, he simply waved his hand, motioning for them to get out of the way.

The sentry on the left considered standing his ground until the other leaned in and whispered in his ear.

“
Recuerda, son primos
.”
Remember, they’re cousins
.

“
Verdad. Perdóname.”
Right. Sorry.

The first sentry twisted the knob, pushed open the door, and stood off to the side.

“
Amor de Rey,”
the sentries said again in unison.

Hector wiped his forehead with both hands and used the sweat to slick back his hair before he walked nervously through the door without saying a word. The sentries closed the door behind him, shook their heads, and refocused their attention on looking out the large window to the street below.

Thirty-two

Agent Frank Tagala stumbled out his door and nearly fell down the front steps but grabbed the railing with both hands to catch himself. He swayed back and forth for several seconds on bent knees. Then he regained his balance, descended the stairs, and shuffled his way down the crumbling brick walkway toward the car—leaving the front door to his house wide open. Mark slowed his pace and watched as Frank crossed the cul-de-sac.

Not looking so good tonight, Mr. Tagala.

Mark wanted nothing more than a beer and an episode of
Magnum P.I.
before going off to bed, but when he climbed the steps to the side door he paused and turned back to watch his neighbor.

Frank stood next to his car and fumbled with a large metal ring full of keys. He cursed aloud, dropped the keys several times, and finally realized that he had the wrong keychain. Stumbling and mumbling, he started back toward the house but made it only a few steps before catching his foot on a loose brick and falling sideways onto the lawn. He lay on his back and flailed his arms and legs, eventually flipping over onto his stomach. From that position, after a few deep breaths, he pushed himself off the ground with both palms while slowly bringing his grass-stained knees up under his body, one at a time. Then he cautiously stood up and continued the journey.

Mark shook his head and exhaled forcefully through his mouth.

I guess Magnum will have to wait.

Frank had just let go of the handrail at the top of his front stairs and was taking baby steps through the open door as Mark approached.

“How’s it going, Mr. Tagala?”

Startled by the voice, Frank fell face forward into the house with a loud thud. Mark jogged the last few paces and bounded up the stairs. When he reached the top, he froze in place and held his hands up in front of him. Frank lay flat on his back with one arm extended toward the open door—Glock 27 held firmly in his hand, trigger finger fully extended along the side of the gun frame.

“Hold your fire, Mr. Tagala. It’s Mark from next door. Just relax. I was walking by when I heard you fall. It’s your neighbor Mark—Agnes’s kid. No need for the gun.”

Frank lay still and did not move the gun, trained on Mark’s upper chest.

“Please lower your weapon, Mr. Tagala. I’m here to help, or if you want I’ll mind my own business and leave. Either way, you’re going to have to lower that gun first. Why don’t you do it right now. Look, I’m not armed—my hands are right here.”

He waved his empty hands over his head playfully and managed a smile.

Come on, Buddy. Put the gun down. This is how accidents happen. If your finger moves just one millimeter toward that trigger, you won’t be down for breakfast tomorrow. So just drop the gun and save us both the trouble.

Mark smiled even wider and slowly lowered his hands to his sides, bringing his shooting arm closer to the holster tucked behind his right hip.

“Do you need a ride somewhere? I can take you anywhere you want to go,” he offered. “Where were you thinking of heading?”

Frank muffled a belch and tried to suppress his nausea. But the pressure mounting in his gut was slowly pushing a fireball up his esophagus and into his throat. He turned his head to the side and heaved a few ounces of bloody acid onto the hardwood floor before lowering the gun.

“Sorry, kid. Habit. I don’t like anyone sneaking up on me,” said Frank as he slowly pulled himself to his feet and clumsily reholstered his gun.

“Glock 27?” asked Mark.

“What? Yeah, it’s a 27. Why?”

“Standard issue—so you must still be on the job, right? DEA or US Marshal? I can’t even remember, it’s been so long.”

“ATF, son. ATF.”

“Cool. So do you need a ride somewhere, Frank? May I call you Frank?”

“Frank’s fine. I was heading for the liquor store but forgot my keys inside.”

“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s almost 11:25. In the People’s Republic of Massachusetts, that means you’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Shit,” muttered Frank as he wandered into the kitchen and sat down at the table, which looked as if it hadn’t been cleaned in months.

Mark looked around the main entrance and family room. Dirty clothes and trash were littered about the house. He had been too distracted before by the gun in his face to notice the strong stench of urine in the air. The mess and smell got worse as he followed Frank into the kitchen.

“Kid, open the freezer and see if there’s any more vodka,” Frank said without taking his eyes off the empty glass on the table in front of him.

A dozen frosted glasses jingled on the door shelves as Mark opened the freezer. Half a bottle of vodka sat open on the top shelf.

Did you miss this one, Frank? Or did you know that it wouldn’t be enough?

“Here we go, Frank. There’s enough here for a nightcap.”

Mark approached the table slowly with the bottle in his left hand, keeping his right hand free to draw his weapon if the booze in Frank’s veins made him do something stupid. Guns and drunks don’t mix, but Mark figured that trying to disarm an old-school agent would likely make things worse than simply managing the risk. The last drop had barely reached the glass before Frank snatched it from the table and guzzled its contents in one long gulp. He slammed the empty glass onto the table, almost smashing it.

“Again.”

Mark nodded, refilled the glass, and watched Frank take a deep breath and drain it again, this time swishing the vodka between his teeth for several seconds like mouthwash before swallowing.

Holy shit, what a fucking train wreck.

“There’s only a little bit left, Frank. Might as well just kill it, right?”

Frank finished the final glass and let out a long, guttural moan.

“You know, you may want to have your stomach looked at. Stressful jobs like yours can cause ulcers if you’re not careful.”

“The job’s almost done, kid. Just a few more weeks and that little fucker will be nothing to me.”

I’ll just assume “that little fucker” refers to a boss of some kind. Raging drunks tend not to get along very well with authority.

“Retiring? That’s great news. Any plans after that?” asked Mark, doing his best to sound interested.

Frank sat silently, examining the empty vodka bottle in his hand. Mark waited a few more seconds.

“Okay, unless you need something, I’m going to head home now.”

No response.

“Good night, Frank.”

You’re not my problem anyway.

Mark locked the front door behind him, descended the front steps, and cut across the lawn. When the empty bottle shattered against Frank’s kitchen floor, he simply glanced at his watch and kept walking.

Just in time for Magnum.