Wrong Town: A Mark Landry Novel (7 page)

Fifteen

Mark stood motionless in the kitchen for a few minutes with an unopened beer in one hand and a bottle opener in the other. Then he dropped the opener back into its drawer, returned the beer to the refrigerator, and began pacing slowly around the kitchen and family room.

Don’t do it, Mark. Just don’t do it. At least think things through. Take your time. Be smart. Think of her. You may leave and then you’ll be the asshole … again.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and recalled his last night in town before shipping off to basic training twenty years earlier. Agnes sat on the bottom step in her light blue terrycloth bathrobe and watched Mark pace the family room.

“What’s on your mind, Mark? Why all the pacing? It can’t just be boot camp. My guess is you’re less worried about what happens at Fort Benning than what happens here after you’ve left.”

“Yeah, I am worried. I’m worried about you—that I’m leaving you to live alone. And I wonder about Luci. I worry she’ll find someone better and forget about me and there’ll be nothing I can do about it.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m never really alone. But you’re right about that last part. You can’t control those things. You just have to do the right things and pray for the best.”

“But do you think I’ll ever find anyone as special as Luci?”

“You’re asking yourself the wrong question, Mark. That’s what you ask yourself when you’re shopping for a new car. True love doesn’t work that way. When you’re truly in love, you don’t sit around wondering if there’s a better deal out there somewhere. You can’t even consider being with anyone else. You’ll know when you’ve found the right person. Maybe it’s Luci, maybe not. Time will tell.”

“Have you ever been truly in love?”

Agnes stood up, tightened the robe around her waist, and stuffed her hands into its front pockets. She took a deep breath and smiled.

“Treat Luci right. Always be honest with her and respect her enough to give her the space to make her own decisions. Be patient. You’re young, Mark. If it is meant to be, things will work out. These things can take time.”

“Yeah, but how much time?”

She began slowly climbing the stairs and continued to speak over her shoulder.

“Who knows? Life always has more questions than answers, Mark. It could take twenty minutes. It might take twenty years.”

Twenty years. And here I am in the same exact spot.

Sixteen

As Mark slowly cracked the door to Agnes’s office, light from the kitchen splashed against the far wall and illuminated the one and only crucifix in the house.

“There’s no need to wear your faith on your sleeve, let alone every wall of the house,” Agnes once said to Mark on the way home from visiting a friend whose home looked like a shrine at the Vatican.

He felt for the switch against the inside wall and flipped the lights on. The room was bare and his footsteps made no sound as he drifted across the thin area rug that covered all but a few inches of the small room. He pulled the top drawer open with both hands and discovered a small wooden box that had seen better days. A thin rubber band held a small piece of light blue paper in place. Written on the paper in black ink was Mark’s name.

What’s this, Agnes? Is this a goodbye? A parting gift perhaps? The number for the plumber?

As he contemplated the contents of the box, soft knocking at the side door intruded on his thoughts. He closed the drawer, flipped off the office lights, peered around the corner in the direction of the noise, and paused. He had heard no car but could see that the sensor light had kicked on. The knocker had approached the house on foot and was not deterred by the light. Through the blinds, he could see the figure of a person. Mark took comfort as the meek knocking continued. Bad guys—at least the kind he was used to dealing with—didn’t tend to stand in the spotlight and announce their arrival.

“Who is it?”

A muffled voice answered, but he could not make out the words.

“Who?” he repeated.

“It’s Kenny.”

Kenny? Kenny who?

“From next door, Mark,” the voice continued, making Mark wonder if he had been thinking out loud.

Kenny Harrington. Does he still live next door?

He opened the door wide and smiled at the tiny figure in front of him.

“Hi, Kenny.”

Although they were the same age, Kenny’s stature and demeanor had always made him seem younger by comparison. Neither of those things had changed; he was still barely five feet tall, and his slumped shoulders and bowed head made him seem even shorter.

“Hi, Mark,” he whispered. “Sorry to bother you.”

“You’re not bothering me, Kenny. Come on in. Want a beer?”

Kenny stood straighter and raised his head at the unexpected invitation. A faint smile occupied his face, and Mark saw a brief flicker in his eyes before he redirected his gaze to his feet and slouched again.

“No, thanks. I can’t stay. If father notices he’s alone, it’ll scare him.”

Mark maintained his smile but squinted slightly.

“Father has dementia. Mother died three years ago so it’s just us now.”

Mark searched for the right words but knew he’d never find them. Instead he offered the typical anodyne response.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Kenny. Let me know if I can ever help.”

Kenny nodded his head and awkwardly shifted his focus left and right, then resumed speaking.

“Father and I were sorry to hear about Agnes. She was a big help to us these past few months. Always checking on us and bringing home-cooked meals when she could. We’re sorry she’s gone.”

Mark smiled and nodded politely.

“Me too, Kenny. Me too. What can I do for you?” he replied politely but in a tone that indicated it was time to move on from the topic of dead matriarchs. 

“I don’t know how long you’ll be home, but if you need Internet you can connect to my Wi-Fi. Agnes never had Internet here for some reason.”

“Okay, thanks. I appreciate that.”

Kenny continued after several seconds of awkward silence.

“The network is called
theshire
, all one word. And the password is
Bilbo
, with a capital B.”

The Shire. Bilbo. Right. Seventh-grade English. Tolkien.

“Okay, that should be easy to remember,” Mark said with a chuckle.

“Do you remember that class? Reading that book? Mr. Marcell?”

“Of course I do, Kenny. It’s still one of my favorites too,” Mark said unconvincingly.

“Yeah, he died last year too.”

Jesus, you’re full of great news tonight, Kenny.

Mark couldn’t think of anything to say, so he stood silently, hoping that Kenny would wrap things up on his own.

“Was that Luci who just left?” Kenny continued.

“Yup, that was her,” Mark answered, glancing at his watch.

“Okay, well, tell her I said hi … she was always nice,” Kenny said. He turned and firmly grabbed the handrail with his right hand, carefully lowering his left foot to the next step down. After lowering his right foot, he paused briefly before carefully stepping off again with his left foot. He repeated the same set of motions until both feet reached the safety of the driveway.

Mark watched him walk to the end of the driveway and turn right toward his house before calling out to him, “Kenny, feel free to cut across the lawn next time. No big deal, man.”

Seventeen

Thirty miles south, ATF agent Frank Tagala was getting slammed against the hood of an unmarked police car while three cops struggled to get handcuffs on him. This was the fun part for Frank, because it meant he was no longer in grave danger. But he was still in character and needed to make things look authentic.

The arms deal had gone down as planned. Within seconds of the exchange, a flood of federal agents and Boston policemen covered by rooftop snipers had taken control of the area and everyone in it. As Frank struggled, he screamed across the hood at the three Russian mobsters he had spent the past six months setting up.

“You fucking stupid pieces of Russian shit! You set me up. You’re all dead men. You fucked with the wrong guinea!”

He tried to kick, punch, bite, and smack the three young officers as they scuffled. Their explicit instructions were to meet force with force, but they had not expected such resistance from another lawman, and Frank showed no signs of letting up. Frustrated and scared, the youngest of the three stepped back, drew his Taser, and lit Frank up like a Christmas tree. The other two stood wide-eyed as Frank howled.

“Motherrrr Fuckerrrr! Fuck, fuck, fuck! Ahhhhhhhhhhh!”

After he collapsed to the ground, they had him cuffed and in the back of the cruiser in less than fifteen seconds. With their lights flashing and sirens screaming, they headed away from the harbor toward the debriefing area. Behind the car’s heavily tinted windows, Frank caught his breath and spoke first.

“Jesus Christ, kid! I said it had to be convincing, but you deserve an Oscar. Shit, that fucking hurt.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I don’t know what happened. I panicked,” offered the rookie cop sitting next to him in the back seat, his nervous fingers fumbling to unlock the handcuffs that held Frank’s wrists tightly behind his back.

Both men swung back and forth in unison as the cruiser banked left and right, weaving its way through Boston’s narrow streets at high speed. Frank breathed deeply and rubbed his wrists to get his circulation going again. The cop in the passenger seat, a veteran sergeant, rotated to face the rear of the vehicle.

“Seriously, what the fuck were you thinking back there, Tortellini?”

Frank jumped in before he could answer.
              “Tortellini?”

“It’s Tarentini, Sir. And I accept full responsibility. I know I fucked up.”

Frank laughed out loud.

“Relax, Tarentini. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but you three would have never got cuffs on me unless I gave up. And that would have been a dead giveaway. Russians are assholes but they aren’t stupid. You improvised. A warning would have been nice, but everyone’s safe now and it’s over. Let’s not relive it.”

Frank looked at the sergeant, who took his cue to drop the issue.

“It’s over now. And at least you were smart enough not to use your gun,” Frank joked as he punched Officer Tarentini in the shoulder.

Two more months. Two more months of this shit and I’m done.

Eighteen

Everyone stood and gave Frank a round of applause when he entered the four-bay garage that had served as his field mission support center. Rows of monitors and other electronic equipment filled long tables set against the back wall. Technical support personnel had already made backups of the video and audio as supervisors watched over their shoulders and drank coffee.

Everything had been done by the book, and a strict chain of custody virtually eliminated the risk that the charges would be tossed out on a technicality. Frank’s last hurrah had been as clean a job as anyone could ask for. No injuries. Bad guys in custody. Fewer guns on the street—in this case, twenty Russian-made AK-47s and a dozen Sig Sauer M400s off the street. AKs are a dime a dozen, but the fully automatic capable Sigs were a very rare find. Representatives of the U.S. Attorney’s Boston office witnessed the entire operation. A slam dunk by any measure.

Frank smiled and nodded in the direction of the applause as he walked toward the restroom. His bag sat on a table next to the door. Once inside, he locked the door and hung his coat on a rusty hook that clung to the wall by a single screw.  He dropped the bag on the counter next to the sink, washed his hands, and splashed cold water on his face for several minutes, taking long, deep breaths with his eyes closed. Unzipping the bag, he grabbed a towel and dried his face and hands. Then he reached back into his bag, fishing around while avoiding his reflection in the small cloudy mirror that hung over the sink.

He squeezed three plastic nips of vodka into his mouth and buried the empty containers in the trash can. Then he quickly brushed his teeth and gargled with mouthwash. Minutes later he emerged from the bathroom with his hair slicked back and clean clothes on, just as the vehicle carrying the guns he had purchased was arriving. Frank started for the vehicle but saw his boss, Ashton Brown, making a beeline for the three cops who had cuffed him.

This can’t be good.

He changed directions and arrived just in time to hear Brown’s opening statement directed at the rookie, Tarentini.

“What the hell is wrong with you? Do you think you can go around tasing federal agents—or anyone else for that matter—just because you feel like it? I want your name and badge number, right now.”

The sergeant stepped forward to speak but Brown held up a hand and cut him off.

“Save it, sergeant. I didn’t ask for your input.”

Brown got within inches from Tarentini’s face and continued.

“You’re all done. If I have anything to say about it, you’ll have a hard time getting a job as a mall cop. That would have been excessive force by any standard. What the hell is your problem? Why the hell did you decide to use your Taser when you
knew
you were dealing with an undercover agent? I want an answer!”

“Because I told him to,” said Frank as he approached Brown from behind. “Good job, kid. You did the right thing. I just wish I didn’t have to tell you so many times. ‘Tase me’ is a pretty straight forward command, right?”

Frank smiled and shook hands with all three cops. Brown craned his neck and looked at him sideways.

“You mean to tell me that you told this officer to tase you?”

“Yeah. It was my fault anyway. I got carried away resisting and we had to make it look good. No time to wait. If they didn’t escalate their use of force quickly, the Russians might have known something was up. Mission accomplished. That was great work, guys. Thanks.”

Brown shook his head from side to side and folded his arms.

“You expect me to believe that, Frank? If that’s the case, the audio should have picked it up. It didn’t. So maybe you’re lying to protect this guy.”

“Technology fails all the time. Believe me, if he tased me on his own we’d be having a different conversation right now. These guys were on the ball and saved the sting. Good work, guys.”

Frank looked at the sergeant, who knew that was his cue.

“I heard you, Frank. Sorry you had to say it a few times, but it took me by surprise. Thankfully, Tarentini took the initiative and got it done. Good save, kid.”

Brown turned his back, took several steps away from the group, and bowed his head with his hands on his hips. Frank winked at the cops like the class clown playing a prank behind the teacher’s back, promptly dropping the smile when Brown turned back toward the group.

“Get out of here. All of you. Just go.”

The three cops didn’t need to be told twice. They headed for the exit while Frank started walking toward the evidence truck.

“Where are you going, Frank? I just said you were all set. Go home.”

“Just want to take a look at the hardware again.”

“Not necessary. You’ve already seen it. Now your job is done. Let everyone else do theirs. Go home, Frank.”

Frank wanted to argue the point but was distracted by thoughts of the vodka bottles and chilled glasses in his refrigerator at home. He decided to leave before he could push Brown too far or say something he might regret.

Just go home.

“Whatever you say, Boss.”

In a few weeks this asshole won’t be my problem anymore.