Today on the blog, we have
something a bit different as it has been a long time since there has been an excerpt
from a new book shared here. Bill Crider recently reviewed
this so go take a look at that review after you read the excerpt below.
THE RIGHT WRONG NUMBER: An Ed Earl
Burch Novel
Jim Nesbitt
ONE
It
wasn't San Francisco or London, but the fog was thick and flowing -- like tufts
sucked from a bale of cotton, carrying the muddy tint of a used linen filter.
It made him think of trench coats, lamp posts and the low warning moan of a
ship's horn sounding somewhere out on the water. Rolling across the flat
fields, it made dark gray ghosts of the trees that huddled along the far
fencelines and left cold beads of moisture on his skin and memories of old
black-and-white movies in his mind.
But there were no ships in the
harbor, no waterside buckets of blood, no Rick or Ilsa. Just lightless
farmhouses, barns, open-sided equipment sheds and squat corrugated feed bins
for cattle, all cloaked by the fast-moving fog, glimpsed only if the wind
parted the curtain of stained white wetness as you rolled by.
And it wasn't the Left Coast or
Britain. It was Texas and the scrubby coastal country north of Houston, beyond
the Intercontinental and its roaring planes. Take a left off the farm-market
road with the four-digit number. Find the third dirt road on the left, take it
for three miles. Splash through the potholes and set your teeth against tires
juddering across the washboard track. Hit the T of another dirt road. Look for
a faint gravel trail at your 10 o'clock. Rattle over the cattle guard. Close
the gate behind you.
Easy to remember. Hard to do with
visibility down to zero. Even with the window rolled down and the Beemer's fog
lamps flipped on. Nice car. Leather seats the color of butterscotch taffy.
Mahogany inserts flanking the instruments and fronting the glove box. Killer
sound system and a cellular phone. Shame to bang this baby along back roads,
splashing mud and gravel against its polished flanks of forest green.
Not his car. Not his problem. Fog
and time were. He was already a half hour behind schedule when his contact
finally drove up with the car, the briefcase of bills and directions to the
meet. Fog was adding more minutes to his travel time. He had to double back
when he missed one turnoff and that made him slow and leery of missing another.
Not good. Not good. Patient people
weren't on the other end. They never were. But they would wait because he had
the money, they had the product and both sides wanted this deal closed tonight.
And if they were pissed and wanted to wrangle, he could deal with that; a
matte-chrome Smith & Wesson Model 6906 with thirteen rounds of 9 mm hollow
point nestled in a shoulder rig underneath his black leather jacket.
Always the chance of a wrangle on a
run like this. Rip-offs were a run-of-the-mill business risk, even between
long-time associates. But on this deal the probability of gunplay was low. He
was just nervous about running late. It wasn't professional. He thought about
using the cellular phone but shook the idea out of his head. Not something a
pro would do.
And not something his people would
appreciate. They were security-conscious and worked the high-dollar end of the
street. No cowboys. Pros only. Running a well-oiled machine. Not that he knew
them well. He was strictly a cutout man, a well-paid delivery boy who made it
his business to stay ignorant about those who hired him and their business
partners.
He wasn't totally in the dark about
his paymasters; no prudent pro ever was. But he kept his curiosity in check and
his focus on the amount of money he was paid and the demands of the night's
job.
It was a relaxing way to make a
living. A phone rings. A voice on the line gives him the name of a bar or cafe.
A man meets him with an envelope and instructions. And he goes where he is told
-- to deliver money, to pick up a truck or car loaded with product, to put a
bullet through the skull of someone he doesn't know.
Command and control. Just like
the Army and those over-the-border ops in Cambodia. Project Vesuvius. Studies
and Observations Group. Words both grandiose and bland to cover what he and his
comrades did. Slip over the fence, gather the intel, slit a few throats along
the way. Set up the Big Death -- from the air and on the ground. Operation
Menu. Operation Patio. Operation Freedom Deal. Cambodian Incursion. More bland
words for killing the enemy in his safest sanctuaries. Parrot’s Beak. The
Fishhook. The Dog’s Face.
A sputtering string of electronic
beeps startled him. The car phone. He glanced down and saw a red pin light
flash to the time of the beeps. He pulled the receiver out of its cradle.
"Talk to me."
"Where the hell are you?"
"You don't want me to
say."
"You're late and that's making
some people nervous."
"Your man was late and this
phone call is making me nervous. It's not very smart."
"We decide what's smart. We pay
you to get things done and be on time. How long till you get there?"
"Ten."
"Get there."
He snapped the receiver back in
place and shook his head. Not good. Not good. Lots of snoopers scanning these
cellular circuits. A pro would know this and wouldn't risk a call unless the
other side was making a ruckus. Made him wonder if the players in this game
were as big league as he thought they were.
Those thoughts rode with him as he
wheeled the Beemer down the dirt road, looking for the T intersection. There it
was. He looked for the gravel trail, slowly turning the car to the left and
letting the fog lamps cut a slow sweep across the far side of the road. There.
At his ten o'clock. Just like he was told. He stayed alert, but his nagging
nervousness and doubts started to fade.
The trail led from the gate and
crossed the field at a sharp angle. He crept along, easing the car through ruts
and washouts. He saw the shrouded form of a tin shed and weaved the car so the
lights would pan across its open door. The yellow beams caught the wet metal of
an old tractor and two men in dark slacks and windbreakers -- one tall, bald
and lean, the other short, squat and slick-haired.
He stopped the car, fog lamps still
on. He pulled his pistol, letting his gun hand drop to his side and rear as he
stepped out, keeping his body behind the car door.
"Wanna cut the lights,
guy?"
A purring voice from the short guy,
coming from a full, sleek face that made him think of a seal.
"Not really. Let's keep
everything illuminated. Makes me feel safe."
"You're among friends, guy.
Nobody wants monkeyshines here. We just do the handoff and the call and we can
all get the hell out of this fog. You're late and we're cold."
"No arguments from me, my man.
But let's do this by the numbers."
"Numbers it is, guy."
He stepped away from the car.
"Money's in the front seat.
Have your buddy do the honors."
A nod from the talker. His companion
walked to the passenger side of the Beemer and leaned in. He heard the latches
of the briefcase pop open.
"Looks good to me."
"Make the call. That okay with
you, guy?"
"By all means. Make that call.
Tell Mabel to put a pot of coffee on."
A laugh from the talker. He could
see the other guy reach for the cellular phone. Somewhere across town, a phone
would ring. Assurances the money was in hand. Somewhere else another phone
would ring. Product would change hands. Then the Beemer's cellular would ring
again and the night's business would be done.
He was alert but relaxed, ready to
wait, the screw-ups behind him and the deal running smooth and professional
now. He had a clear view of the talker and his companion. He had his gun in
hand. He was thinking about a cup of coffee when the baseball bat cracked
across the back of his skull.
"Cut those damn lights. Secure
the money."
A nod from the companion. The talker
moved toward the third man, the man with the baseball bat, a hulk with the arms
and shoulders of a lineman and the on-the-balls-of-the-feet stance of a third
baseman. They stood over the slumped body.
"Give me a hand with this
sumbitch. He's heavy. Get that gun, Jack."
"Got it. Who'd this guy piss
off?"
"Nobody you need to know about,
guy. Or me. He's just a poor soul somebody wants whacked."
"Awful lot of trouble just to
whack a guy. What the fuck are we stagin' this thing for, Louis? Why not just
pop him and get it over with?"
"Not your worry, guy. Just
muscle him into the driver's seat and let me dress him up pretty. Bill, did you
wipe your prints?"
"Does it matter?"
A glare from Louis. The companion
shrugged, pulled a bandana from his back pocket and leaned into the Beemer.
When done, he hoisted the briefcase and walked back toward the shed.
Louis kept his eyes locked on the
bald man as he walked away, his head swiveling like a table-top fan, his eyes
popped with anger. He broke the stare and fussed with the body, pulling the
head back, reaching into the mouth, then his pocket, then back into the mouth.
Jack watched and shook his head.
"Bill!"
"Yo!"
"Get me that bundle, guy. The
jacket and the trench coat. And bring that bag with the stuff in it."
"Yo."
Bill hustled to the car. Louis
patted him on the shoulder, thanking him in that purring voice, his face soft
and placid again. He turned back to the body, peeling off the leather jacket
and unfastening the shoulder rig. He fished through the pockets, pulling
wallet, keys and a checkbook, leaving loose change. He replaced these items
with wallet, keys and a checkbook he pulled from a crumpled brown paper bag. He
pulled a ring from the right hand and a fake Rolex from the left wrist, digging
a wedding band, a class ring and a real Rolex -- an Oyster Perpetual Datejust
-- from the bag.
The jacket and trench coat came next
-- a nicely tailored Burberry, pity the waste. Louis started to sweat as he
pulled and smoothed the clothes onto the body. He unbuttoned the shirt down to
the navel, then reached into the bag and pulled out a squeeze bottle, the kind
with the thin nozzle that could poke through the bars of a footballer's
facemask. He squeezed water onto the body's chest then reached under the dash
to pop the hood of the Beemer.
"Jack -- hook up those cables,
guy."
"Jesus."
"I know it's unpleasant, but
just do it for me, guy."
Louis fired up the Beemer's engine
then waited for Jack to hand him the twin clamps. Clamps to the body's chest.
The smell of burning flesh and electrified ozone.
Again. Again the smell.
And again. Clamps to Jack. Engine
off.
"Bill. The acid, guy."
A glass bottle of sulfuric acid. A
small glass tray. Fingers and thumb from one hand in. Then the other hand. He
handed the tray to Bill.
"Careful with that, guy. Dump
it."
"Yo."
Louis turned back to the body. He
pursed his lips as he lined up the shoulders, the head and the arms to stage
the proper angles of a kill shot.
The head was the difficult part.
Without a helping hand to hold it in place, it rolled about and wouldn't stay
upright. Louis pulled the hips forward then shoved the shoulders deep into the
folds of the leather seat, pressing them into place. The head was now resting
lightly against the butterscotch leather padding of the headrest.
That's how it would line up. He
stood up and pulled a snub-nosed Colt Agent in .38 Special from the paper bag
with a gloved hand. He eyed the angle for another second then nodded Jack away.
Louis eased the pistol barrel into a
sagging mouth, eyeing the angle one more time. He pulled the trigger, blinking
at the pistol's flash and sharp report. He dropped the gun to the floor.
The bullet had blown off the back
of the man's skull, obliterating the pulpy mark of the baseball bat and
spraying a dark stain of brains, blood and bone shards across the light-colored
leather seats. The impact canted the body across the console and gearshift,
head and shoulder jammed between the seats.
"Jesus, Louis."
"What?"
"Christamighty, it's one thing
to whack a guy up close like that, another to do all that shit with the battery
cables and the acid. But to have to fish out his dentures first? They'd have to
pay me double to do that."
"They are, guy. They are."
"Whadja have to do it
for?"
"They were making his gums
sore. He needed a new pair."
"Like he'll need 'em where he's
going."
"You never know. Blow the car,
Jack. We gotta get us back on home, guy. Get us on the outside of some gumbo
down to Tujague’s."
"I'm for that. A shame though.
This is a nice car."
"That it is, guy. Blow her just
the same. Make it burn pretty."
"Lotta noise. Lotta flash.
Cops'll be here like flies on a dead fish."
"Do it quick then, guy. So we
can be long gone."
Jim
Nesbitt ©2017
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1 comment:
Many thanks, Kevin.
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