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It’s the night before the meet and what I need is a woman, a new prostate and a squadron of Marines in Blackhawk helicopters. What I have is a Penthouse magazine, a jar of saw palmetto, two crazy Indians with dogs, and a redneck college kid.
But that’s going to have to be enough.
I continue to hope Mr. Big will find it in his black heart to let Mike slide. I’ve got the hundred grand neatly stacked inside a nice Samsonite case in the trunk of my Buick.
It’s been a busy week. Tommy spent a day at the house rigging up a few surprises in case the hard guys decide to violate our verbal agreement. The LePage brothers—Brad and Jerome, the Indians I mentioned before—have been here for the last few days.
They’re here at the house, smoking weed one minute and then out into the woods with their dogs or fishing some local river the next. Sometimes you think they’re gone and then they pop out from behind a tree like ghosts. Both of them wear full camouflage gear while on the property, and carry sidearms at all times. They keep military rifles of varying types and calibers inside the house and in a quickly accessible rack in the cab of their pickup truck.
Ronnie was a little put off at first. Guy told me he never liked Indians much because they spear so many walleyes. But after he saw the brothers shooting their weapons, he came around. Lost his edge, you might say. Now it seems he even half likes them; judging by the way he shares their weed. I’m still not sure about Ronnie but I have to give him credit for staying around to help finish what he started. Guy has stick-to–itivness.
Either that or he’s an idiot.
Mike won’t be here when we make the exchange. I sent him to Minneapolis this morning to meet with Ricky and Lyle. He thinks they’re going to give him more cash—which they are—but then they’re going to lock him in their basement until Stevie comes by in a few hours to “rescue” him. It’s a dirty trick, but necessary. I didn’t feel too great about his performance with the weapons, and my grandchildren need a father who’s alive.
After the “rescue,” Steve and Mike are going to drive to the Dells and reunite with Jan and the kids.
Vito Provolone, or whatever the hell his name is—I’m picturing some Tony Soprano-type—never does give his name but he does call at noon on the designated date. Right on time.
I give him the directions to the house and describe the landscape. I ask him if he’ll be coming personally and he laughs at me.
I’m thinking he’ll have someone out here checking on the lay of the land before the meet. If they come, I’m betting Brad and Jerome will know.
The day passes slowly.
Finally, the sun slips down behind the trees.
Ronnie’s on the couch in the living room, watching Fear Factor on this little television he brought in, his twelve-gauge slug-gun resting on his lap. Jerome LePage and I are at the kitchen table with a deck of cards, playing a game of two-handed fuck-your-buddy. Jerome’s dog Benny lies by the door. Brad and his dog Bigfoot are outside walking the land.
The dogs are so sensitive they can hear a footstep from a hundred yards away, the brothers had told me. And if it isn’t Brad or Jerome they’ll give a couple of barks and stand up at the ready. Two barks. That’s it, that’s the signal. Then they stand there until the thing that made the sound either goes away or gets identified or they get a command from one of the brothers. Both dogs are from the same litter. Two all-black German shepherds. I get the feeling they could turn someone into shredded beef in a New York minute.
The LePages have ingested some military-issue amphetamines left over from their Special Forces days. Go-pills or stay-awake tabs, they call them. They’ve assured me they can be up all night and still be fresh for the following night and who am I to argue? You can hardly tell they’re buzzing except for a little tightness in the jaw lines.
I figure Ronnie’s going to sleep lightly because there’s no booze allowed in the house until after this is over. I know I’m going to sleep lightly because my senses are all jacked up. Adrenaline and fear are going to keep me where I need to be.
Jerome and I are still playing cards when Brad and Bigfoot come inside out of the drizzle. Brad says there were some cars going back and forth slowly on the Bayfield Road, and he saw a black Escalade turn down our road and come back out a few minutes later.
My hackles go up a little and anxiety spikes. But what the hell did I expect? Fucking around with drug people, guns and large sums of money is a familiar recipe for trouble. But there’s nothing I can do about it except say fuck it and make sure there’s a gun nearby. Time to let it all hang out. Bing-bang-boom goes the cannon.
Jerome slips into his camo shirt while Brad grabs a cup of coffee. The two dogs exchange sniffs before Benny follows Jerome outside into the tense night.
Brad and I sit at the table and shoot the shit about trout fishing. He’s more talkative than usual. Talking a fucking blue streak, actually.
I finally get tired and go upstairs. I take a look out the bedroom window and see nothing but a few clouds sliding across the moon. I slip off my shoulder holster, put it on the bed and lie down next to it.
I wake to the sound of thunder. Thinking gunshots. I grab the pistol and leap to the window. Rain is coming down sideways, hitting the screen like flying nails, and the wind is howling off Lake Superior like an evil spirit.
I tell myself that it’s only weather but now I’m too agitated to sleep so I close the windows and go down to the kitchen. Jerome and Ronnie are at the table having coffee. Benny lies on the cracked linoleum floor. The smell of wet dog fills the air. The dog eyes me for a second but then his lids droop and he drops his head onto his outstretched paws. A still-dripping military rain suit hangs from pegs on the wall behind him.
“Coffee, sack hound?” Jerome asks.
“No thanks, man. I don’t think my gut can handle it.”
“Breakfast, then,” Jerome says. “You gotta eat if you’re going to do battle.”
“I guess I could eat some eggs,” I say, making a mental note to give the brothers a bonus when this is done. So far, they’ve proved to be a lot of bang for the hired-gun buck. Cooking breakfast? Truly full-service mercenaries.
“Come on, Jerome,” Ronnie whines. “Just gimme one of those go-pills. I could use a little boost.”
Jerome says, “I told you, Ronnie, those pills are only for military men. College boys go nuts if they take them. Shit is too strong for civilians.”
“Military, schmilitary,” Ronnie says. “I know a lot of guys who were in, and they ain’t much, I’ll tell you that for sure. Everyone knows there ain’t any such thing as military intelligence.”
“That’s only true of the officers,” Jerome says, smiling broadly. Then he gets the eggs from the refrigerator and sets up in front of the stove.
I watch him working the pan, hands moving. “You gotta keep stirring,” he says, “ because the egg whites and the yolks cook at different temperatures.” I wonder if that’s what they’re teaching in the army these days.
The scrambled eggs are delicious. Ronnie and Jerome continue to banter. Before long Brad and Bigfoot come through the backdoor dripping water. Brad’s eyes are open real wide. Bigfoot’s black coat glistens like it’s been salted with tiny diamonds.
After breakfast, time seems to slow to a halt.
I stack the breakfast dishes in the sink and fill it with warm soapy water, roll up my sleeves and get started. The simple, basic act of dishwashing gives me a little taste of normalcy, something I’m craving.
To that end, after the dishes are clean and drying in the rack, I try to watch Ronnie’s little television. Without cable, it’s an exercise in endurance and frustration. Agitated, I turn off the tube and pace around looking out windows. The brothers keep doing their shifts. Ronnie wanders around looking out the windows or going out on the front porch for a cigarette. Sometimes we get in each other’s way.
Around six o’clock, the rain stops. A dark sky the color of a gun barrel stays behind. The driveway is filled with brown puddles and the trees glow with moisture. Brad cooks up a wild rice and ground beef dish for dinner with wild rice he harvested himself. I’m too anxious and can only eat a little. All I want is for this thing to be over.
The minutes pass by agonizingly slow.
The wind still howls and moans.
Nobody’s cell phone rings.
The dogs haven’t barked for hours.
By eight o’clock I can’t sit still. Standing at the kitchen table, I count and recount the cash. For an instant, in the throes of some sort of stress-induced brain cramp, I’m convinced the LePages are going to rob me. But it’s just paranoia; the brothers are men of integrity. And my fears are just the resultant residue of burned synapses and pruned brain cells.
Precisely at eight-thirty, Bigfoot barks twice and gets up at the ready, ears perked up. I know the exact time because I’m glancing at the scratched face of my Rolex, the last remaining ornament from my decadent past.
Brad grabs a tactical shotgun and heads out the back door, Bigfoot at his heels. Jerome and Benny are already out there.
I watch Ronnie run up the stairs two at a time, a long gun gripped in each hand, I slip on the shoulder holster, put on a leather jacket, grab the Samsonite suitcase and go to the front window.
Peering around the edge of the curtain, I see headlights bouncing and swaying on the wet driveway and my heart speeds up.
It’s too dark for my liking. I realize now why the man had insisted on eight-thirty: Darker is definitely better for giving someone the bum’s rush from their earthly trappings.
I watch a dark-blue Lincoln Navigator roll in the yard and stop in front of the house. The headlights are on me as I step out the front door.
There’s another SUV behind the Lincoln and I see three gunmen in dark shirts, slacks and shoulder rigs, standing at the side of the truck.
I reach along the wall and flip the switch on one of Tommy Boudreau’s recent jobs, and four strategically placed spotlights light up the yard like an old-timer’s reading room.
Jerome is standing in the open in front of the garage, cradling his carbine and talking low to Benny sitting beside him.
Brad is on the other side of the yard leaning against a big oak tree with his scattergun and striking the same pose as his brother, dog and all.
With my left hand I lift the suitcase up high enough to be recognized. My right hand is out in front of me, and open. I walk down the steps and nobody shoots me.
So far so good.
I keep walking, the bottoms of my feet tingling.
The driver of the SUV behind the Navigator steps out and I recognize my old pal Jimmy.
He comes toward me.
I stop.
He looks cold and pissed off in his creased black pants and black and red Hawaiian shirt.
Not exactly dressed for the weather.
“The boss says to give me the cash, so I can count it,” Jimmy says. “And he wants to talk to you.” He nods his head in the direction of the Lincoln.
I’m thinking there’s no way I’m going there. There are three thugs by Jimmy’s SUV—which I can now see is a Cadillac Escalade—and they all have guns. Dudes could cut me down and then wheel out of here before the LePage brothers could do anything about it.
“I’m not going anywhere for the moment, Jimmy,” I say. “I’m kind of enjoying the cool night air. It’s been kind of hot around here lately. Been hot where you’re from?”
He gives me a look meant to eviscerate rather than commiserate, growls and grabs the case from my outstretched left hand. As he heads back to the Escalade, my right hand twitches with desire for my pistol. Then the passenger door on the Navigator opens and a tall, wiry man in a black leather jacket over a plain white T-shirt, light-colored trousers and expensive-looking ankle-high black leather boots, steps out. His hair is close-cropped and the color of old steel. His skin looks like distressed leather.
The man shakes his head, flips away a cigarette and looks at me like I’m some kind of naughty school kid. He’s got one of those grins where you can see the menace on the edge of it but you still want to smile along with him.
“I had to get a look at the guy who had the stones to think he could bargain with Arthur Koivisto,” says the man, looking me up and down like I’m a slab of beef. “And I gotta tell ya, I’m not impressed. You’re older than I am, for fuck sake.”
“Maybe so,” I say. “But my name means nothing and my age means even less.”
He gives me a little half-smile-half-sneer. “More Dylan quotes,” he says. “But I think you might have that one twisted around. But no matter. I’m a big fan of Dylan; love that little hebe. Maybe that’s why I’m going to let this one slide. Like here we are, y’know, two fuckin’ Dylan fans passing in the night or some shit like that, huh? Who can tell what’s going to happen in this life, eh, Mr. Flint? There’s some poetry there, or something.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, which causes everyone in the yard to raise their weapons, but comes out with a crushed pack of Camels. As everyone relaxes just a tad, he shakes one out and puts it between his lips. He lights it with a gold Zippo and lets the smoke drift into the wind before narrowing his eyes at me. He’s still half grinning, and now I am feeling like the naughty school kid. “Seems to me I’ve heard of you somewhere, Mr. Flint. That possible?”
“Doubt it.”
“I’m curious though, Flint. What the hell are you in this for? You and your shooters over there...” He gestures with the cigarette. “You guys know exactly what’s going on here?”
“I think the message was made perfectly clear by the two dead bodies your boys left in their wake.”
“But why did a guy like you come into this? Couldn’t be any money in it. And these punks aren’t worth risking your neck for. Just doesn’t figure.”
“It’s family. Family doesn’t have to figure.”
“You are a crazy sonofabitch, Flint,” he says, taking a pull on the Camel and blowing a stream of smoke into the ever-darkening sky. “Look me up if you’re ever in Chicago.” He turns and starts toward the Lincoln.
“Does that mean this is over?”
He stops, turns back to me. “I’m a man of my word, Flint. I got what I came for, and I don’t give a fuck about you or the punks anymore. I can’t, however, speak for any of George’s friends or family who may think they have a score to settle with you.”
He grins a little and flips the cig on the ground, where it bounces and sparks. I watch him get in the Lincoln and exchange a few words with the driver. They drive out, taking their time. Jimmy and the boys at the Cadillac give me the evil eye before they get in and follow.
I watch the taillights fade and feel the air come out of me. Then Ronnie bursts out the front door of the house and lets out a war hoop. The brothers and the dogs come and join us, center of the yard lit up like an airport runway.
“I still need you guys to stay for the rest of the night,” I say.
“No problem, boss,” Jerome says, smiling. “Just need some coffee and some herb.”
“I’m getting my jug,” Ronnie says, heading towards his truck next to the garage.
“Hurry it up, Ronnie,” I say. “I want to turn off these lights before alien aircraft start landing.”
The LePage brothers and I go into the house. I shut the door and turn off the spotlights. A few minutes later Ronnie comes in with a bottle of Windsor Canadian in his hand. The brothers have gone into the kitchen to smoke.
“It’s fuckin’ hotter than hell in here,” Ronnie says. “I gotta open some windows.
“Go ahead,” I say. “The rain has stopped.”
Ronnie pulls up the window on the south side of the living room, and I feel the cool air rush in. The sky is black and the breeze blows hard. I turn on a table lamp as Ronnie crosses to the windows on the other side of the room.
“All this excitement got me heated,” Ronnie says. “But goddamn if I don’t feel good right now. Kind of feel lousy about giving up that money, but at least those guys are off our ass. I’ve gotta hand it to ya, Keith, you judged those bastards just right.”
Then he reaches down and grabs the handle on the window frame.
In the kitchen, two dogs bark.
Ronnie straightens up as he pulls the window open. A rifle shot bangs from somewhere outside and Ronnie jerks backwards grasping his chest. He falls hard to the floor, blood gushing from a large hole in his chest and a look of surprise on his ashen face.
Time seems to slow as I knock the lamp off the table and dive to the floor just before a barrage of automatic weapon fire rips through the walls, sending bits of glass and shards of wood flying.
The light goes off in the kitchen.
Jerome yells, “It’s on.”
I hear the kitchen door snap shut and then more gunfire, followed by screams and war hoops and snarling dogs.
Angry shouts and more screams as I crawl along the floor and get Ronnie’s swamp gun from the coffee table. I’m humping back toward the wall like a sand crab in heat when bullets tear the floor next to me and one slices the back of my calf.
Pain sears.
Thinking someone has a night scope I put my back against the wall and sit up. I hear something scratching out there and blow some holes in the wall below the window.
I struggle into the kitchen accompanied by the sounds of dogs mauling humans, the rapid-fire bursts of assault rifles and the crack and thump of handguns and shotguns.
I crawl across the kitchen floor, reach up next to the backdoor and throw Tommy’s switch #2, which sets off a series of explosions at approximately three-and-a-half feet above the ground on every large tree surrounding the house.
Screams of agony follow.
Switch #3, next to switch number two, controls three spotlights mounted on trees and a power pole, triangulating the open field between the house and the Bayfield road.
I throw it and things get strangely silent for a few seconds. Then the sound of gunfire intensifies and I slide across the floor into the front room with my back pressed against the wall. I get to the front door and throw the switch for the yard lights (#1) but nothing happens.
I step outside in time to see two dark figures running away from the house at the edge of the light, guns flashing and popping in my direction.
Then I hear Jerome yelling commands to Benny at the side of the house. When I get there Brad is kneeling down on the ground over a lifeless Bigfoot. I watch as Brad cradles the dead canine in his arms and lifts him off the ground. There are several dark lifeless mounds lying behind them in the tall grass.
I hurry back inside and shut down the lights. The night becomes a silent cemetery as I step outside on the porch.
The wind has died, along with six men and one beautiful dog. Jerome has a shoulder wound and my calf is torn and dripping blood. Ronnie and Bigfoot are dead.
Brad puts the dog down gently in front of the porch. He mourns with half-anger and half-sorrow: First he cries and then he promises revenge. Jerome tries to comfort him while fighting back his own tears.
Then a voice from the darkness at the bottom of the driveway: “Hey, dudes, you almost let a couple of rats get away. I always knew you’d need my help.”
I grab for my pistol and the brothers draw theirs, but then I recognize Tommy Boudreau coming up the drive with his Thompson gun trained on the two gun monkeys.
“Hey now, easy, boys,” Tommy says, his voice relaxed. “Don’t be drawin’ down on your old pal Tommy, please. I’m just gathering up the strays. Weren’t going to let these assholes get away were you?”
“I guess we were, Tom,” I say. “Didn’t seem like they wanted anymore of what we had to offer.”
Tommy starts to grin but his expression goes south when Brad lifts his pistol and shoots both guys in the head. One-two. Left-right. Boom-boom. Just like that. Gore spray hits Tommy in the face and on the shoulders of his black T-shirt.
My ears are ringing even louder now. We all stare at Brad. He walks over to his dead dog and sits down on the porch steps. None of us are saying anything. Just standing there and not moving much.
Tommy, always one to stay on task, wipes the blood off his face with his T-shirt and reminds us that we need to clean up this place in a hurry so we can get the hell out of here before the authorities get wind of things.
He has a plan: “We’ve gotta get these bodies gathered together. But first we need to go through the pockets and find the keys to those two SUVs they got stashed in the woods about a block down from the entrance road. Soon as we get the keys, Keith and I will drive them up here to the house.”
I get a clean dishtowel from the kitchen and wrap it around by still bleeding calf. It hurts like hell but I limp along with Tommy, who has the keys for the vehicles in his hand.
It takes us four hours to finish our grizzly business.
The face of one of the hoods is blown beyond recognition, so we put some of Mike’s old clothes on the body and put it in the house near the windows, next to Ronnie. Tommy and I put guns in the cold lifeless hands.
Then we arrange the other dead guys on the ground, trying to make it look, like they were shot by defenders of the house.
I’m thinking the signs of dog mauling on the bodies could possibly be blamed on roaming feral dogs or coyotes, both known to chew on carrion. The chunks of wood and bark missing from the trees around the house will have to go unexplained. Some forensics expert will figure it out, I’m sure.
After wiping all our prints from the vehicles, we leave them with the headlights on and the doors open, adding several bullet holes for good measure.
I give Brad and Jerome two grand a piece as a bonus. Not enough to compensate for the loss of a much-loved companion, but the best I can do. I can’t thank them enough.
Around 2:30 in the morning, Brad, looking stoic, lifts Bigfoot’s body into the bed of the truck. Jerome, a blood stained white T-shirt wrapped around his wounded left shoulder, climbs in and the LePage brothers roll out.
Tommy has rigged something up in the house he says will engulf the whole place in flames after we’re gone.