Mirage Man Read online

  "I've got a dead man in my kitchen, a list of questions, and nothing else to do, Fish.”

  “Based on our conversation yesterday, I figured you’d cool down a bit, but I see that’s not the case. I’m not going to waste my breath trying to talk you out of it because you’re too stupid to listen to reason. If this goes sideways, you’re going to die in there, Connor. And I’ll be seeing you on the evening news.”

  "If this goes sideways, you'll never see me again."

  I clicked off the phone and stashed it in my pocket. The Chevy hadn't returned. It could have been the teenage girl from down the street getting dropped off after curfew, or it could be a drive-by to check whether the Boston PD was camped out at my house.

  The driver of the SUV would have already called his boss to tell him what happened. The boss would be thinking through his options on what to do next. They wouldn't move on me tonight because they would expect me to call the police, which meant my house would be swarming with uniformed officers, a detective or two, a medical examiner, and maybe even a reporter who had been listening to a police scanner. No thug in his right mind would risk walking into that. I didn't call the police, of course. There were other ways of handling situations like this.

  I needed to get John Doe out of my kitchen and into my car before he stiffened up. If I waited too long, I wouldn't be able to bend him and would have to start cutting off body parts.

  Over the next few hours, I got busy cleaning up. I folded the body in half, wrapped it in plastic, rolled it up in a blue tarp, secured it with ratchet tie downs, and stashed it in the back of my Jeep. After I packed him safely away, I cleaned up the mess on my kitchen floor using oxygen bleach—chlorine bleach won't eliminate DNA evidence—and scrubbed the boning knife so hard I nearly took off the edge.

  Satisfied with the clean up, I packed a bag with a few days’ worth of clothes and some other essentials. I tossed Lucky’s 9mm into the bag, exchanging it for my .45 from the nightstand, slipped on my coat, and headed to the garage.

  After opening the garage door, I slipped out onto my driveway and checked the side yard. It was clear. Taking a final look down the street, I was satisfied I was alone. I fired up the Jeep and backed down the driveway with the .45 in my hand.

  Around one in the morning, I checked into a Holiday Inn. Lucky Walsh stayed in the Jeep.

  5

  Mousetrap

  The next morning, I sat in the Holiday Inn polishing off a complimentary breakfast of Cap’n Crunch, yogurt, and coffee. Most people never worry about someone trying to kill them. My previous professions kept me out of that category. I have been looking over my shoulder for so long that I developed a permanent crick in my neck. After eliminating Ernesto from the list of people calling in the hit, you would think I might have a clearer idea of who wanted me dead, but that wasn’t the case.

  Before moving to Boston two years ago, I worked in New York for a variety of people most individuals would never want to associate with. While those relationships were good for my bank account, they clashed with my desire to live a long life, which is one of the reasons I left and moved to Boston.

  I retired in the right way; I asked for a way out, and thanks to years of loyal service and a habit of keeping my mouth shut, my employer obliged. Now, I wondered if he changed his mind.

  The dead man wrapped up like an early Christmas present left me three options. If I stayed in Boston, whoever was behind the assassination attempt would send someone else. That’s how it worked. They already knew where I lived, so whoever came after Lucky in the hitting lineup would likely surprise Albert and me at home and dispatch us both. I was fortunate to get the drop on Lucky, but I couldn’t count on fortune smiling my way twice.

  My other option was to run. Mr. Fish was in that camp; my father would be too. Just go. I had the means and the money to disappear and start over somewhere else. Mr. Fish and I helped a dozen people vanish over the last eighteen months, but that wasn’t a possibility for me. Those people had nothing to anchor them to their desertion points. I had Albert. My New York associates already knew about him and it wouldn’t take them long to uncover my brother, his wife and daughter. If I ran, whoever wanted me dead would use my family as a bargaining chip to flush me out from hiding. If I stayed under, they’d murder everyone connected to me.

  That left an offensive strategy. I had to go to them. I still had some favors I could call in, and depending on who was behind this, I might be able to negotiate a way out. But before I get to that point, I had to figure out who wanted to delete me from the historical record. But a quick trip to New York was dangerous without first learning who was calling the shots. I needed to know what I was walking into, and Alfie O’Bannon was my only lead.

  The bright screen of my cell phone lit up the dim corner of the room. Mr. Fish had emailed me the name of O'Bannon's chop shop, Vic's Automotive, and a link to turn-by-turn directions. Underneath the link was a message: I won't try to change your mind, but this is a mistake. Consequences, Connor.

  He was probably right. Pursuing O’Bannon would ignite a string of events that I would have to see through to the end. Open that door and there was no turning back. I drained my coffee and thought through my options. Time to find out who wanted me dead.

  I followed the directions to East Somerville. Vic's Automotive was near the intersection of Hawthorn and Arlington. The neighborhood was dense, houses packed on top of one another, with small businesses and restaurants thrown in for good measure.

  I parked across the street from the shop's two-story high garage door. A freshly painted steel door, the main entrance to the shop, flanked the garage door on the right. I gripped my .45, keeping it inside my jacket, approached the front door and listened. The occasional screeching of a pneumatic something confirmed the place was open for business. I waited for the tool to fire up again before checking the knob. It was unlocked. Slowly opening the door, I peeked my head inside.

  The inside of the shop was much cleaner than I thought it would be. I figured it would be littered with rusting auto parts and would reek like gasoline and grease, but it didn't. It seemed like a respectable operation, someplace you wouldn't be ashamed to take the family minivan for routine maintenance.

  A dozen vehicles, all in various states of repair, lined the left wall. The remnants of an SUV's steel skeleton, which must have been picked clean for parts, sat along the right wall. On the left of the SUV was some sort of office, with a long glass window. To the right of the SUV was a Porsche Cayenne. A glimpse of the license plate confirmed it was the same vehicle that sat outside my house last night. I was in the right place.

  The pneumatic wrench—I assumed it was a wrench—screamed again, and this time an air compressor the size of a refrigerator kicked on. I followed the red hose from the compressor across the floor and underneath a hydraulic scissor lift supporting a black Mercedes in the middle of the shop. I walked toward the Mercedes to get a better look, staying away from the office window to my right. A pair of legs moved underneath the sedan and the tool whirred again.

  I gripped the .45 tight and leaned forward far enough to see two men sitting in the rear of the office watching a game show on a small television. Opening the office door, I raised the weapon and approached them from behind.

  They both turned around at the same time, probably seeing my reflection in the television screen.

  "Where can I find Alfie O'Bannon?" I asked, taking aim at the bigger of the two.

  The other man spoke up first. "No clue. He never comes around here."

  "Who's under the Mercedes?"

  "That's Mouse."

  "He know where O'Bannon is?"

  "Maybe."

  "The shop is closing early," I said. "You two are gonna disappear for an hour or so. Come back any earlier, and I'll kill you."

  "Okay," they said, standing up.

  I moved to the opposite side of the room, putting enough space between us so they wouldn’t be able to get to me before I got a s
hot off.

  "Quietly," I whispered as they walked onto the shop floor.

  The tool underneath screamed again. Once the two men were gone, I made my way to the other side of the scissor lift. A man, a large one by the size of his legs, was halfway under the vehicle, working away. I stood between his legs waiting for the tool to die down. As soon as it did, I tucked the .45 into my waistband, grabbed his pants legs just below the knee, and heaved him out from underneath the car.

  "What the hell?"

  The man in the navy blue coveralls with the confused look on his face was covered in tattoos, about six foot four, and as solid as me. At that size, I wondered how he got the name Mouse.

  He'd be more dangerous on his feet, so when he planted his hands on the floor to push himself up, I stomped my boot into his ribs sending him back to the oil-stained concrete floor. I jerked my weapon out of my waistband and centered it at his chest to keep him on the ground.

  I've thrust handguns into more faces then I can count, and I've seen a variety of reactions. Some cry or start speaking incoherently. Others drop to their knees and start praying like God gives a damn. Some faint. One attorney in Queens shit himself right there in the lobby of his law office. I'd seen all kinds of expressions, but the calm look on Mouse's face was a rarity. He wasn't rattled. He almost seemed comfortable staring down the barrel of the .45, as if it were nothing more than a tattoo gun.

  "Who the fuck are you?" he said.

  "That's not important. Where can I find Alfie O'Bannon?"

  He wiped his dirty hands down the sides of his coveralls, leaving dark streaks on his thighs.

  "You stepped in it deep, friend," he said, looking me in the eyes. "You know what's gonna happen to you for coming in here like this?"

  "Where's O'Bannon?"

  "I'm not telling you anything."

  Mouse lurched for something underneath the car, maybe the wrench or some other tool, but I drove my two-inch boot heel into his stomach. He rolled onto his side clutching his gut. Then, mustering whatever resilience my size twelve hadn't driven out of him, he tried to get up. He was almost to his knees when I clocked his jaw with the butt of my .45. He went back down, his head bouncing off the concrete floor. His eyes fluttered shut, and a moment later he was out.

  When he came to he groaned, tried to get up again, and then realized his new predicament. A man that size makes a lot of noise.

  I pressed the button on the yellow controller in my hand and a high-pitched hum cut through his screams as the scissor lift, still supporting the pristine Mercedes, inched closer to his face.

  "How much you think this car weighs, Mouse?"

  He instinctively turned his head as the bottom of the lift approached the tip of his nose. I pressed the red button, bringing the yellow lift to a stop against his cheekbone.

  He screamed again, but it was muffled this time on account of the hyperventilating.

  "Get it off!" His legs kicked wildly, like an insect on its back.

  "I'll raise it when you tell me where O'Bannon is."

  "At his place on Dartmouth." He struggled to breathe. "Busted Knuckle."

  "Thanks for the information, Mouse." I tossed the scissor lift control box through the Mercedes's open driver window.

  "I'll be back in a minute."

  "I told you where he is. Get this off of me."

  I left Mouse underneath two tons of fine German craftsmanship, walked to the front garage door, and raised it. A minute later I was backing my Jeep into the center of the garage. A minute after that, I was hauling Lucky Walsh's now-stiff corpse out of the back of my Jeep and across the shop's concrete floor. The slick tarp made it easy to drag.

  I slid it into the office and rolled it into the corner next to the television. I had wrapped it tight, and now it looked like a shiny, blue cocoon.

  Mouse's legs were still kicking when I returned to the Mercedes. The scissor lift had him pinned tight, but he was sweating like a waterfall, and if he got slick enough, he might be able to wriggle free. I'd be long gone by then.

  "Get it off!" he yelled.

  "I can't have you gunning me down on my way out, so you'll have to wait. Scream loud enough and someone's bound to hear you."

  I was halfway to my Jeep when I turned back.

  "Oh, and Mouse? There's a dead body in your office. If O'Bannon's not where you said he is, I'm coming back here, and I'll stack you next to it."

  I climbed into my SUV and rolled out onto Hathorn Street. Time to go see Alfie O'Bannon.

  6

  False Alarm at the Busted Knuckle

  I was in the US Army's Military Intelligence Corps for twenty years. When I retired, I got a fancy plaque and a letter signed by the president. One of my core responsibilities in MI was gathering human intelligence, or HUMIT if you want to sound smart. A HUMIT information gathering session has five phases: planning and preparation, approach, questioning, termination, and reporting. I didn't have time for all that with Alfie O'Bannon. I planned to skip right to questioning. According to Mouse, O'Bannon was at the Busted Knuckle on Dartmouth. That's only a mile or so away.

  Finding O'Bannon was one thing, but getting the information I wanted was going to be something entirely different. Mr. Fish said O'Bannon was an old mobster, and old mobsters are tough to crack. They just don't give a shit.

  The Busted Knuckle was a greasy-spoon diner built in the Art Deco style. Two large windows flanked the front doors, which were outlined with thick metal trim. The door handles were shaped like saucers. I stepped inside and the smell of sausage hit me in the face. I hadn't been hungry when I walked in, but now I wasn't so sure.

  Tables with green tops and silver edging lined the right wall, which was dotted with black and white photographs hung at irregular intervals. A counter about thirty feet long was on the left, with the kitchen behind it. This place hadn't changed since the 1930s and had an unintentional trendy vibe. It probably attracted more hipsters than mafiosos, but that was likely due to the gentrification of the neighborhood, not a formal business plan.

  I took a stool at the end of the counter where it turned ninety degrees into left the wall. From my seat, I not only had a clear view of the back of the place, but I could still keep an eye on the front door. If Mouse got free from the scissor lift, he might take it upon himself to call his boss, or even barge through the doors of the Busted Knuckle looking to stop me from doing whatever it was he thought I was here to do. If that became a reality, I wanted to see him coming.

  An older man wearing a stained white apron approached and asked if I wanted a menu.

  "Just a coffee," I said.

  A moment later, I was sipping the strongest coffee I'd ever had. I kept the chipped ceramic mug close to my face and looked the joint up and down. There were maybe thirty people having breakfast. It didn't take long to pick O'Bannon out of the crowd. He sat in the back of the restaurant, away from the other customers. It wasn't his seating choice that gave him away. It was the two bodyguards sitting next to him. Both outweighed me by at least fifty pounds. They looked like boxers who were past their prime. A bit out of shape, but still capable of delivering some serious damage if they had to.

  I waved the man in the apron over and asked where I'd find the bathroom. He pointed his metal spatula toward the rear of the restaurant. Setting the mug back on the counter, I stood up and walked toward O'Bannon. I manufactured an impromptu limp as I moved down the bar. The limp allowed me to move slower than someone usually would, giving me ample time to survey the back of the place.

  O'Bannon's private dining area looked like a place you'd rent out for large parties. His table was the only one back there, so no one would make the mistake of grabbing a nearby seat. Behind O'Bannon and his men was a door that led out the back. To the right of the door was a waist-high stand stacked with glassware. Next to that was a tall garbage can, and above that was a fire alarm.

  The bodyguards clued in on me when I got within thirty feet of O'Bannon. I only got a glimpse of th
e old man. I could tell he was thin and frail, even though his black jacket was zipped halfway up his chest. His white hair was neatly combed, and he wore thick, black-rimmed glasses that made him look like a record producer. His protection detail didn't stand up, but their eyes cut through me, a warning that I was approaching no-man's-land. Had I kept coming, one of them would have intercepted me, but I wasn't going to get that close. Not yet.

  They watched as I limped closer, but then I turned and hobbled into the men's room. I waited for a few minutes inside the bathroom and then stepped back out into the restaurant. A young man, maybe twenty years old, blew past me carrying two black garbage bags. He stepped past O'Bannon, who paid him no attention, and went out the back door. Just as I made it back to my stool, the young man was returning through the door empty-handed.

  I choked down the rest of the coffee, dropped a five-dollar bill on the bar, and left. A block later, I dropped the limp and returned to my Jeep.

  I grabbed my .45 from underneath the driver's seat and screwed on the suppressor. I hoped I didn't have to use it, but a suppressed weapon creates a vivid psychological effect. It says, "I'm prepared to shoot you and I've thought ahead."

  I slipped it inside my coat and tucked it under my left armpit. Then I locked up my Jeep and took an alley to the rear of the restaurant.

  It wasn't going to take some sophisticated scheme to get to O'Bannon. His security was a joke. There were no cameras in the restaurant and he was sitting out in the open, directly in front of what I hoped was an unlocked door. His bodyguards looked intimidating, but that's what mob bodyguards do, look intimidating. When the guns come out, they're usually not much help.

  Old-school mobsters like O'Bannon rely on their reputation to keep threats away. It's likely everyone in that restaurant, hell, maybe everyone in the neighborhood, knew who he was and what he does. No one in their right mind would touch him.