The Resurrection Of Charlie McQueen

The first thing Charlie McQueen did after waking up in the morning, was to listen. He listened carefully and silently for a good couple of minutes. He knew his house and could pretty much identify even a slight squeak and where it came from. Satisfied that no-one else was in the house he pulled himself up and shifted his feet onto the floor. He then took the H&K automatic from the night table and left the bedroom.

Charlie walked through the house quietly, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. He checked both doors and all the windows. Truth be told he felt a little paranoid about this morning ritual. But he had learned the hard way that better safe than sorry was the only way people like him were allowed to move through life.

Charlie looked out the back window of his kitchen which gave him a classic view of the Rockland harbour, littered with a combination of fishing boats and pleasure craft. The sea was calm today as it was on most days in the summer. The sun was already fairly high in the sky. Charlie was a nighthawk and seldom got to sleep before 3 AM. But that was the nature of the beast Charlie rode.

Charlie made himself a coffee and walked outside. The ocean air was salty and warm. He sat down at the table and just stared out at the sea. It had always had an effect on him that was both calming and invigorating at the same time. Charlie wondered about how that worked, but not for very long.
He finished his coffee and headed in to shower and get dressed. He was meeting up with his guy, Ron Rowan, for lunch at the Home Kitchen Cafe, a restaurant he owned on Main Street, which was really Highway 1 that ran up and down the eastern seaboard.

Ron Rowan was sitting at a table under an umbrella in front of the Home Kitchen with a half empty coffee cup in front of him and an iPad propped up beside it. Ron was a large man, who looked just like what he once was, which was a defensive guard for the Green Bay Packers. Eight full seasons which was a lifetime and a half for a lineman. But Ron was smart with money, never married and was able to move comfortably to Rockland, buy a Domino’s pizza franchise and set himself up in the personal investigation business with a degree he earned through the course of his last two off seasons. Charlie McQueen was his client, and his best friend.

Charlie pulled up and parked his Toyota 4 Runner. A moment later he plopped himself down on a chair across from Ron. A waitress poked her head out the door and Charlie just pointed at Ron’s coffee cup.

“Beautiful day.” Ron said.

“Yessiree. So what’s goin’ on in sleepy old Rockland, my friend?”

“Actually,” Ron said, “There is something.” With that he turned his IPad to show Charlie the screen. “You recognize this piece of work?” Charlie was looking at a large man in a dark suit, obviously Italian and slightly menacing looking.

“No, who is he?”

“Dunno. But he was looking for a guy named Jack Kingston. That name ring a bell?”

The waitress brought Charlie his coffee, with cream and sugar added. As the waitress walked away Charlie took another look at the image on the Ipad. “Never seen him before. Did you talk to him much?”

“Yeah. A bit. Wasn’t the friendliest guy I ever met. I told him there was nobody in Rockland by that name, cause I knew everybody and would know that.”

“Has he left town yet?”

“Yeah, about an hour ago. So this Jack Kingston. You know anything about him?”

Charlie leaned back and took a deep breath. “No I can’t say as I do.”
Ron smiled the rubbed his right eye a bit. It watered a lot. Probably, he thought, from too many hard jolts over the NFL years. He stared at Charlie who was still looking at the man on the Ipad screen.

“Your business, Charlie, is the only thing in this town that would attract someone like that. New York City. Thousand dollar suit. Big gas guzzling Lincoln. The whole mobster costume.”

“But you don’t know that for sure, now do you?” Charlie pushed the Ipad back over to Ron’s side of the table.

“The only reason I ask is a cliche…you know, knowledge is power. If I have a little of one, I have a lot of the other, and since part of my job is protecting you, well you can see how that all fits together.”

Charlie leaned back in his chair. “OK. Let’s suppose that mook was looking for me. What then? You gonna take him out in your boat and dump him in the bay? They’ll just send another guy. But like you said, he left town. So the point of you knowing any more than you already do about me is kind of moot.”

Ron cracked a smile. “You’re a clever guy, Charlie McQueen. I do admire that quality. But it still leaves me at a loss. What did this guy want?”

“Oh he didn’t want anything other than confirmation of my location. Then they would send a crew and they would turn this town inside out trying to find me.”

Junie the waitress appeared with their breakfast. They had the same thing every day so there was no real need to take an order. She promised to be back with more coffee and slipped inside the restaurant. Charlie took a bite of his bacon. Then he took another deep breath. “Well, I guess I really do owe you an explanation. You’re not in a hurry, are you?”

“No Charlie, I’ve got all fuckin’ day.”

“First of all, Charlie said. We probably have to close down the office and pack everything up. We need to do it today or tomorrow at the latest. If they sent one guy they’ll send another and sooner or later they’ll hone in on me.”

Ron quietly ate his breakfast. He knew Charlie well enough to know that he never said anything he didn’t mean. Charlie was a careful man. Like most gamblers he thought a lot before he made a move. “Not a problem” Ron said. “I’ll call the whiz kids and they’ll take everything down.”

“Good.” Charlie said. “OK. So you want to know who I really am. Sometimes I wonder about that myself. Well, I really am Charlie McQueen. But I was also that Jack Kingston guy. A few years back.”

“I was twenty three. I had just earned a Masters Degree in applied mathematics at MIT and headed to New York to make my fortune. With the kind of math skills I had, both intuitively and educationally, I could have done all kinds of things. But I used those skills all through my time at MIT to bet on pro sports. I studied all the stats, checked out all the injuries, read all the player profiles, built probability matches for every possible team scenario in both the NBA and the NFL. I got to New York with a couple hundred grand in a savings account, my tuition paid off and a desire to open a sports book there.

“At MIT, I roomed with a guy named Jamie Glass, who was a math nerd like me. Only his obsession was with the market. He graduated a year before me and got a job with a elite equities firm in Manhattan. When I got there, we became roomies again.”

Charlie paused to wolf down some of his eggs and toast. Ron was watching him with keen interest. As he listened to the story, it occurred to him how little about his friend and client he actually knew. Some investigator he turned out to be.

After a sip of coffee, Charlie continued. “Jamie didn’t really have much interest in sports betting, and he was a trust fund kid so he didn’t really have to work at all, which gave him a pretty aggressive attitude when it came to the market. We lived in a beautiful brownstone close to Central Park that his parents gave him as a graduation gift. There was enough room there for me to set up shop in the spare bedroom. Jamie worked downtown and between work and his nightlife, we hardly ever saw each other.

I put together a small setup and spent my days doing research and my nights monitoring games. In the afternoons I would take a basketball down to the park at the end of the block and shoot hoops for some exercise and fresh air.

This is where I met LaMarr Washington. LaMarr was about 20 years old. And since he was in the park almost every day I went there, we started to play a little one on one. Slowly, over the course of the summer we became friends. He found out what I did and I found out a bit about him. His dad was a semi-famous Jazz musician and his mom was a doctor.”

Ron tapped on the window and held up his coffee cup. A moment later Junie the waitress came out with a pot of coffee and some little containers of cream. She fill the cups and left.

Ron said. “This LaMarr guy. Sounds like he was black.”

“Yeah he was. And he was pretty cool. He dropped out of Columbia in after two years and started dealing weed. He was an ounce dealer. But he did most of his selling down in the towers, blissfully aware that the white guys down there had a lot of money. So he knew his way around pretty well. I asked him how a black kid was able to move around down there without attracting a lot of attention from the local constabulary. He said it was as easy as just riding a bike and carrying his weed in a courier pouch. Those motherfuckers are completely invisible down there, he told me. And he was right. Bike couriers are so ubiquitous that nobody sees them.”

Charlie paused and looked out at the bay across the street. Then he snapped back into story-telling mode.

“ LaMarr and I had been talking about sports betting and he indicated to me that he could put me onto a bar that ran a small sports book that catered to a lot of Wall Street types who couldn’t stop gambling even after work.

That night we headed downtown the the bar in question. LaMarr went over and talked to the bartender for a few seconds, then motioned for me to follow him up the back stairs. This is where I met Francesco Tucci. Francesco wanted to be called Frank. Guess he thought that made him more acceptable to his WASPY clientele. But make no mistake, Frank was pure guinea from his slicked back hair to his monogrammed cufflinks to the huge diamond ring on his pinkie finger. He walked and talked the part like he was born to it. And though he would never be one of them, he understood his customers pretty well. They loved to play the long-shots in the evening like they did all day at work. He made most of his money on the wide spreads, and he would make it a couple grand at a time.

“The bar itself was a happening place, packed every night. But the real money came from the gambling jones that all these Wall streeters had in their veins. They had money to burn and they loved to burn it.

“After LaMarr introduced us, I started making bets. Nothing too big a c-note here and there. Then over the course of the next couple of months I stated upping it. On a good night I could take down at least five grand.

“After couple weeks or so of this kind of action, Frank called me up to his office. He wanted to know who the hell I really was and how I ended up sitting at the bar with a bunch of blue bloods and taking so much of his money. I made up some cock and bull story about always being lucky when it came football and hoops. Mostly because I was a rabid fan and read the sports pages a lot. I’m pretty sure he didn’t buy it. But he also didn’t kick me out on my ass. After a while we kinda bonded. I think he just wanted to keep his eye on me. But I played along. One day we were taking about online gambling and I made the mistake of tipping my hand, and telling him, you know, theoretically, that I could set up his book on line and that he could takes bets from anywhere, not just the local neighbourhood or the bar patrons.

“Well that’s all I had to say. This guy was more aggressive than a mongoose in a cobra pit and it wasn’t too long before I was setting up a system for him and we were partners. Badda boom badda bing.”

Charlie and Ron finished up their breakfast and got up. They crossed Highway One and walked together down to one of the piers that jutted out into the harbour. The sky above them was cloudless and the sun was warm, as they walked the length of the pier. They eventually came to 30 foot cruiser tied to the end of the pier. They climbed on board and at down on the rear deck.
Charlie produced a joint and lit it up taking a deep toke. He passed the joint to Ron, who took a hit also and passed it back.

“You know, I am going to miss this place. I mean it’s a sleepy little burg on the north end of nowhere. But I really got to like it here.”

“What makes you so sure you have to go?”

“Call it instinct. These guys are predators and I have something that belongs to one of them.”

“So why don’t you finish the story,” Ron said, “And maybe, we can figure out a way around this that doesn’t involve you having to disappear.”

Charlie took another toke on the joint then offered it to Ron, who declined. He didn’t want to be stoned for this.

“So…I set up a system for Frank Tucci. LaMarr got one of his friends to manage all the hardware and programming and we found another geek from MIT to teach LaMarr how to run the whole show. It only took about a month to iron out all the kinks and get it all up and running. After that it was a license to print money. Frank just sat in his office drinking really good scotch, watching sports and making mucho dinero. I didn’t come around to the bar much after that. Except to pick up my cut, all in cash, which I stashed in an oversized safe deposit box at Citibank.

“One day, it was a Saturday, Frank called me and insisted that I come down that afternoon. He wanted to introduce me to someone. I got to the bar at around three. There was nobody around. All the patrons were sitting in their million dollar apartments watching college football and hoops. When I arrived, Frank was sitting at one of the tables with an old guy. There were two other guys sitting at the bar, nursing beers. Frank got up and introduced the old guy as his father Aldo. Aldo was small but tough looking. He nodded to me without bothering to shake hands. I sat down at the table. Frank got busy explaining how I was the guy who took the whole sports book on line and that his profits had basically quadrupled over the three months that they had been in business. He made me sound like I was some sort of fucking genius. Then the old man asked me if I thought I might like to do the same thing for some people he knew out in New Rochelle.

“About ten alarms went off in my head when he asked me that. It felt like I was walking into the lion’s den. We talked about it a bit more and I told him that I would have to think about it because I had a number of projects going on and needed to figure out if I would have time.

“They seemed to be OK with that. So I got my ass out of there. I hung around for a while at a Starbucks across the street until I saw the old man and his two goons leave and get into their car. Then I went back. Frank was in his office. I was really pissed and let him know it. It was a pretty substantial argument, which fortunately for me didn’t get violent. But one of the things that became clear to me was that Frank was hung up about proving his worth to his father. I didn’t really need any of this Freudian crap. All I wanted to do was cut ties and get free.

“Besides, I had already set up my own system at the house and was pulling in a low to mid five figures every week. This is a country full of stupid gamblers, Ron. I didn’t need the mafia grief.”

“A lot of people in this country think they can buy just about anything they want.” Ron said.

“Tell me about it. Fortunately none of the Italians really knew where I lived, and I was careful not to tell anyone. It was always cash transactions, so I never even really needed a bank account, just a box. All Frank had was the number of a burner phone that I used to deal with him. Eventually, after he bugged me about setting up another shop in the burbs, I told him that I was bowing out altogether. I was throwing away a lot of money, but these people are like zombies. All they want to do is pluck the brains out of your head and fry them up.”

“So it sounds like you got away clean. No harm no foul.” Ron got up and went into the galley. He came back with a bottle of Scotch and two glasses.

“Yeah, you would think so and if that was the end of the story, you’d be right. But it’s not the end. Even though I thought it was at the time.”

Ron poured out a couple glasses. He took a sip and so did Charlie.

“So I called it quits. Settled up with Frank. Took my money and headed home. After that it was business as usual for a while. Periodically I would grab a coffee with LaMarr and he would fill me in. The sports book was doing just fine. No hard feelings. In fact, according to him nobody ever mentioned my name.”

“You had to feel pretty good about that.” Ron said as he took a small sip of the scotch.

“Oh yeah, I did. After a month or so I forgot all about it. Met a girl that Jamie introduced me to. She was a creative director at some big ad agency that he met at some party and got to be friends with. She was about four years older than me but didn’t seem to care and neither did I. Her name was Terry Franco, and she was hot. We didn’t see each other a whole lot. She was married to her work, and mostly used me to get laid on the nights when she had enough energy left to get up a good lather. She was bright and sexy and sort of in awe of the fact that I didn’t actually work for anyone. It was all good.

“Then one day, my little burner phone, rang. It was Frank. He wanted to talk to me, in person, about a new opportunity he‘s come up with. He was friendly and polite. I could have just told him to fuck off and left it right there. But that’s what you call the fatal slip. I said OK. I would meet with him but no strings. And no bullshit, and no old mafiosos.”

Charlie stopped and looked out over the water. He shook his head and then finished off the glass of scotch and poured another one.

“Maybe it’s on me for thinking I could do business with people who operate on a whole other level. It’s not their fault. Frank…he was probably raised from birth without any real idea of normal. These are people who live outside the law. Not like most of us. I didn’t have to go back and see him that last time. I could have just begged off, hung up and tossed the phone in the river and gone on with my life.”

“Anyway, I digress. I went down to Wall Street and met with him. First of all he thanked me. Business was booming and he had branched out into college football, baseball and tennis and was investigating European pro soccer. He asked me what I was doing. I told him some bullshit story about probability and statistics which sailed right over his head. So then he starts to talk about another income stream he was developing and that I could maybe help him with. Cocaine. He told me that he had been in touch with a dealer who represented one of the Columbian cartels and that this guy was willing to talk about a pretty sizeable quantity.”

“By sizeable, what did he mean? A kilo or two?”

“More like 20 kilos. This dealer, his name was Felix Sanches, he was asking seventy two thousand a key, and for whatever crazy ass reason, Frank wanted to get him down to sixty. So I’m sitting there and I can’t believe my ears. I ask him what he needs me for. Just find another dealer who’s willing to go sixty grand a key. And he says they already tried that. So then I ask him what I have to do with any of this? And he tells me he thinks I’m the best salesman he knows, and if I can’t get this Felix guy down to sixty, then nobody can and he’ll be happy to pay the seventy-two or whatever I can get him down to. In retrospect, I think he just needed me to over-inflate his importance. These guys are all emotional primates. Stronger, faster, tougher, more controlling. But I’m still not buyin’ it. So he pulls out his last card. Tells me, really quietly, that people that do business with him are hardly ever given the chance to just walk away. I was given that chance and so he figured I owed him some kind of favour.”

Charlie sat down, bent over and rubbed his head a bit. Recounting all of this is obviously painful for him. But Ron said nothing, content to just wait him out. Then after a moment, Charlie started to talk again.

“So I meet up with this Felix guy. It was like something out of a movie. This dude was a total slickster. Wore the best of everything. Shone like a shiny silver dollar in the park where we met. Came with two badass looking dudes who hung back while we walked and talked.

“I gave him the pitch. Asked him how many opportunities did he get to offload twenty keys in one deal. Promised him more orders in the future. The guy was quiet. He listened carefully, while I did all the jabbering. When I was finished, we walked a bit without saying anything. Then all he said was ‘I will split the difference with you. Sixty six. That’s final.’ We shook hands and he walked off with his two cowboys. Sixty-six times twenty is about a million three. So reported I back to Frank. And he thanked me and asked me if I’d like to be there for the exchange. I got a good laugh out of that and told him I lived up to my end and I was done. Later that day, I got an text with a map and a time of 11:00 PM that night. The note just read, ‘If you’re still interested.’ Some guys just never know when the fuckin’ soup is cooked.”

“Something tells me you didn’t walk away when you had the chance.” Ron said, pouring himself another scotch.

“No I didn’t. I went to the meet location, which was some old warehouse out in Brooklyn. I brought my binoculars so I could just watch what was going down from a safe distance. Even from a few hundred yards away I could sense the tension. Then all of a sudden, all hell breaks loose. A ton of shooting and then just like fifteen seconds later, it was dead silent. I thought, holy fuck, they all killed each other. So I drove down and snuck inside. Dead bodies scattered around the two cars. Then I hear a groan. I moved around Frank’s car and saw him propped up against the rear door. He was bleeding from his shoulder and his leg and barely conscious. I tied off his wounds the best I could and then loaded him into his car. I popped the trunk on the Colombians’ car and transferred the coke to my car along with the money that was in Frank’s car. car. I drive my car out the back and parked it there. Then I went back to get Frank. I brought him to a hospital in Brooklyn and took off once they had him on a stretcher. Then I drove back to the warehouse, and put Frank’s car back in there with the five dead guys. I wiped down everything I thought I had touched, and got my ass out of there. I drove to Manhattan and dropped the coke off at Frank’s office. I really didn’t know what the hell else to do with it. But I kept the money. On the way home I called the Brooklyn police with my burner and reported the shooting at the warehouse. Then I drove down to the river and tossed the phone as far as I could. The next day, I packed up my computers, said goodbye to my lady and Jamie and got the fuck out of Dodge.

“I spent the next three days on the road, looking for a place to roost. Listened to the radio a lot but the news stories about the shooting were vague and didn’t mention any names. And finally I ended up here.

“I waited about three months, then Face-timed Lamarr to see how everything was going. He told me that Frank had recovered, but had a badly damaged left leg from the shooting. Lamarr and his buddy moved the sports book to another location, because Frank sold the bar to a couple of other Italian guys and they didn’t want the gambling, just the bar. Mostly Frank just sat around at home, swimming for rehab while they made money for him.

“I asked LaMarr if Frank ever mentioned me. He said no. So I counted that as a plus. He also told me that Frank was pretty miserable, on account of everything going south like it did. He had to deal with the cops about the shootout in Brooklyn, but since there was no coke and no money, it just looked like a blood feud or territorial squabble and Frank did nothing to dissuade them of that notion. Just another bunch of dead criminal types in Brooklyn. And since Frank wasn’t carrying a gun, they decided to not press charges.”

Charlie leaned back in his chair and looked at Ron. “And that’s it right up to two years ago when I got here and set up my sports book.”

Ron scratched his head. “That’s one fuck of a story, Charlie. But it sounds like you got away clean.”’

“I thought so too, Ron. I really did.” Charlie said. “Trouble is, I don’t know what he’s looking for me for. I took his money, but left him ten times that value in coke.”

“You know,” Ron said, “Maybe you don’t have to leave this place after all. Maybe, we should go down to New York and find out just what this is all about. Otherwise, you might never find a place to call home.”

“I don’t know, Ron. I’m a gambler and I really don’t like the odds here.

“You don’t have to deal with him directly. Just show me the way and I’ll take care of it. It’s a fact finding mission is all.”

Charlie got to his feet and started pacing the small deck of the boat. His mind was doing some serious flip flopping, back and forth between believing that Ron might be onto something and quite the opposite — that this was maybe the dumbest move that he could make. Ron was a loyal friend and a team player from way back, and now that he understood the whole stinking mess of it, all he was willing to do was help his friend. That kind of loyalty is hard to find these days.

“So what’s your plan, Ron?” Charlie said. “Not capitulating but genuinely curious.”

“Well, we go find this Frank guy. I talk to him. See what his issues are and how we can resolve them amicably.”

“And If that’s not doable?”

“No harm. No foul. We pack you up and disappear you.”

Charlie took a deep breath. “These people, they’re not the salt of the earth or anything close to it.”

“Eight years in Green Bay, Charlie. Surrounded by all kinds of deviants, many of whom were out to do me serious harm. Not sure a crippled mafia guy even qualifies as a that much of a threat.”

“Not so much him, but the animals he keeps around him.”

“All the same, I’m willing to try and do this for you. If I get you off whatever hook you’re on, I get to keep a friend. If not, we’ll pack you up.”

*************

Frank Tucci, sat by the pool in his backyard in New Rochelle. He had lost a lot of weight when he was in the hospital and then rehabbing his leg and shoulder. But he was putting it back on now. He had just finished doing a couple dozen lengths of his pool and was sitting in a lounge chair. Behind him the house loomed large and modern. No greasy dago shit for Frank. Everything was modern to the point of being cold. But he didn’t care.

His dad had finally passed away and that was a huge weight off his shoulders. It was also a huge jump to his bank account. Several million, some property worth a couple more mill, and a small pile of blue chips stocks. His accountant, Sammy Toppazini took care of it all for him. Settled the estate and took care of all the help Frank needed around his house. All Frank had to do was nothing. The sports book took zero effort on his part, thanks to the two black kids who ran it for him. He was set for life and without his old man around to tell him what a fucking loser her was, he felt pretty good about things in general.

He managed to patch things up with the Colombians who seemed to be happy to be rid of Sanches anyway, returning the coke and deciding that business was a little too high risk for him. Gambling was nice and safe and legal in New York state. It was time for him to think about getting out there and finding a Mrs Tucci and making some baby Tuccis.

But there was that one thing. That thing that was always scratching away in the back of his mind. That fucking Jack Kingston, or whatever he was callin’ himself these days. That malandrine had fucked off with more than a million of his bucks and he wanted that shit back. For whatever reason, he never managed to factor in the simple truth that Jack had saved his life, and that he would probably have bled out in that warehouse before somebody showed up, which might have been never.

Still, it gnawed at him. He had sent a couple of guys he knew out to look for him. All up and down the east coast, because he figured Jack for an easterner. They came up empty, but as Frank well knew, it was easy to be invisible and make big bucks these days. He was just hoping for a lucky break. But it seems like the only lucky break he’d really gotten was when Jack saved his sorry ass after that shootout with the spics.

He thought a lot about letting it go while he was doing his lengths in the pool. Fair trade. Paid a million three to have his ass saved, and right now his ass was worth considerably more than that.

But it was there and it wouldn’t go away. He called off the search once his guy Aldo made it all the way up to Maine, and his other guy, Tony made it as far south as Jacksonville. Maybe he would never find the guy, and he would just have to live with this little scratching in his head. Maybe it would fade as he carried on with his life. At least that’s what he hoped. He took a long sip of his sangria, then got up and slipped into the pool again. Maybe he could swim that motherfucker out of his head.

**************

The drive down from Maine was long and mostly quiet. They got an early start and made it to Boston four hours later, where they stopped for lunch at a Dennys, mostly for the coffee, because by the time they got there Charlie was just starting to wake up and needed a jolt. On the way down Charlie texted LaMarr who sent him back Frank’s address.

The plan was simple. First they would cruise the neighbourhood and get the lay of the land. Then Charlie would drop Ron at the front of the house and then take the car down the block. Ron would knock on the door and if nobody answered, he would go round the back. According to LaMarr, Frank spent a lot of time in and beside his pool, swimming and drinking sangria.

They drove by the house a couple of times and only saw one car in the driveway. But the garage door was closed so they weren’t sure about what was in there. Charlie let Ron out of the car and he walked up the driveway. He peered into the garage. No other cars, just a lot of stuff piled up on one side and a slot for one car on the other. Instead of knocking on the front door, Ron decided to go around the back, as he did, he called Charlie and left the phone open in his front shirt pocket.

It was later in the afternoon and Frank was in his usual place sitting at table table by the pool. The sangria pitcher was nearly empty. Ron approached cautiously.

“Frank Tucci?”

Frank was a bit startled, jerking his head around to see the big man standing about ten feet from him. He was also a little bit drunk. “Who wants to know?

“The name’s Ron Rowan. I’m a friend of Jack Kingston’s.”

“Oh yeah. That little motherfucker.”

“Yeah. We noticed that you sent someone to look for him.”

“North or south? I sent guys both ways.”

“That doesn’t matter. What does matter is why you sent these guys in the first place.”

Ron moved closer and Frank gestured for him to sit. “I’d offer you some Sangria but I drank the whole fucking thing.”

“Obviously.” said Ron, as he pulled up a chair and sat facing Frank.

Frank continued, “I sent some guys to see if they could find him. I know he’s smart enough to build a pretty good wall. Guess that includes you. You look like you could handle yourself in any sort of…altercation.”

“You still haven’t explained why you sent these guys or what you want with Jack. From all I’ve heard he saved your life.”

“So they tell me. I was a bit out of it at the time, so I don’t really know that for sure.”

“So what’s your beef with Jack?”

“He stole some money from me and I want it back.”

“From what I understand he made you a rich man and you got foolish and decided to get into the cocaine business, very much against his advice, and as it turned out, your better judgement. Seems to me all Jack was trying to do was help you out.”

“It’s the principle of the thing…was it Ron?”

“Ron Rowan.”

“That name rings a bell. You look like a pro athlete. You ever play at that level?

“Yeah. Packers. Eight years.”

“Son of a bitch. Right. Defensive lineman. My leg may be fucked up but at least my memory’s intact.”

“I just came by to say that Jack would be willing to meet with you and talk this out.”

“Sure. But only if he’s willing to plop down a million three. Then we can talk all fuckin’ day.”

“You know, after Jack told me the story about you and him, I came away with the feeling that you might not give a shit about the money, but that you were pissed because Jack was leaving. Guys like you, I can’t imagine have a lot of friends. They got guys who work for them, but not many real friends? You considered Jack’s leaving a betrayal. He was a friend and he just left you high and dry when you needed him most.”

Frank said nothing for a while. “Maybe there’s some truth to what you’re sayin. Doesn’t change anything.”

Ron continued. “And maybe you’re just using the money as an excuse to be pissed at Jack when you really should be thinking about what drove him away in the first place.”

“You got it all figured out, don’t ya, Ron Rowan?…fucking Green Bay Packers.”

“Yeah, I think I do. And I also think that this obsession of yours isn’t ever going away, is it?”.

“No…no it’s not. But I suppose you came here to try and talk me out of it.”

“Not at all. I came here to make sure of a couple things. One that you were hopelessly obsessed with punishing Jack, which it very much seems like you are.”

“And two?”

“And two, that you would never get the chance to do it.” With that Ron, reached swiftly behind his back and produced a silenced H&K nine millimeter. Without a second’s hesitation, he fired two shots. One into the centre of Franks chest and other into the centre of his forehead. Frank died quickly and before his brain had a chance to know what was going on. Ron then got up, picked up the two spent shell casings and walked down to the small dock at the end of the lawn. He removed the silencer and the bullet cartridge and tossed everything as far out into the Long Island Sound as he could. He then pulled the phone out of his pocket and summoned Charlie. Charlie was waiting for him as he came up the side of the house and down the driveway. Ron looked around as he got into the car. He saw no one. All busy making money or spending it down in the city, he thought.

“I take it things are settled.” Charlie said

“In a manner of speaking, yeah, they are.” Ron replied.

“You know I never really wanted it to end this way.”

“Nobody ever does. But sometimes, you know, that’s how it’s gotta be.”

“I cant say I’m not relieved.”

“You should be. But the way you told me the story, I didn’t see you as the bad guy here. I didn’t see him that way either. He was just dealing with his demons and the demons were winning.”

“We all have our demons, Ron.”

Ron just chuckled as they drove away. “Yeah, you got that right, Charlie.”

Charlie dropped the Jeep into gear and they headed down the street and back to Rockland.

Fin