Cutting Loose, page 17
He went through the first pile slowly, and found little of interest. There were contracts, bills, insurance policies, lists of investments, and the like―all of them the normal documents of a normal life, and all in the name of Appelbaum. The second pile consisted of letters and postcards that he must have considered of interest, some of them from celebrities he either represented or knew socially. After an hour Wetherspoon turned to what remained, the undated papers that fell into no neat category, and worked his way through them patiently. He stopped at seven o’clock to cook a rib eye steak, fried potatoes and peas, then went back to work. He found nothing, and started again with the first pile. By eleven he called a halt, cursing. Leave it, he told himself. Try again tomorrow. Have a nightcap. Get some sleep.
He came awake in the night as though a door had been slammed. Was he nuts? Was it possible? Deeply asleep, he had seen in his mind’s eye a postcard addressed to Sim Appelbaum. The message started with the words ‘Dear Sol’―not ‘Sim’―and it was signed ‘C’. Appelbaum was never called ‘Sol’. He remembered noting the discrepancy, without registering its significance. With a sense of disbelief, he jumped out of bed, turned on the light, and went to his dining room, pausing for a moment by the table as he realized It must have been the documentary on TV a couple of weeks before that had opened a window in his brain. The postcard was from ‘C’ to ‘Sol.’ Either he was crazier than a rat or the two in the postcard were Carey Astaire and Sol Monckton.
“Be cool,” he said aloud. “No way.”
Was it possible? Perhaps Astaire, by mistake, had used Appelbaum’s real name. He tried to remember what Monckton looked like, but nothing emerged except an image of a thin, mild-looking person. He knew that Monckton had never been in prison, and little was known about him. The documentary had said his fingerprints were not on file. There were few photos of him other than those taken from bank videos. There were drawings made from witnesses’ descriptions but they lacked precision. Appelbaum himself looked different than the images he remembered from that program; the nose was narrower and the eyes had, in some way, another cast to them. He was dying, though, and the flesh was falling away; was that revealing an earlier, slimmer appearance? In the morning, he would have to search video stores for one of the documentaries about them: it was a famous case. One terrorist was known to be dead but the other two, incredibly, had escaped detection for thirteen years. The three of them had been dubbed the Delaney Three. It was an embarrassment for the FBI, and had led to the early retirement of the lead investigator. Wetherspoon recalled him from the footage in the documentary, shot back in 1970 after the robbery in Medina, as a balding, overweight guy with eyeglasses. The FBI brass, looking for a scapegoat, had picked him.
Sleep was impossible after that. His thoughts jumped in a hundred directions. How could he use it? If he messed with the Texas Rangers, he was risking trouble, but there was a possibility they did not yet know who Applelbaum was; he would surely not be walking around at liberty if they knew his identity. The trick was to convert Monckton into hard cash, in the form of the reward money, but Wetherspoon knew the Rangers would bigfoot him if they could, or arrest him for obstruction of justice. Carey Astaire, though, was another matter. If Monckton were to lead him to Astaire, the reward money, and the publicity―even, perhaps, a piece of any film rights―would set him up for life. If he got to her first, no one would bigfoot him. He would be a part of the story.
When Touchette rang the bell at nine o’clock, Wetherspoon opened the door fast.
“Touchette, you know where to buy porn videos. What about the straight stuff, regular shit?”
Touchette cleared his throat. “Yeah, few places round abouts.”
“Let’s go.”
On the road, Touchette nearly rear-ended a citizen when Wetherspoon explained his theory.
“Whu―sir, you on something.”
“As chance would have it, I’m not.”
Eventually they found a VHS on the case, and later sat in Wetherspoon’s living room watching it.
“That’s Appelbaum right there? Really? Done that heavy shit? Guy we know seems like an easy dude, never no nothing like that.”
“He’s on the run. Has to remake himself.”
“Uh huh.”
“Could be he’s changed as a person, too.”
“Been cut, sir. Cos the face ain’t the same.”
“I know.”
“Not just heavy shit, sir, this tricky shit. Two smart people for sure. College types. Not lowlifes with no game-plan.”
“I hear you.” He pressed ‘pause’ on an image of Monckton’s face that had been taken from his driving license.
“That’s a few years old.”
“Guy’s dying, don’t look like that no more.”
“Very true. But let’s assume, for the sake of argument, he’s Appelbaum.”
“Okay. Then question is, how you turn a dying man into folding money. And, I gotta say, we’d be screwing with the Texas fucking Rangers.”
“The Rangers don’t know who he is.”
“We don’t know that. Could be they on his ass to lead them to the chick.”
“A dying man won’t lead them anywhere. They know that. He’ll be getting ready for the big sayonara.”
“We cain’t leverage Appelbaum. He’d know anything we tried to pull, and the Rangers’d say, we knew all along who he was.”
“That’s right. And give us a bad time for getting ourselves in their way.”
“So payday means that babe Carey Astaire.”
“I believe it does.”
Touchette sighed. “So, only way it works is, we grab Appelbaum, tell him―give up Astaire.”
“Right.”
“Sir, that’s a roll of the dice like nothing we ever done before.”
“For sure.”
“Uh huh. So―you got him, where you take him?”
“I have a place in mind. Small spread laying empty right now, owned by a pal of mine.”
“Got it all sketched out.”
“I have some thoughts, sure.”
“Emmett Capps rip chunks off you, sir, you mess with that ole gorilla.”
“Well, maybe it won’t come to that.”
“So, where we grab him?”
“At Jed’s place.”
“Jed there plays country shit?”
“That’s right.”
“Uh huh. Yeah, I can see that. Love that ad, sir. Gal on horseback. Jed there crooning away.”
“Appelbaum’s his agent. Easy peasy.”
“But what about Appelbaum? He’d be, kinda, an embarrassment, hanging round after we find out where Astaire is.”
“He’d have to go.”
“Uh huh.”
“No choice.”
“Yeah. Okay. Makes sense. But look―we’ll need a story to splain how we got to Astaire.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Uh huh. Make it good, sir. When this going down?”
“Fast.”
NINE
Gil Kramer leaned back with a stunned look. The pre-op photo of Sol Monckton lay on his desk. Jack ‘Moose’ Mossman and Emmett sat opposite him.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” said Moose.
“This is . . .”
“Right.”
Mack Travis put his head round the door.
“Yeah,” said Kramer. “Come on in.”
“What’s up?”
Kramer pointed at the photo. “Appelbaum is Sol Monckton.”
Travis looked at the photo and went pale. “My God.”
“You two know each other,” said Kramer, nodding at Moose.
“Moose, Jesus, how are you?”
“I’m okay.”
“Moose got this picture in Belize. This Almanzar guy did the work on him.”
“Right.”
Kramer and Travis were hypnotized by the photo.
“How did you work it, Moose?” said Travis.
Moose had been a homicide detective with state police until two years before. Emmett had first met him when they were both police officers in San Antonio. Later, they worked together on a couple of cases after Emmett joined the Rangers. During an investigation into a drug cartel led by Gila Estrada, Moose was shot in an ambush, and his right lung sustained damage. The recovery took several months, but eventually he returned to the job. Then, one day, he decided that enough was enough, and, to everyone’s amazement, resigned. If there was ever a cop who would never pull the plug, it was Moose. Perhaps the shooting had given him another perspective. He became a private investigator and had the contacts and experience to make a living. When Emmett needed someone to go to Belize off the record, he knew Moose would be a good choice. Kramer gave his permission for a covert operation, using funds from a camouflaged source, and Moose boarded a plane. Nothing had been put on paper; the operation was deniable.
“Ex-con working for Almanzar gave it up―with a little persuasion. He tried to get cute, but not cute enough.”
“Great work, Moose,” said Kramer.
“So,” said Emmett. “What about Astaire? Can we get to her?”
Kramer laughed with disbelief. “Carey Astaire? Dear God. The Delaney Three . . .”
“It’s possible they’re still in touch. Thing is, Appelbaum is dying of cancer.”
“Oh boy,” said Kramer. “How long’s he got?”
“Not long by the look of him. We’re on his tail. He makes regular visits to the, uh, L. R. Jackson Cancer Center in Nashville. His weight is way down. It’s real.”
“Please tell me he’s under surveillance.”
“He’s under surveillance.”
“Okay.”
“Tennessee Rangers in Nashville are on it.”
“So, Emmett, how do we get to Astaire?”
“He’ll never give her up. Never. The only way, seeing our time is limited, is if we find something in his office or his apartment. We need to raid both, as soon as possible.”
“Sure. Guys, something this big, we need to tell Austin.”
“Gil,” said Emmett, “if this gets out, the FBI will be all over it. They’ll grab it. This is ours. But we can only follow this up in Nashville with cooperation from the Tennessee Rangers.”
“You’re right. I’ll make a call. And, yeah, sure―it’s need-to-know till we drop the net. But I need to call Marvin Jacks. He has to know. Emmett, soon as I square it away with our colleagues there in Tennessee, I want you and Mack in Nashville to lead on this operation. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“We need him in custody before he dies. Dead, it’s not a win.”
“Right.”
“We can continue whatever medical treatment he’s getting. That’s not a problem. Guys, get moving.”
By mid-afternoon, Emmett and Travis were in the air.
Jimmy Chacon, a criminal since his teens, had been convicted of the murder of a drug dealer in 1971, but the Texas penal system, overloaded and struggling, its jails packed, was forced to release convicts early. Though serving a life sentence, he found himself, to his astonishment, a free man after a mere seven years. Drinking in a bar one night, he met another ex-convict who told him he was working for a mortician. After a few drinks, the guy started to talk about the job.
“Yeah, you gotta remove pacemakers.”
“Why?”
“They can explode if it’s a cremation.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Nope. Plus, artificial joints. They can melt, and that could be kind of a mess. So, yeah.”
“So you have to remove those, too?”
“Absolutely.”
“Man, that’s some job.”
“What are you gonna do? Ex-con? Unemployable? I was lucky to get that gig.”
“Sure.”
A month later, Chacon, dressed in a suit and tie, answered an advertisement for a funeral operative. He was hired to do general work and soon asked his employer how he could gain a qualification as an assistant mortician. His employer, a Mr. Cruxley, suggested a course of classes for which Cruxley received tax relief. He passed the exams, and was promoted to the back-room work. Those aspects of the job that might repel others meant nothing to him.
He had a reputation from before his conviction as an expert at breaking and entering, and he began to drift back into that world, and had a couple of good paydays before Touchette called him and suggested they meet. The job proved easy and Wetherspoon paid well.
On a Friday evening shortly after, he saw two girls in a bar and recognized one of them as a croupiѐre named Adele. He moved next to her and said, “Adele, right? You won’t remember―”
“Sure I do. Jimmy. And, uh, this is Lois.”
“Hi, Lois.”
“Hi.”
The bar was crowded, and a man in a ball cap and v-neck shirt put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Hey, sport, lemme just―Al, a pint of Guinness.”
“Be with you.”
“Sorry, pal,” he said to Chacon. ”Everyone and his dog’s here this evening.”
“That’s okay.”
“Did the Astros clinch it?” he said, nodding at the TV.
“Yeah,” said Chacon.
“Hey, pretty sure I’ve seen you some other time.”
“Could be.”
“Name’s Lee.”
“Jimmy.”
“Yeah, Jimmy. Maybe it was with Delroy.”
“Delroy?”
“Delroy Touchette.”
“Oh man, sure, Touchette.”
Adele and Lois moved on, and Chacon and Lee kept talking. If Lee knew Touchette, that meant he was in that life, and soon enough they were discussing jobs they had heard of recently. After a few drinks, Lee told him he had talked with a retired jeweler at a show where skilled artisans showed their work. If the jeweler now worked from home, that was where his pieces would be kept.
Chacon nodded.
“Fine work, high-end stuff―I know someone who gives a good mark-up for top work.”
“Interesting.”
“I can get in most cribs, but this guy―I drove past his place, he has signs saying ‘Reiver-Mathis protection.’ That’s like, a tough proposition.”
“Not so much,” said Chacon.
“Yeah?”
“Not easy, but not impossible. Not by a long shot.”
“You know their systems?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“That could be a score.”
“Uh huh.”
They finished the night in a place that kept late hours, swapping stories and listening to a jazz trio. Behind his smiles, Chacon was considering warily the possibility of their working together.
“Noah,” said Monckton, surprised, as the door opened.
“Hi, Sim. Yeah, come on in.”
Monckton walked into Mead’s living room and was surprised to see Touchette pouring himself a shot of whiskey at the sideboard.
“Fix you one?” said Touchette.
“I’m okay,” said Monckton. “So . . . Where’s Jed?”
“Yeah,” said Wetherspoon. “A little late, I guess.”
“Uh huh. Noah, it’s been a while.”
“True. I’ve gotta say, Sim, the way you’ve handled Jed’s comeback, it’s flawless.”
“Thanks.”
“I love country music. But I’d always pegged you as a classical guy.”
“I like both.”
“And you saw something in Jed.”
“That’s right.”
“So now he’s doing okay.”
“I keep wondering,” said Monckton.
“How come?”
“Something in his pupils of late.”
Wetherspoon raised his eyebrows. “Are you kidding me?”
“I’ve been in the business a while, Noah.”
“Man, that’s upsetting.”
“When there’s a weakness in a person, likely there’ll be a guy to make a dollar off it.”
“Ain’t it the truth.”
“Let’s hope it works out. So . . . did Jed call to say he’d be late?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So, is this a social call, Noah?”
“No, uh, it isn’t. Tell me, did you see anyone outside?”
“Like who?”
“We been here a half hour already, so maybe we got here before anyone else.”
“Possible.”
“I was thinking maybe there was someone on your tail.”
Monckton looked at Wetherspoon without expression, waiting.
“Yeah, guys out there. Just me guessing.”
“Guys such as who?”
“Texas Rangers.”
Monckton put his briefcase down. “What is this?”
“Yeah, Rangers. Following your ass.”
“You’re dreaming. Me?”
“I get tripped up with the names. Is it Sim? Is it Sol? Is it Simsol? Let’s make it easy, say Monckton.”
Touchette snickered.
Monckton was silent for a moment, considering, then he walked to the net curtains and looked down. He took his time, then said, “Yes, I see them.”
“I gotta say, you do the Jew guy routine real well.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re cool, I’ll give you that.”
“Guy don’t miss a beat,” said Touchette.
Monckton smiled, turning from the window to look at them. His eyes were calm.
“Guy is amused,” said Touchette. “In your position, Mr. Sol, I’d be in need of clean shorts.”
“Planning is everything, Noah. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“For sure.”
“Those ducks they keep talking about. The ones that need to be in a row.”
“That’s where they are.”
“Rangers out there. You in here.”
“That’s the situation. And I’m guessing you know they’re on your tail. Ain’t that right?””
“Sure.”
“So, Sol, you’re here to say so long to Jed?”
“Tie up loose ends, since I’ll be out of the business pretty soon. Fix him up with another agent.”
“Right. I gotta say, you’re not looking too good and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
“Uh huh. Yes, one look will tell you.”
