The Consultant Page 10

  “What? That's bullshit,” exclaimed Bob incredulously, starting to rise.

  “Sit down, you asshole,” ordered Wayne, drawing a silenced pistol. “Why would Jimmy say that, Bob, if it wasn’t true?”

  “H-how the fuck should I know?” Bob cried, staring in horror at the handgun pointed at his head. “I don’t even know the guy.”

  “Jimmy was quite specific,” Bryan resumed. “He clearly mentioned that it was the dope we fucked up with last weekend and that you called him to cut a deal. Wayne and I were figuring that maybe you had found the coke at Rick’s place and decided to make yourself a bit of extra cash? We’re thinking you might have even whacked Rick to get your hands on the blow?”

  “Wayne, Bryan. Come on,” pleaded Bob, sweat starting to glisten on his forehead. “We’ve been in this together since the beginning. Why would I do something stupid like that for a few hundred thousand? I’m making fine money as it is.”

  “Well, then. Answer my fucking question. Where were you last night, Bob?” enquired Wayne, his tone soft, but deadly. “Prove to us that you weren’t with Jimmy.”

  “Jesus, Wayne. I was here watching television,” Bob cried, now sweating profusely. “This Jimmy asshole is up to something. I never delivered no coke.”

  “Bryan, why don’t you look around a bit,” suggested Wayne, apparently unimpressed thus far with Bob’s arguments. “See if you find anything interesting. I’ll keep an eye on our host here.”

  * * * *

  Still quietly hidden in his elevated hideaway above the warehouse floor, Chris checked the time; 7:45 p.m. The others had been gone for over fifteen minutes now and his Sony Watchman continued to display an empty parking lot.

  He climbed down the racking and hurried to his office in the front section of the building to get his briefcase. Returning only minutes later, he quickly headed for the door of the utilities room. Having learned from experience, he kept a close eye on his miniature T.V. screen while he got to work.

  As long as the door lock did not give him too much trouble, which he did not believe it would, he’d be on his way to a relaxing evening with Sandy by eight o’clock.

  * * * *

  “Why don’t you get Jimmy over here?” insisted Bob, confused, angry and scared. “At least the cocksucker will have to say it to my face that I brought him the goddamn coke.”

  “You said it yourself, Bob. Jimmy doesn’t know you,” Wayne quietly explained. “If that’s the case, why the fuck would he make up a story and tell Bryan that some idiot he doesn’t even know scammed us and sold him some coke? It just doesn’t make any sense, Bob. You tried to screw us and you got caught. It turns out that this biker bastard can be trusted more than one of our own.”

  “Call the fucker,” Bob screamed hysterically. “I didn’t do anything. He’s goddamned lying. Get the fucking scumbag over here.”

  “I’m trying to establish a working relationship with the Aces of Death,” Wayne replied softly. “If I called Jimmy and even suggested that I doubted what he told us, I don’t think he’d appreciate it. I still don’t see why he would tell Bryan that you were there if you weren’t, Bob. It’s that simple.”

  “Hey, Wayne,” Bryan called excitedly as he hurried down the stairs from the second floor. “Look what I found in old Bob’s bedroom closet.”

  He carried a brown leather satchel of a kind familiar to both him and Wayne. To date, the Aces of Death had always delivered payment in such satchels.

  “What’s this, Bob?” asked Wayne with an unpleasant sneer.

  “Th-that’s not mine,” stammered Bob. “I don’t know what that is.”

  “Open it,” Wayne ordered Bryan and the latter complied.

  “You just better pray that this ain’t full of cash, Bob,” Bryan smirked as he pulled open the zipper atop the bag.

  After briefly glancing at its contents, he turned the open satchel upside down, dumping the stacks of bills in a pile on the floor.

  He turned towards Bob with a knowing grin, pausing a few seconds before speaking. “Somebody’s been a very bad boy.”

  “This is a set-up, guys,” Bob pleaded in a quiet voice, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  “I just can’t see how that can be,” replied Wayne, just as quietly.

  “Good-bye, Bob,” he added with finality as he raised the silenced revolver and repeatedly pulled the trigger.

  * * * *

  As he had hoped and expected, the lock to the utilities room had proved to be of little challenge to Chris and, within no time, his tasks were done for the night.

  He left the building and casually strolled to his Pathfinder which he had parked a few blocks away. As he started the engine, he looked at the clock in the dashboard. 7:59 p.m. He smiled as he pulled away from the curb. He had promised Sandy that he'd leave the office by eight.

  Chapter 17 - Thursday, January 30, 1997

  “Boy, do you guys look like hell,” stated Greg, examining Wayne and Bryan as he entered the latter’s office.

  Glancing around the room, he added, “Where’s Bob?”

  “Bob’s no longer part of the organization, Greg,” Bryan grimly informed the accountant. “Bob’s the reason that we look like hell.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked Greg, suddenly feeling queasy. “What’s going on?”

  “Bob’s the one who had the four missing kilos of coke,” explained Wayne in a tired voice. “The idiot tried to screw us and went and sold them to Diamond Jimmy. Jimmy mentioned it to Bryan so we paid Bob a visit last night. He denied everything but we found three hundred thousand dollars stashed in his closet. I guess he hadn’t had time to go to the bank.”

  “Where’s Bob now?” asked Greg sullenly, although he already had somewhat of a clear idea.

  “Up north,” answered Bryan. “Sonovabitch kept us up until three this morning. He was right about digging holes in the frozen ground. It ain’t easy.”

  “Does Matt know about this?” Greg questioned, trying to remain calm.

  “Not yet,” Wayne grunted impatiently. “I’m gonna talk to him later.”

  “Because they were together when they went to Rick’s place,” Greg worriedly pointed out.

  “You think Matt was in on this?” Wayne asked thoughtfully.

  “I’m not saying he was,” replied Greg. “I just know that Bob was ice fishing at Saint-Anne-de-la-Perade over the week-end. He dropped off some of his catch at my place on Sunday night when he came back so, I figure the only time he could have gotten hold of the coke is on Monday.”

  “I’ll talk to Matt,” said Wayne in an angry, quiet tone. “The little bastard better not have anything to do with this.”

  “How are we going to explain Bob’s disappearance?” Greg nervously questioned.

  “Right now, everybody thinks that he’s gone on vacation,” Wayne explained. “I said he called me last night and told me that he had a sudden opportunity to go to Mexico real cheap with a girlfriend.”

  “What are you going to say in two weeks’ time?" persisted Greg, clearly unhappy with this latest development.

  “We’ll deal with that when the time comes,” Wayne exploded with more than a hint of exasperation. “Maybe the stupid fuck will decide to stay in Mexico.”

  Bryan broke in, intent on changing the subject.

  “In the meantime, we have more urgent matters to attend to. I spoke to Diamond Jimmy earlier and Wayne and I are going to do the deal this morning. This is it, Greg. If you thought we made good money so far, you ain’t seen nothing yet. We’ll be coming back today with over 1.5 million goddamn dollars. And this will be the first of many.”

  “Well, that’s some good news,” Greg listlessly muttered, his expression hardly brightening. “I just hope things start improving. These last few weeks have been getting to me. You guys be careful, okay?”

  “Don’t worry,” Wayne confidently responded. “Nothing can go wrong this time. Just wait and see.”

  * * * *

  W
ayne and Bryan hurried across the busy, icy downtown street towards 600 de Maisonneuve West, their thirty pound briefcases not making the task any easier. They bustled into the spacious lobby of the upscale office building and boarded an elevator to the fifteenth floor.

  “You sure you got the address right?” growled Wayne in his usual antagonizing manner.

  “You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” Bryan shot back. “Yeah, I got the address right. You didn’t expect to do this kind of deal in the bathroom at McDonalds, did you?”

  Before the argument could progress any further, they reached their floor and the elevator doors opened.

  Falling silent, they exited and examined the central lobby in search of their destination. To their left were the offices of some actuarial firm. To their right, the floor-to-ceiling oak doors were tastefully set with a discreet brass name plate:

  MURRAY, SOMMERS and GREEN

  Attorneys at Law

  “Big time,” whispered Bryan, impressed as he pulled open the massive door and walked into the expensively furnished reception area.

  The lovely young receptionist looked up at them with a smile as she spoke.

  “Good morning, Gentlemen. How can I help you?”

  “Morning,” gruffly answered Wayne. “We have an appointment with Allan Sommers.”

  She scanned a page of a heavy leather bound volume on her desk and replied, “Mr. MacKinnon and Mr. Downey, I presume?”

  “You presume correctly,” beamed Bryan, always the charmer with pretty young ladies.

  “If you gentlemen would follow me,” she invited as she rose. “I’ll show you to Mr. Sommers’ office. Mr. Sanchez has already arrived.”

  More than happy to comply, they followed her down a hallway to the door of a corner office. She knocked lightly and waited obediently for an acknowledgement before opening the heavy door.

  “Misters MacKinnon and Downey are here to see you, sir,” she announced before stepping aside to grant them entrance.

  Wayne and Bryan entered the huge office, impressed by its obviously expensive decor and furnishings.

  “Thanks, Nancy. That will be all,” Sommers dismissed her from behind his mammoth desk. “Gentlemen. Come on in. I believe you have already met Mr. Sanchez.”

  On this occasion, Diamond Jimmy Sanchez hardly looked like the head of the Aces of Death which he was. Wearing an Armani suit, his long hair pulled back tightly in a ponytail, he could easily have been mistaken for a lawyer or at least, a very rich client. But, of course, he was in fact, the latter.

  “Nice suit, Jimmy,” said Wayne with a grin.

  Smiling back, Jimmy replied, “Thanks, Mr. Manager. Maybe one day, you can buy yourself one just as nice. Let’s make some business.”

  “Gentlemen,” Sommers spoke on cue. “There’s coffee and anything you might like to drink at the bar. The attaché case on the table is for you. If you want to make yourselves comfortable and verify Mr. Sanchez’s part of the deal, he and I will go into the next room and make sure your merchandise is satisfactory.”

  With that, he picked up the two briefcases his guests had arrived with and followed Diamond Jimmy into an adjoining conference room, closing the door behind him.

  “This is great,” Bryan gushed once they were alone. “This is how to do business.”

  “It sure beats the piss smelling bathrooms that Jimmy usually deals in,” admitted Wayne, giving in to the excitement. “Yep, Bryan, this is how it’ll be from now on. Let’s get us some coffee and get to work. We got ourselves a shit-load of money to count.”

  Twenty minutes after Diamond Jimmy and Sommers had left the office, the latter opened the door and addressed Wayne and Bryan.

  “Gentlemen, could you join us for a moment,” he announced sombrely. “We appear to have a slight problem.”

  “You’re fucking right, we got a problem,” Diamond Jimmy could be heard bellowing from the other room. “We got a big fucking goddamn problem.”

  The two men followed Sommers into the adjoining conference room where the twenty-five bags of coke were separated into two distinct piles on the table. Diamond Jimmy sat in one of the huge leather chairs in one corner of the room, his feet propped up on the table. There was no doubting the rage on his face.

  “What’s going on?” challenged Wayne. “What problem do we have?”

  “You fuckers trying to screw me,” hissed Jimmy. “That’s the problem.”

  “Those,” Sommers said quietly, pointing to the smaller of the two piles, “Are powdered sugar.”

  “What the fuck,” Bryan exclaimed. “Bullshit. We tested every bag last night. What is this, Jimmy?”

  “What the fuck is what?” snarled Jimmy, “You saying that I’m trying to rip you off, you fat motherfucker? I’ll throw you out the fucking window.”

  “Calm down, Jimmy,” soothed Wayne. “Nobody’s accusing you of anything. Just let us see the bags. I want to know if they’ve been tampered with.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about, man?” accused Jimmy, a vicious look in his eyes. “I thought your network was perfect.”

  “It is, Jimmy,” Wayne hastily assured. “This is just a minor internal problem that you’re already aware of and we’ve already started to address it.”

  “You better finish addressing it,” Jimmy shot back. “If this kind of shit happens again, you’re a dead man.”

  Angered by the threat, Wayne retorted, “Don’t worry about our end of the business. And from now on, you want to deal with us, you talk to me or Bryan. Nobody else. This kind of crap like you did with Bob is what creates problems like this.”

  “You want me to deal with you exclusive? That’s fine,” Jimmy snorted. “But don’t make it like your problems are my fault. Keep your guys and your shit under control. Your guy called me Tuesday morning and told me he had the dope. I said fine and we set up a meet. I ain’t guilty. I’m just a businessman."

  “What time did he call you on Tuesday?” asked Bryan, suddenly curious.

  “Who the fuck cares,” the biker arrogantly replied, “Around eleven-thirty, maybe. Why?”

  Wayne shot a furtive glance at Bryan. They had been with Bob and Greg most of Tuesday morning and all four had gone to lunch together afterwards. Maybe Bob had made the delivery but he certainly hadn’t made the call.

  “Just trying to see how the bastard set it up,” Bryan replied with a shrug.

  For a moment, he considered questioning further but figured Diamond Jimmy was pissed off enough as it was. Any more digging would serve to confirm the doubts the biker already had about them and would vastly increase the risk of losing the Aces of Death business altogether.

  Apparently thinking along the same lines, Wayne changed the subject.

  “Anyway, right now we’ve gotta get this fake coke thing sorted out. And believe me, this won’t happen again.”

  * * * *

  Chris concentrated his efforts that morning on his documentation work for Quality Imports.

  As far as the drug ring went, he believed that he already had enough information to bring the whole thing down. Greg’s complete diary to date had been copied on disks which were now safely stored in a safety deposit box. These were accompanied by tapes of pertinent conversations which had taken place since he’d installed his surveillance equipment as well as records of telephone and Eazy-Com communications.

  He had contacted Jonathan and was meeting him for lunch to discuss the progress of their story. In Chris’ opinion, the next step was to deliver this information to the police and let them ‘legally’ dismantle the drug importing network and he was certain that Jonathan would agree.

  “Bother you for a minute?” Charles Peterson asked, entering Chris’ office.

  “Sure, boss. What’s up?”

  “The local Chamber of Commerce is holding one of those ‘exchange business cards’ cocktails tonight, from five to seven. My staff and I always attend and I was wondering if you wanted to join us; might give you the opportunit
y to build some contacts for some future freelance work.”

  “Sure. Why not,” agreed Chris, wanting to make his effort to be part of the team. “Where’s this thing taking place?”

  “At the Sheraton, just up the road.”

  “No problem, Charlie. I’ll be there.”

  * * * *

  Wayne and Bryan rode in silence on the way back from their meeting with Diamond Jimmy. He had agreed to buy the coke they had, eighteen kilos, the seven bags of sugar being their problem. Upon their departure, Jimmy had re-emphasized the fact that they had one last chance. Any further screw-ups would cost them dearly.

  “Maybe it wasn’t Bob,” Bryan stated softly, breaking the silence. “Maybe we killed him for nothing.”

  “Yeah, well it’s a little late to figure that out,” snarled Wayne, fixing his gaze on the traffic ahead.

  “But if it wasn’t Bob, who could it be?” worried Bryan. “Matt?”

  “I don’t think Matt’s got the balls or the brains to try to screw with us,” Wayne replied. “Anyhow, why would he rip off the coke and leave the money at Bob’s? Where’s the gain?”

  “Maybe he and Bob were in this together,” suggested Bryan. "Maybe Matt called Jimmy while Bob was with us. That would give Bob an alibi if we caught on to anything afterwards.”

  “I don’t know,” Wayne responded doubtfully. “Granted, they’re not the smartest people I’ve ever met but it’s a damn flimsy plan. I mean, if either one delivered the coke to Jimmy, they’d have to realize that he could identify them afterwards. Logically, if you ripped off some dope, wouldn’t you go sell it to somebody other than your regular customer? I would. It doesn’t make sense, Bryan. I’ll have a chat with Matt, but something’s wrong. I think Bob was set up and, so were we in the process. Somebody wanted us to kill Bob.”

  “Who?” asked Bryan, the anxiety in his voice apparent.