Jake Caldwell Thrillers Read online

  He pictured her in the kitchen at the old house in Warsaw, tapping a pink-slippered foot on the black and white checkered linoleum. The long, curly phone cord snaked around her bony arm.

  He stepped back and sunk his two-hundred-and-twenty-pound frame into an ancient brown recliner. He glanced at the coffee table to his left, to a tower of overdue bills from Children’s Mercy Hospital and a half-empty pack of Marlboros. He set the gun on his lap and threw Carlos the cigarettes. Carlos fished a lighter out of his pocket and lit one with shaky hands.

  A full minute of silence. Jake clicked the old, gold ring against the butt of the Glock, counting off the seconds until he couldn’t take it.

  “What do you want me to say?” he asked.

  “Say you’re coming home and helping me take care of him. I can’t do this anymore by myself.”

  “So, phone a friend.”

  “Yeah, right. Like anyone else would help him. Please. I need you.”

  The old man’s hardened face sprang forward. Sharp nose, sharper tongue. Face cracked like an old baseball glove from too much time in the sun and too many Camel unfiltereds. Wispy remnants of dull red hair drooping from his long skull like some creepy circus clown. The white leather belt swinging and that goddamn gold ring. He rubbed his tired eyes. There were a million things he’d rather do than return to his central Missouri hometown. But he owed his little sister.

  “Okay, Janey. I’m on my way.”

  Jake hung up without waiting for a response. He leaned forward, staring at the photo of Carlos and his daughter across the room, picturing her lying in a lonely hospital bed. Carlos may be shitty with his finances, but he was a decent father. There would be no bone breaking today. Then again, he probably knew that the second he raised the bat.

  “It’s your lucky day, Carlos.” Jake stood and pulled the man to his feet. Carlos winced as he wiped his shattered nose on his shirt.

  “You broke my nose.”

  “You didn’t answer the door when I politely knocked.”

  “I was sleeping,” Carlos said.

  “Bullshit. You were hiding.”

  Carlos paused. “No bat?”

  “I’m giving you another week.”

  “Keats never gives nobody more time.”

  “I’m giving you the week, not Keats. Like I said, your lucky day. Go buy a lottery ticket.” Jake pressed the gun barrel into Carlos’ cheek. “Two grand, seven days or your nose won’t be the only thing that’s broken. Comprende, amigo?”

  Jake tucked the Glock away and walked through the broken apartment door, down the narrow stairs and out to his truck. He climbed in and stilled, inhaling and exhaling measured breaths. Dad’s dying. Janey’s words hung in the air like a cartoon balloon. He let the adrenaline fade and replaced thoughts of his father with wonders about what Keats would do to him for not breaking Carlos into a million pieces.

  Twenty minutes later inside his apartment, Jake pulled the dented, gold ring from his finger and set it on the counter. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, staring across the kitchen to the wall calendar sent courtesy of the Warsaw Chamber of Commerce. August featured a white board sign with peeling, green letters welcoming you to Warsaw, Missouri, population 1,654. The battered sign blocked the day’s blazing sun and was probably supposed to evoke some warm and fuzzy feeling of the dawn of a new day. Instead, it summed up home in an instant—chipped, shitty and falling apart.

  He’d managed to avoid his father for sixteen years. Fucking Stony. Jake had to meet his boss first and, if he made it out of there alive, make the trek southeast to the home he swore he’d never return to. He took another drink from the bottle and poured the rest down the drain. He should’ve let Janey’s repeated calls go to voicemail. She always wore rose-colored glasses when it came to their father. She didn’t have the scars he did.

  Chapter Two

  The patrons who recognized Shane Langston moved out of sight when his muscular frame filled the door of the dimly lit Danny’s Bar and Grill, finding the sudden urge to go to the bathroom or check out the songs on the broken juke box. He liked that respect. The foursome at the pool table didn’t know Shane and openly admired the busty red head on his arm, her pink spandex jogging suit leaving little to the imagination. Shane eyed them as he walked up to the bar, then ticked his head to his trailing bodyguard. Antonio moved his mountainous black frame toward the men who got the hint and returned to their pool game.

  “Where’s my brother?” Shane asked the bartender.

  “Back office,” the bartender replied. “He ain’t in a good mood.”

  “Neither am I.” He kissed the red head on the cheek. “Stay here with Antonio, sweetheart. Have a drink.”

  “My shift starts in an hour,” she said.

  “This won’t take long. You’ll be swinging from your pole in no time.”

  He sauntered the length of the mahogany bar, and past the bathrooms to a door marked “Private.” He threw it open without knocking and found his older brother, hands to his head, staring through thick-framed glasses at a computer monitor on his paper covered desk. His brother stiffened and pushed away from the desk when Shane entered, his breathing ragged.

  “Thought you were going to Warsaw,” his brother said, a tremble in his voice.

  “I am,” Shane said. He dug his fingernails into his palms as he crossed the room and towered over his brother, looking into his red eyes, pupils dilated. High as a kite. Not surprising, but disappointing, a clean six months down the drain. Danny had the willpower of a gnat.

  “Where’s the product, Danny? Or did you smoke it all?”

  “It’s coming. There was…a slight hiccup in the delivery.”

  Shane shot his palm out and smacked the side of Danny’s head, sending his glasses flying against the wall. With his teeth clenched, Shane leaned in. “You call my shipment getting hijacked and two of my men killed a fucking hiccup?”

  Danny rolled his chair against the wall, pressing a pasty palm to his head. “I’m sorry, Shane. There was nothing I could do.”

  Shane raised his hand again, fist white with tension. Danny was always the weak one. Why are you surprised he screwed this up? Shane closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, willing his fist to lower. He walked around the desk and sat in the opposite chair. Danny smoothed back his thinning hair and picked up his glasses from the floor. He sat upright, fidgeting, unable to figure out what to do with his hands.

  “What happened?” Shane asked.

  “Four guys broke into the office. Shot Dom and Marco in the head and took everything.”

  “We know who it was?”

  Danny shook his head. “Surveillance video didn’t help. All dressed in black with masks.”

  “How’d they know where the office was?”

  Danny shrugged and pulled himself back to the desk, flicking his eyes to the computer monitor. “Beats the shit outta me. I switched the location like you told me, never in the same place more than a coupla times. I did it just like you told me.”

  Shane leaned forward and turned the monitor. A balance sheet for Danny’s Bar and Grill lit up the screen. He scanned to the bottom and regarded the large, red figure at the base.

  “Seems your bottom line isn’t getting any better,” Shane said.

  “There was the big check you had me cut to that children’s agency that hit this month.”

  “My helping find homeless kids a bed isn’t affecting your operational costs.”

  “I’m doing everything I can. Power & Light District is killing me,” Danny said, referring to the bar and restaurant complex across from the Sprint Center arena a couple of blocks south in Kansas City’s downtown. A hot spot for sure, but the bar shouldn’t be hemorrhaging money. Danny picked at a scab on his arm.

  “How much did we lose in your little fuck up?”

  Danny’s eyes darted around as if looking to the ceiling for the answer he didn’t want to give. “About a hundred grand.”

  “A hundred twenty
-five, to be exact. Would just about cover the hole you’re in, wouldn’t it?”

  Danny raised his hands, eyes wide. “Whoa. You suggesting I set this up?”

  That’s exactly what he suggested. Shane sat back in his chair, searching his brother’s wide set eyes.

  “Did you?”

  “Jesus Christ, Shane. Why would I do that?”

  “That’s not a denial.”

  “You’re my brother, man.”

  His brother. One of three. The two oldest, six feet under, killed in a shootout with the Chicago police when Shane and Danny were teenagers. Shane’s heroes who taught him it was better to be at the top end of the food chain, and not the low-end consumer. Danny was never a hero to anyone. Just a stupid, useless addict.

  “When did you start using again?”

  “I’m not,” Danny said.

  “Don’t bullshit me. You’re wired tight as a drum right now. I sell the shit, big brother. I know what it looks like.”

  “It was just a taste.”

  Shane sighed. “I’m working hard to get a foothold in this town. If I’m going to take it over, I need you. That asshole Keats isn’t just going to roll over and let me have his territory.”

  “But why mess with Keats? Don’t we have enough?”

  “That’s your problem, Danny. You always were short sighted. You can never have enough. Even Keats won’t be enough, but it’s a start.”

  “You really think Keats hit us?”

  Drug addicts were notorious liars. Danny was no exception. Shane plucked a letter opener off the desk and cleaned his nails with the tip. “I have no doubt it was him. I just have questions about how he found out about the office location.”

  “Keats has ears everywhere. He could’ve heard about it from any of your guys.”

  Shane stared at the eight-inch letter opener he bought for Danny when he gave him the bar business. A gift to his big brother for his six months of sobriety. That was two relapses ago. This time, he actually thought he’d make it. He jumped back years to Mickey and Ian showing him the ropes while Danny stayed home to read comic books. Danny who refused to come to their funeral because it would ‘be too hard’. Danny who spun the revolving door in and out of rehab. Danny who screwed up everything he touched, no matter how many chances he was given. He was weak, and a chain was only as strong as its weakest link.

  Shane stood, and paused behind Danny’s chair, the letter opener still in hand. Danny tried to push away, but Shane shoved the chair forward and pinned him to the desk.

  “I have ears everywhere too, Danny. And I know you told Keats about the office location for a cut of the loot. Didn’t you?”

  “No. No way, man.” Tears choked his voice.

  Shane stuck the point of the letter opener under Danny’s chin, pressing up and forcing his head back so he could see into Shane’s eyes. Shane placed a hand on his brother’s sweat-covered forehead. Tears rolled from Danny’s bloodshot eyes and over his cheeks.

  “I have big plans for Kansas City. You were supposed to come along for the ride. We were going to make it a family business.”

  “Shane, please,” Danny blubbered. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think he’d kill Dom and Marco. It wasn’t supposed to go down like that.”

  “It’s okay, big brother. I forgive you.” With a quick thrust, Shane shoved the letter opener into Danny’s throat, holding his convulsing body as the blood spilled down his last brother’s shirt. Danny’s red eyes bulged, then grew dim. The twitching stopped and Shane stepped back, dropping the letter opener into the pooling blood on the floor.

  In the office bathroom Shane washed his hands, then smoothed his hair in the mirror. He took one last look at his brother and walked out the door, pulling it shut behind him.

  Antonio hung up his cell phone as Shane strode across the bar toward him.

  “Dexter is all set with the supplies. It’s going to be a very lucrative load,” Antonio said. The red head sipped her drink and flipped through a magazine.

  “Good. Send him to Warsaw.”

  “How’d things go with Danny?”

  Shane shrugged. “My brother has decided not to continue with the family business. He left a little mess in his office on his way out.”

  Antonio looked over his shoulder at the closed office door. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll take her to the strip club. Call me when you’re done, and we’ll head to Warsaw. Keats needs a message.”

  “What kind of message?”

  Shane glanced to the red head, leaned in and whispered into Antonio’s ear. Antonio drew back, eyes widening for a split second before resuming his normal stone-faced appearance.

  Shane’s lip curled. “Keats just started a war he’s going to wish he never even thought of.”

  Chapter Three

  Jake wove his black F150 to the River Market north of downtown Kansas City, through streets bordered with squat red brick buildings hosting bars, shops and offices. He turned down an asphalt drive and parked in front of the warehouse, its parking lot cracked like a broken mirror, determined weeds rising through the slits. He grabbed the envelope containing the two grand Carlos owed. Taking the cash from his diminishing personal stash was easier than going to his boss empty handed.

  The stairs to Keats’ office creaked under Jake’s reluctant footsteps. He hated meeting with his boss. During his last visit, he tried not to squirm as Keats turned a guy’s knuckles to powder with a nutcracker. Jake could still hear the man screaming, like his cries were embedded in the wood-paneled walls.

  “Jake,” Jason Keats said as if greeting an old friend. The room reeked of earthy-toned cigar smoke. Keats pulled his black-suited frame from a leather recliner. His skin was cold and clammy as they shook hands. His peppered hair slicked back with too much gel. “How’s things?”

  “Been better. I need to bail for a few days. My old man’s dying, and my sister needs me back home.”

  “Sorry to hear it. You close with your dad?”

  “No.”

  “Any particular reason?”

  “He’s an asshole.” He handed Keats the envelope. “Two grand from Carlos.”

  “He had it, eh?”

  “Yeah, shocked me, too.”

  Keats thumbed through the money in the envelope and raised it to his scarred nose, sniffing.

  “Doesn’t smell like Carlos. Smells like you.”

  Jake shrugged. “Smells like two Gs.”

  Keats smacked Jake on the chest with the envelope. His inviting mood dissolved. “What am I gonna do with you, Caldwell?”

  “In terms of what?”

  “In terms of you not doing what I fucking tell you to do.”

  “I got your money, Jason. Count it.”

  “I know it’s there.” Keats tossed the envelope on the mahogany desktop. “I told you to break this guy’s kneecaps. You going to float every piece of shit I send you to collect on?”

  “Isn’t breaking kneecaps kind of a stereotype?”

  “It’s effective.”

  “Guy can’t work if he can’t walk.”

  Keats sighed. “Are you trying to piss me off?”

  “Look, his daughter’s in the hospital and he’s got a pile of bills that would choke a horse.”

  “I’m not running a goddamn charity. Carlos didn’t use the money he borrowed for medical bills. He bet on a dog-shit horse and lost. Again. What’s really going on?”

  “Nothing,” Jake said, slumping in the chair in front of Keats’ desk.

  “Bullshit. How long you worked for me?”

  “I don’t know. Five years?”

  “Six if you count Oklahoma,” Keats said. “You were a dark soul who didn’t mind dishing it out.”

  “I still dish it out.”

  “Carlos is the third fuckin’ guy you’ve spotted this month. I got no use for someone who can’t follow simple orders.”

  There was no reason for Jake to lie. “It’s getting hard to sleep at night,” he said, f
ocusing on his bad knee, avoiding Keats’ stare.

  “You want out?”

  There it was, laid out for him. Leaving the life had dominated his thoughts for the last few months. But it would be a tricky extraction, maybe fatal. “No. Maybe. Hell, I don’t know.”

  Keats eyeballed him. “See, you know a lot about what I do. Guys with less knowledge than you have disappeared.”

  “I’m no rat. You know that.”

  “An enforcer with a conscious isn’t worth shit to me. You want out?” Keats asked again.

  Jake twirled the ring on his finger. Echoes of screams. Bones snapping. “Yeah, I want out. This is turning me into someone I swore I’d never become.”

  Keats hoisted himself from the desk and walked to a wet bar. He poured two fingers of Scotch from a crystal decanter into two glasses, adding a single ice cube to each. He handed one to Jake. Keats took a slug and leaned his steely frame against his desk. Jake stared at his drink. He hated Scotch.

  “Your old man’s down in Warsaw, right?” Keats said. “Dying from what?”

  “Probably cancer. He smoked like a chimney.”

  Keats watched him, calculating. Jake figured he had a fifty-fifty shot at staying alive to the end of the day.

  After a minute, Keats spoke. “Tell you what. You handle a problem for me, and I’ll let you go free and clear.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “You heard about Big Teddy?”

  “Who hasn’t?” Jake said. Teddy Garrett, Keats’ rival in Kansas City. The Feds swept up Teddy and his crew last week in a drug raid in nearby Independence.

  “With Teddy out of the picture, the roaches are coming out of the woodwork. There’s one roach keeping me up at night.”

  “What’s it got to do with me?”

  “This roach operates in your old neck of the woods,” Keats said. “Has all of Benton County under his thumb, but he’s eyeballing expansion into KC. He’s an ambitious little turd who I want permanently squashed. You’re the boot that’s gonna do the squashing. Plus, there’s a nice going away present for your years of service.”

  “I take care of the guy and you just let me go?”