vii. Life is a Trade. (Everyone wants something.)
Agent Callan steps into a warehouse filled with drugs and the equipment used to manufacture them. The team fans out- careful not to disturb the evidence that literally covers every table, every wall, every dirty, fingerprint-rich piece of equipment.
“Found him!” Someone announces from the back.
By the time Callan arrives, the victim is guzzling a bottle of water. “Who did this?” The agent kneeling next to him asks.
The man shrugs. “He always wore a mask and gloves; couldn’t even tell you if he was black or white. He was a big-ass fellow, though. Strong. Bet he’s got a broken nose or something. I got a few good hits on him . . .”
Callan wonders away- content to let the agent in charge handle the interrogation- and carefully lifts the phone on the ground into his gloved hand. The only reason he’s here: curiosity. The phone in question is just as described: it only calls one number, his desk phone. It was pre-programmed and all other functions disabled.
“Tell me about this bargain again,” the agent inquires.
“I could call for help anytime. I just . . . could only call you,” he admits morosely.
“So why didn’t you call earlier?”
“I would think that would be obvious, pig,” he sneers blackly.
The Agent in Charge smiles sweetly. “I believe that endearment is meant for police. We’re worse.”
Callan wanders into an office. He uses a pen to move papers aside, tilting his head curiously when he unearths a laptop. Perched on the smooth, black surface is a note. “Password: Cosa Nostra. Get it right. Hard drive will automatically erase with any errors.”
Callan growls, not because this isn’t a treasure but because he knows that handwriting. He says the name like a curse, “Mancuso.”
His phone rings and, as if summoned, the name on the screen announces none other than the man he curses. “What do you want?” He demands by way of greeting.
“Sophie’s apartment’s been tossed. Get over here.”
“And someone’s abducted a local, self-proclaimed drug lord and tortured him until he turned himself in- along with enough evidence to condemn him to hell for a couple of lifetimes. I’ve not only got to catalog the evidence, I’ve got to track down the damn vigilante who thinks he can operate outside the law!”
“Good luck with that,” Jacks offers flatly.
“Ta Gueule,” [Shut up] Callan snips back.
“This is related to Marie’s murder,” Jacks once again insists. “And if you don’t get here soon, Sophie’s going to clean away all the evidence.”
“Take her out to dinner. I’ll be by and give it a look-over, but if you’re right, a mafia professional isn’t going to leave a lot to work with. Figure out what they want and I’ll tell you how much trouble you’re in.” And without a proper good-bye, Agent Callan disconnects the call.
Across town, Jacks Mancuso holds his phone and thinks on Callan’s words as the soft brunette doggedly replaces each ripped cushion, every broken knick-knack- unaware of the tears that leave tracks on her cheeks. Pulling her back into his embrace, he forces her to stop the pointless activity.
“Bryce is right,” she sobs against his chest. “There’s no where I can go. I have to go back- and pray they believe me.”
“No,” Jacks growls over her. “I’ve called Callan. He owes me.”
YOU ARE READING
Playing Jacks
Mystery / Thriller**Winner: Licking River Writers Contest** After five years away, Jacks returns to reclaim his life- only to find a lush accountant with curves that fill out her clothes living in the apartment over his folks' pool house. Oh, the attraction is there...
