THE BIG SCORE

by

Chris F. Holm

 

            It was just past six AM when the trawler emerged from the fog, running dark despite the weather and listing slightly to port. She was a run-down old thing, scarred and dented and spotted with rust. Mike Malloy didn’t need to see her markings to know whose she was—that piece of shit belonged to Jimmy Bradfield. The First Light, she’d been, when she was worth a damn. Jimmy’s pop used to say she’d make it all the way to Spain if you asked her nice, and the way he kept her, you’d believe it. When his old man died, Jimmy christened her the Big Score, and truth to tell, she hadn’t seen an honest day’s work since. By the look of her, Mike thought, Jimmy should have stuck to lobster.

            Mike returned his attention to his traps—the empties a jumbled mess beside him on the deck, the baited pots stacked and ready to drop. His boat rocked in the choppy morning surf, clanking against the dock. The briny stench of herring prickled in his sinuses as he snatched a handful from the barrel and stuffed it in to a mesh bait bag. The bag he placed in an empty lobster trap, and the trap went on the stack. All told, he had a dozen left to fill. Most folks, they’d have a deckhand do it—it was messy work, and the herring stank like hell—but Mike didn’t mind. He liked getting here before the rest of the crew. Liked the quiet. Gave him time to think.

            At first it didn’t seem like much of anything, just a low diesel rumble, common enough out on the water. But this was different. Off, somehow. Mike glanced up. The Big Score was coming in fast—too fast. She didn’t slow. Didn’t turn. Too late, he realized what was going to happen.

            The wharf shuddered as the boat struck, just fifty yards from where Mike stood. He was over the deck rail in a flash, scrambling down the length of the small floating dock and up the ladder to the wharf.

            The boat rocked from the impact, engines whining. Again, she slammed against the pilings. There was a shriek of rending metal, and a brittle crunch of wood. Mike sprinted toward the point of impact, mindful of the sudden cant of the boards beneath his feet. He hesitated just long enough to spot his landing and then leapt, hitting the deck hard.

            “Jimmy!” he called.

No answer.

“Jimmy, what the hell are you doing?” 

He scaled the stairs to the bridge. Empty. He grabbed the wheel and gave her a little gas, cutting away from the wharf. The hull protested a moment as it ground against the piling, but then it came clear.

            Mike brought her in nice and easy and cut the engines. Big as the old boat was, tying her up himself was a little tricky, but he managed. He surveyed the damage. The wharf was a pretty dinged up, and his wake was littered with splinters from the damaged piling, but it looked like it’d hold. He wasn’t as sure about the boat.

            Mike walked the length of the deck. Jimmy wasn’t on it. There was a heap of empty lobster pots on the aft deck, surrounded by a tangled mess of line and buoys—his pop’s old green and white. Ain’t seen those in the water in a damn sight, Mike thought, not since Jimmy let his license lapse.

            Mike searched cabin, the engine room, and the hold, looking for Jimmy and inspecting the hull. The boat was a mess, but it didn’t look like it’d founder. Jimmy was nowhere to be seen. His wetsuit, weights, and tanks were all laid out in the cabin, though God knows why—scallop season was still a few months away, and somehow, Mike didn’t see Jimmy as much of a hobbyist. Wasn’t any profit in it.

Mike’s head caught on to what his gut had been telling him ever since he hit the deck: Jimmy was in the water. Whatever dumb-ass scam he’d been running, he must have gone out alone. A ship this big in fog this thick, running without lights? It’s awful easy to run afoul of something, and if he got tossed, he could be anywhere.

            “James Bradfield?”

            The call came down from the wharf just as Mike emerged from the cabin. A short, stocky guy with dark hair and dark eyes, yellow slicker half-zipped over a cable-knit sweater. He didn’t wait for an answer; he swung first one leg, and then the other, onto the ladder that descended to the dock, his loafers struggling for purchase on the spray-slick rungs.

            “Don’t bother,” Mike said. “Jimmy ain’t here.”

            The man paused, unconvinced. “But this is his ship.”

            “Boat,” Mike replied, idly. “And believe me, he ain’t on it.”

            The man looked dubious, but he returned to the wharf nonetheless. Mike hopped off the boat and scaled the ladder with ease. Up close, the guy was full of twitchy energy—he shifted constantly from foot to foot, and his hands tugged at the hem of his sleeves. Nervous, Mike thought. Nervous or eager.

“I have business with Mr. Bradfield. He’s expecting me.”

“Look, I’m sure he was, but that boat came in empty. I had to guess, I’d say Jimmy’s in the drink, which means he ain’t got a lot of time. Now if you’ll excuse me...”
           

Mike started up the pier toward town, but the man sidestepped in front of him, a smile breaking on his face. “Let’s not play these childish games, Mr. Bradfield. If my offer was not to your liking, perhaps we could discuss it over breakfast. I’m sure there’s something I can do to sweeten the pot.”

“You got the wrong guy, pal. Name’s Malloy—Mike Malloy. I swear I have no idea who you are or what you’re doing here, and I really don’t care. But if you don’t get the hell out of my way, you and Mr. Bradfield won’t be discussing much of anything ever, you get me?”

The man sized Mike up a moment and stepped aside. Mike pushed past him and sprinted for his pickup. He glanced in his rearview -– the guy was right where he’d left him, face set in a scowl. And then, with a squeal of tires that echoed through the still morning air, Mike pulled out of the lot, heading toward town.

* * * * *

Frank Simmons sipped lukewarm coffee from a Styrofoam cup and watched the two men argue over the wheel of his rented Taurus. The coffee was bitter, the argument brief. Even with the window cracked, he couldn’t quite make out their exchange. Whatever was said, the fisherman took off like a bat out of hell, pulling out of the wharf’s lot maybe fifteen yards from where Simmons sat. He set the coffee in the cup-holder and fished out his cell, punching in a number.

“You there yet?” Drake said, by way of greeting.

“A couple of flights and a three-hour drive from Bangor later, yeah. Should have taken me two, but the whole fucking state is covered in fog, and I haven’t seen a proper highway since I landed.”

“And Impaglia?”

Simmons peered through the windshield at the man standing on the pier. “I’m looking at him now.”

“He make you?”

“Not a chance. Far as he knows, everything’s roses. Listen, I need you to run a plate for me. Ford pickup, green. Mid-eighties, I’m guessing. Maine tags: Hotel Charlie Lima eight eight seven.”

“No problem. Lemme put in a call to my guy, and I’ll get back to you.”

“You know where to find me.”       

“This shakes out, you owe me a bottle of scotch,” Drake said.

“This shakes out,” Simmons replied, “I’ll buy you a case.”

* * * * *

            “You all right, Mike? You look a little peaked.”

            Sheriff Caleb Trask sat behind his scarred mahogany desk, cleaning his glasses with a handkerchief and looking concerned. Mike flashed him a wan smile from his seat across the desk. “I’m fine. Just a hell of a morning is all.”

            “You did good, Mike.”

            “I should be out there. Helping them look.”

            “We got two dozen boats in the water already,” Trask replied, “and another dozen coming in out of Milbridge. If he’s out there, we’ll find him.”

            “You really believe that?”

            Trask sighed.

“I’ll tell you, I can’t count the number of times I’ve hauled Jimmy in here for one damn-fool scheme or another. Poaching, illegal salvage, fishing without a license—you name it. Hell, when the Staties busted up that heroin operation out of Lewiston last year, they liked Jimmy for bringing it down across the border. Lucky he didn’t land his ass in jail over that one. The story broke before they made their move, and the dope just up and disappeared. So do I think we’re gonna find him? Jimmy Bradfield’s a bad penny. He’ll turn up, you wait and see.”

            The clock on the wall caught Mike’s eye. It was ten past ten.

“Ah, hell,” he said, “my crew!  I gotta get down to the dock, tell them we ain’t heading out—”

            “Already taken care of,” Trask replied. “I had one of my boys go down there and let them know. You want my advice? Go home, Mike. Relax. Maybe pop in on your mom. How’s she doing, by the way?”

            “She’s fine,” Mike lied. Truth was, she’d been a mess since the stroke, and the shit-hole she was stuck in wasn’t helping. Mike had done everything he could to get her into someplace better, but without a little money to grease the wheels, she wasn’t going anywhere.

            “That’s good to hear,” Trask said. “You tell her I said hi.”

            “Thanks, I’ll do that.” 

Mike got up and headed for the door.

            “Hey Mike?” Trask called. “You did do good. Remember that.”

            Good, right. But sometimes, Mike thought, good just ain’t good enough.

* * * * *

The midday sun was a pale white smudge in the fog-laden sky as Mike’s truck rocked to a halt in the driveway of his old Cape. Once blue, the house had been beaten gray by decades of biting salt air. He scaled the steps of the porch and then paused, keys in hand. The door was ajar, the jamb splintered. He touched the door and it swung inward.

Mike stepped inside. The place was a mess. Dishes, shattered on the kitchen floor. Furniture slashed open, hemorrhaging batting. Drawers and cupboards emptied, their contents scattered.

There was a knock behind him. Mike wheeled around, expecting an ambush. When it wasn’t one, he felt foolish, his face flushing crimson.

It was a man in a rumpled suit, carrying a Manila folder and wearing sunglasses despite the fog. He stood in the open doorway, looking around in evident surprise.

“Mike Malloy?” he asked.

“Who the hell are you?” Mike replied, wincing inwardly at the waver in his voice.

“Forgive me,” the man said, pulling a billfold from his coat pocket and flipping it open. “I’m Special Agent Frank Simmons with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Are you Mike Malloy?”

“Yes,” Mike replied. “Is this about my house?”

“I suspect so, yes. You mind if I come in?”

Mike nodded, and the man stepped inside, taking off his sunglasses and tucking them into his pocket. Mike righted two dining room chairs and collapsed into one of them. Simmons sat down in the other.

“So what’s this all about?”

            Simmons took a picture from the file and handed it to Mike. “Do you know this man?”

            “Yeah,” Mike replied. “I mean, no, not really. I met him this morning, out on the docks. He thought I was someone else. Who is he?”

            “His name is Antonio Impaglia. A collector, to hear him tell it. A high-end fence, more like. Did he tell you what he was looking for?”

            “No,” Mike replied. “He didn’t. All he said was he had a meeting with Jimmy Bradfield. I told him Jimmy wasn’t coming, and he got it in his head I was Jimmy skipping out on him. Whatever he’s looking for, I ain’t got it.”

            Simmons looked around the room. “He seems to think you do.”

            “So what is it he’s looking for? Drugs? Money?”

            “No,” Simmons replied. “Tony’s tastes are a touch more refined than that.”

            “Meaning what?”

“What do you know about American history, Mr. Malloy?”

            “Only what they teach you in school,” Mike replied, “and probably a fair bit less than that.”

            “Well, then, let me give a little refresher. In 1812, the U.S. declared war against the British, in response to their seizure of thousands of American sailors who they forced to serve in the Royal Navy in their fight against Napoleon. The British responded by barricading American ports from Chesapeake Bay to Narragansett. Maine was one of several states that wanted nothing to do with the war, and in fact continued trading with the British under false flags. When Maine fell to the British in 1814, these waters became a central shipping route for military supplies and civilian goods to and from Britain.”

            “Look,” Mike interrupted, “that’s all very interesting, but what the hell does it have to do with my place getting tossed?”

            “I’m getting there. See, by 1814, the U.S. had gotten wise to the fact that our fledgling military couldn’t take on the Royal Navy alone, so they began funding privateers—pirates, essentially. These ships-for-hire decimated the British fleet, capturing or destroying God knows how many ships during the course of the war. And something else happened in 1814 as well.”

            “What’s that?” Mike asked, making no attempt to hide his impatience.

            “Napoleon fell. With him out of the way, the British were sure we’d soon follow. So the Crown sent to their top generals a gift, intended to inspire them into victory: two flintlock pistols, commissioned by Napoleon himself and taken from him when Paris fell. But those pistols never arrived on these shores. They were lost, as was the ship that carried them.”

            “Wait a minute. You think this guy’s after a couple of antique guns?”

            “Yes.”

            “And he thinks I’ve got them?”

            “Yes.”

            “That’s ridiculous. That ship could have gone down anywhere.”

            “True,” Simmons replied, “but Tony thinks it’s here.”

            “So let’s say he’s right, and pirates funded by the U.S. government sank a British ship carrying stolen French treasure off the coast of nowhere, Maine. Wouldn’t they have looted the thing first?”

            “Sure, but the operative word is looted. Anything they took they would have sold, but the pistols were never seen again.”

            “This ship, it was British navy?”

            “Yes,” Simmons replied, “which means according to U.S. law, it’s still the property of the British government, no matter where it went down.”

“So this Impaglia guy, he hires Jimmy to go out and find the wreck, only Jimmy disappears, and now he thinks I’ve got the guns.”

            “Looks like.”

            “Shit.”  Mike grabbed a beer from the ruins of his kitchen and popped the cap off on the table. He took a long, slow swig; it was lukewarm, but it did the job.

Another six or so of these, he thought, and this all won’t seem so bad.                 

            “This Bradfield,” Simmons asked, “you know where he lives?”

            “Yeah. The road ain’t marked, though. You’ll have a hell of a time finding it alone.”

            “You mind riding along?”

            Mike shrugged. “Beats sitting here,” he replied, downing his beer and tossing the empty onto the rubble-strewn floor.

* * * * *

            If anything, Mike thought, this place looks worse than mine.

            Jimmy lived in an old hunting cabin maybe seven miles out of town, and a good two miles from the nearest paved road. Simmons’ Taurus protested heartily as he pushed the needle past sixty down the single winding rutted lane, bottoming out twice. It wasn’t any use, though. They were too late. The place was a wreck, and Impaglia was long gone.

Mike eyed the jagged holes in the drywall, the floorboards pried up.

“What now?” he asked.

            Simmons shrugged.

“Now we have a look around, see if Tony missed anything.”

            They made quick work of the cabin; it was just two rooms and a bath, all of them turned inside out. Impaglia hadn’t missed a trick—every inch of the place was picked over, poked at, or downright destroyed. When they finished inside, they circled the house to the shed. The fog pressed close, obscuring all but the faintest suggestion of the forest around them. Simmons disappeared into the shed. Mike waited outside, arms crossed against the cold. A few feet away, something caught his eye. A rough-hewn cross, just two pieces of scrap wood nailed hastily together, jutting from the ground in the shadow of an ancient sugar maple. Carved into the center was a name: Spike.

            Funny, Mike thought. As far as he knew, the only dog Jimmy ever had was a mean little Terrier named Ahab. Little bastard yipped all day and bit anybody unlucky enough to wander within reach. Wasn’t a soul alive who missed that dog when it finally gave up the ghost, Jimmy included. But if that was the case, then what the hell was buried here?

Mike knelt beside the grave, brushing aside the mat of leaves and pine needles that lay atop it, but the ground beneath was undisturbed. Whatever was in there had been in the ground a few months at least.

            “Hey,” Mike called, “when did this Impaglia guy get turned on to these pistols?”

            “Couple weeks ago, we think,” Simmons replied, his voice muffled by the shed walls. “Some sea captain’s papers sold at auction to an anonymous bidder. Word is, he was on the crew that brought down the ship, and he kept himself a journal. Why?”

            Mike straightened, and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“No reason,” he said.

Whatever Jimmy’d stashed here, Mike wanted nothing to do with it.

            “Shed’s clean,” Simmons said, stepping back outside, “or at least as clean as anything else around here.”

            “So what’s the plan?”

            “I figure it’s time to check in with the Sheriff, see if I can’t get a line on where Impaglia’s staying.”

            “What makes you think he’ll stick around? I mean, if he’s got the guns—”

            “Tony doesn’t have the guns,” Simmons replied.

            “What makes you so sure?”

            Simmons nodded toward the cabin. “The whole damn place is torn apart. The shed, too. If he’d found them, he’d have stopped looking. Of course, it’s possible that Bradfield absconded with them himself.”

            Mike shook his head. “Without his boat?”

            “Perhaps he arranged safe passage on another.”

            “Maybe,” Mike replied, “but if I was gonna disappear, I’d make damn sure I sunk my boat. Nobody thinks twice around here about a guy going missing, so long as his boat goes down.”

            “Either way, the play’s the same. I stick with Impaglia, see where he leads.”

            “And me?”

            Simmons smiled. “You, Mr. Malloy, have done enough for one day. To be honest, I shouldn’t have involved you at all. You have someplace you can stay until all this blows over?”

            “Just my place. Way I figure it, he knows I ain’t got what he’s looking for, so it’s as safe as any.”

            “I’m sure you’re right,” Simmons replied. And as darkness descended, they headed for the car, their footfalls muffled by the pressing fog.

* * * * *

            Mike scaled the steps to his side door as the last gray trace of evening sun dipped beneath the western horizon. The porch light above him cast halos in the fog that only served to amplify the darkness beyond. The door was closed but unlatched, its lock bent to hell from its meeting with the pry-bar. He kicked it open, shutting it behind him and setting the chain. The place smelled like fridge, and something crunched beneath his feet as he stepped into the room. He fumbled for the light switch, but stopped short. His hand connected with something warm. Fabric rustled in the darkness. Too late, he reacted, throwing up his arms in defense. The blow hit him just above the temple. White-hot pain, a sense of falling, and then, for a while, nothing.

When Mike woke, he was tied to a chair in the middle of his kitchen. His head was throbbing, his vision blurry. He raised his head, or tried to. It was suddenly too heavy for his neck—all he got for his trouble was the sudden urge to vomit. He rested for a moment and tried again. Better. His vision was improving as well—still a little fuzzy around the edges, but clear enough to see he wasn’t alone.

“Good, you’re up!  Now why don’t you tell me where the fuck you put my guns?”

Though the man was standing, he wasn’t much taller than Mike was seated. His slicker hung open, revealing a glimpse of shoulder-holster beneath.

“Impaglia,” Mike croaked.

“Please,” Impaglia replied, “we’re all friends here. Call me Tony. Now, Mike, where the hell are my guns?”

“You know I don’t have them. You searched the place yourself.”

Impaglia laughed. “Is that what you think? Boy, you’re in so far over your head you’re lucky you’re still breathing. This wasn’t me—I had my hands full at the Bradfield place, for all the goddamn good it did me.”

“Then who?”

“I’m sorry, am I the one tied to the chair? How about I ask the questions for a while, and maybe later we can switch.”

“Look, I swear I don’t have them.”

Impaglia shook his head. “You know what your mistake was, Mike?”

“What?”

“You should have said What guns?”

Mike attempted a smile. It came out more of a grimace.

“You know what your mistake was, Tony?”

“What?”

“If you wanted to tie a lobsterman to a chair, you shoulda learned to tie a proper knot.”

Mike rose from the chair, the rope falling to the floor behind him. Impaglia went for his gun. Mike twisted, grabbing the chair-back behind him. Steel scraped leather as Tony’s piece cleared its holster, and then the chair snapped across his back, splinters clattering to the floor. Impaglia pitched forward, his cheek slamming against the countertop. He fell limp to the floor, gun still in hand. Mike hesitated, eyes on the gun. If it was a bluff, he wasn’t about to bite.

He bolted for the door, skittering on the rubble and nearly going down. He threw open the chain and burst into the night, Impaglia’s crumpled frame still motionless behind him. A quick look back and he was gone, swallowed by the fog as he sprinted toward town.

* * * * *

            “Come on, come on, pick up,” Mike said into the receiver. He was standing at a pay phone outside Tanner’s Auto Repair, a squat cinderblock structure about a half-mile from his house. The sign in the darkened storefront read Closed, and the lot was shrouded in shadow, but still, Mike felt exposed.

Four rings. Five. Finally, someone answered.

            “Sheriff’s Office—Trask speaking.”

            “Cal, it’s Mike. Listen, I need to talk to Simmons. Impaglia’s at my place, and—”

            “Mike, just slow down a minute and tell me what’s going on.”

            “I just need to speak to Agent Simmons. Is he there? Do you know how I can get a hold of him?”

            “Mike, what are you going on about? Are you in some kind of trouble? And who the hell is Agent Simmons?”

            Mike’s stomach lurched. He clenched shut his eyes and sat down hard on the pavement. How could he have been so stupid? You know I don’t have them, he’d told Impaglia, you searched the place yourself. But he hadn’t. It was Simmons. Simmons ransacked his place, and when he didn’t find what he was looking for, he just moved on to Plan B. Guy flashed a fucking badge and I never doubted him for a second.

            “Mike? You there? Is everything all right?”

            Mike realized he was still holding on to the receiver. “Yeah, Cal, I’m here. Listen, I’m sorry I bothered you. I think this day is catching up with me, is all.”

            “You sure?”

            Mike sighed. “Yeah, I’m sure.”  He replaced the phone on the cradle and buried his face in his hands. He sat like that for what seemed like forever, too defeated to care if he was seen. Finally, he rose and fished a couple of quarters from his pocket, his face set in a frown of grim determination. He fed one into the phone and dialed.

            One way or another, it was time to finish this.

* * * * *

            The shrill bark of the telephone echoed through the quiet house. Antonio Impaglia lay on the kitchen floor, willing it to stop. Each ring was worse than the last, an ice pick to his temple when all he wanted was to sleep. He was so very tired, and his head was fucking killing him. But the ringing would not be ignored.

            He opened his eyes and looked around. His vision swam; his stomach heaved. Great, he thought. Concussion. Still the phone rang. It hung on the far wall, beside the fridge. He crawled toward it. When he was close enough to reach, he yanked the cord. The handset fell from the cradle. He snatched it up and pressed it to his ear.

            “Yeah?” he said. His voice sounded tinny to his ears, thin and far away.

            “I know where Jimmy stashed the guns,” said the voice in the receiver. “If I tell you where they are, you have to take them and leave, you got me?”

            “Who the hell is this?” Impaglia asked.

            “I’m the guy whose kitchen you’re in,” Mike replied.

            Impaglia struggled to focus. “Why the hell would you wanna give me the guns?”

            “Because I value my life. Because those guns are more trouble than they’re worth. And because the other guy who’s looking for them tore apart my house and then showed up posing as a cop to drag me all over town, helping him look.”

            “Simmons told you he was a cop?”  Impaglia snorted. “That’s fucking rich.”

            “Yeah,” Mike said, “a real laugh riot. The way I figure it, he doesn’t like you very much. I don’t like you very much, either, but I’m willing to overlook that fact if it means screwing Simmons out of what he’s after.”

            “That’s mighty big of you,” Impaglia said.

            “It is, isn’t it? But here’s the catch. Anything happens to me, it’s your name the cops are gonna get—I’ve already made the arrangements. This is one loose end that doesn’t feel like getting tidied up.”

            “All I want is the pistols, and then I’ll go. You have my word.”

            “Thanks, Tony, that means a lot. Now listen very carefully.”

* * * * *

            Impaglia grunted with exertion as the spade pierced the rocky earth. The shovel was one of those little half-sized things, too short for the job, really, but it was all Bradfield had in his shed. The headlights of Tony’s rented Malibu stared into the darkness, reflecting off the fog. It was enough light to work by, but a couple feet in any direction, the world was lost in a sea of milky white.

            A few feet down, he hit something. Impaglia dropped to his hands and knees and began clearing it of dirt, his face slick with sweat despite the chill night air. His fingers found the edges, and he brushed them clear. It was a small wooden crate. He popped the Malibu’s trunk and fished out the tire-iron. Back at the hole, he wedged it beneath the lid, and slowly levered open the crate.

            “Hiya, Tony.”

            Impaglia spun, tire-iron clattering to the ground. Standing behind him was Simmons. A nine millimeter glinted in his hand, leveled at Impaglia.

            “That son of a bitch,” Impaglia muttered. “He set me up!”

            “Our fisherman friend? I suppose he did, didn’t he? Of course, he thought he was fighting for truth, justice, and the American way, so you really can’t blame him. Dumb shit thought I was a Fed, if you can believe it—he called every motel in town until he found me. Had to help me get the bad guy. That’s you, Tony, in case you haven’t been paying attention.”

            Impaglia laughed. “Is that why he said he called?”

            “That’s right,” Simmons replied. “I say something funny?”

 “You don’t get it, do you? He made you, man. He knows you’re not a cop. He set us both up. You and me, we gotta get the hell out of here before the cavalry arrives.”

Simmons shook his head and smiled. “You really think I’m gonna buy that shit after what you pulled?”

“It’s the truth.”

“The truth, huh? Like when you told me you were going out of town to line up a buyer?”

“Listen, about that—I can explain...”

            “Save it,” Simmons spat. “I put Drake on your tail the second I told you about the job. What’s the matter, Tony, the life of a fence a little lacking in excitement? Or let me guess—you’re sick of getting stuck with twenty percent when you’re the one doing all the work. Am I close?”

            Impaglia frowned but said nothing. His hand crept toward the gun beneath his jacket.

            “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Simmons said. “I’d hate to have to kill you. Actually, you know what? That’s not exactly true.”

            The gun thundered in Simmons’ hand. Impaglia pitched backward, landing sprawled atop the crate. Simmons kicked him aside and shot him again. His body rocked with the impact of the bullet, and then lay still. Blood pooled on his slicker and ran in rivulets toward the ground. Sightless eyes stared skyward, glinting by the light of the headlights.

Simmons knelt beside the crate and tore free the lid, exposing a layer of shrink-wrapped bricks, each a sickly yellow-white. He grabbed a couple, tossing them aside. Beneath them was more of the same.

This can’t be happening, he thought.

Panic set in, and he kept digging. Soon, the ground around him was littered with bricks, a few hundred grand worth of heroin at least. When the crate was empty, he collapsed atop it, sobbing. There were no guns here. No riches. Just a shit-load of smack and a fucking dead body.

And as the cry of the approaching sirens echoed through the night, Frank Simmons began to run.

* * * * *

            Sunlight danced on the water beneath a cloudless sky as Mike Malloy brought his boat around and cut the engines. The buoy bobbed green and white off the port bow. Bracing himself against the deck rail, he snagged it with the gaff hook and threaded the line onto the wheel of his pot-hauler. The motor whined against the strain as it dragged the trap toward the boat.

            It had been three weeks since Jimmy’d gone missing. Three weeks since Trask and his boys had found Simmons cowering in the woods a scant mile from Jimmy’s cabin. Simmons hadn’t talked, but the dead body and the half a mil in heroin said plenty.

            Jimmy washed up a week later. The fog had long since burned off, and the cops had found a dinged-up channel-marker about a half-mile out. By the look of the thing, he must’ve hit it full-bore. Poor bastard never stood a chance. What exactly he’d been doing out there was the cause of much debate, but Mike thought he had a pretty good idea.

The trap clanked against the hull, and Mike shut off the hauler. He hefted the trap onto the deck and opened it. Inside was a warped and blackened wooden box, wrapped in plastic.

I’ve gotta hand it to you, Jimmy, Mike thought, you picked a hell of a hiding place. Ain’t no one but a lobsterman who’d ever think to look there, and not a one of them would ever dare to snag another man’s traps. In this case, though, Mike figured Jimmy wouldn’t mind.

            Mike cut away the plastic and swung open the box, a smile breaking across his face. The velvet within was sodden, the brass fittings of the pieces tarnished, and their iron dulled with age. Still, he couldn’t deny this was one hell of a big score.

            Mike tossed Jimmy’s trap back in the water. Case in hand, he watched it disappear beneath the swells, and then swung the boat around, heading for port.

 

END

Copyright © 2008, Chris F. Holm