Chalk was slashing and burning his way through a decent swath of citizenry, and he was getting no useful information. He already had to deal with a conniving Senator who was losing her mind and might start blabbing about him any minute. Then the bloodbath in a Wilkes-Barre motel. It was all a tremendous liability and exposure for Right Way Moving & Storage. Clients breathing down his neck. Precious time wasted. Nothing shiny to show for it.
To be certain, Chalk asked, “You got nothing? What the fuck — Over.”
“Zilch. Nada, compadre.”
Chalk moved on. “How’s by Duncan?”
MacDonald got a smirk in his voice. “Duncan who?”
At least MacDonald had done something right. Handled the problem of their injured squaddie with dispatch.
Despite acute frustration, Chalk rallied and issued marching orders. “Get back to the airport. You’ve got your multi-engine and type ratings. You fly that pilot’s Casa to Frederick, Maryland. Keep outside the Washington Special Flight Rules Area. And keep your transponder off. No flight plan. Got me? Land there and hold. Nobody stands down. You get to Frederick, you and the boys sleep right on that damn plane. You piss in a bucket on that plane. You get hungry, you eat your own feces on that plane. Gobble-gobble. Wait for my orders. You copy that, troop?”
“Okay. But dude, look out the window. The hurricane system’s covering the whole east coast. It’s kinda below IMC minimums. Stormy and all.”
A drenched and chilled Chalk shouted over the wind. “I missed that, Farron! What did you say? You want me to jot down your fucking suicide note?”
MacDonald replied quickly. “Don’t sip on that Hate-orade, dude. Frederick, Maryland. Steer clear. Eat shit. Stand-by. Hela-wilco.”
Chalk terminated the call. He quizzed Slagget. “That bunch in the inflatable. The clients. Where’d they put into the bay, do you think?”
Slagget considered. Yelled back, “Maybe western Maryland or Virginia? Would make for one long-ass ride across the bay in this weather. Wouldn’t leave them much jizz for a fight, no matter how well-trained. Best answer: They put in from a bigger boat. Or from a landing on the Eastern Shore.”
Chalk shook his head. “A mother ship? No. Takes too much time to reposition to their search area. On the upside, their appearance here shooting at anything is a damn strong commitment of resources. If it’s the same bunch as Farron engaged in Wilkes-Barre, they could’ve driven down here since last night easy-peasy. And they got something out of that pilot. Not for nothing, they’ve got good faith in their intel. So I say Eastern Shore. A public landing. A boat ramp. That’s what I’d do. A truck and a stolen boat trailer would be most riki-tik.”
Slagget stuffed another patch of poncho in a bullet hole in the skiff’s bottom. It immediately popped loose on a small geyser of water. “Damn! You think Dick Blackshaw’s around here, too?”
Chalk shook his head. “I hate Blackshaw. You have to respect the snow job he put over on us. Patiently and lovingly crafted. And so far, pretty damn well-executed. I want that fucker dead.”
Slagget said, “Let’s not get sidetracked. Dick Blackshaw’s a red herring. A weasely schmuck. No factor in the recovery effort.”
Chalk said, “Bullshit. You have no idea. He put this in motion. I’ve got a file that says he was a missed target from a sanction fifteen years back. Dick’s not some mook who found a bunch of gold in his lap and wandered off with it. He came looking for us, for paybacks against his very own government, the traitorous little shit. I hate a cliché as much as anyone, but Blackshaw’s on a mission.”
Slagget stuffed another patch into yet another bullet hole. “What got him so pissed?”
Chalk kept a sharp eye for the black inflatable. He said, “Let you in on a secret. Our boy Dick escaped the sanction on him, but I have a feeling someone he cared about got tagged. I have a good idea where it happened. Work with me; I’m extrapolating here. So far, his son is no lightweight, either. So don’t let them fool you, Bill.”
Slagget kept his mouth shut.
Chalk said, “Since we’re about to sink, let’s cruise closer along the Eastern Shore here. See if we can’t find where the clients put in. And if we do run into them, laddy-buck, try not to shoot their damn boat full of holes. We won’t get back to the lighthouse without it.”
Chalk decided not to call The Kid for fear of blowing his operator’s cover with a poorly timed ringtone. Chalk could rely on The Kid to touch base with news as soon as he could, he was such a bloody kiss-up.
CHAPTER 34
Lorton Dyze, the true picaroon, shifted from contemplation of the gold bar’s beauty to the task of realizing its value. Jubilant only moments before, he seemed deflated now. “I know the problem you mean, Ben. We won’t get but dimes on the dollar when we try to sell it. Not through the folks we know.”
Ben said, “Not exactly the issue I meant by a long shot, but LuAnna had a thought about the selling. About how to get full market value, and then some.”
Knocker Ellis said, “We really don’t have time for this. Shouldn’t we talk about that last case?”
Sonny Wright said, “Just hold on a minute, Ellis. Ben, that’s an idear I’d like to hear.”
Ben knew Ellis was right. Jawing here with these men burned precious daylight, such as it was. And the twentieth case was still ticking, even though it did not make a sound. Ben had chosen to rescue LuAnna, and would never regret that. He wondered if he had saved her from Chalk only to kill her along with everyone and everything else because he had forgotten the greater good and not defused the bomb first. Did he really have a handle on how to stop it from going off? He might be rationalizing his own selfishness again. Despite the doubt, Ben sensed there was no way he and Ellis would get out of the room alive unless he proved their worth on this mission here and now.
Ben said, “Anybody remember that guy out of New York? At the Sunfest in Ocean City a few years ago. A bond trader. Noel Swerdlow. I have his card somewhere. Anyway, he thought he had an eye for art. I’m not hypocriting here, and Swerdlow might have been crazy, but he said he liked that bronze widgeon I cast up. Again, no bragging, but that bird took a blue ribbon. And Swerdlow took the bird home, cash money. Sam?”
Sam Nuttle said, “Course I remember that bird. I helped you pour her. That bronze prop we melted down didn’t quite fill the mold. Didn’t we throw in a dozen nails and some bolts to fatten her up?”
Ben smiled. “That we did, but don’t tell Swerdlow. I never gave it a second thought, but you know what he said? He thought pieces like it would catch on in a Soho gallery if I moved up there and made a few more. If I made different birds, too. Not like that welded-up stuff in the yard. Other castings based on my carvings. So when LuAnna saw that gold with the grin this morning, the first thing she suggested was casting new pieces, but not pouring bronze.”
Ephraim Teach picked up the ball and ran. “Pouring gold instead.”
Sam Nuttle did a mental end-zone jig. “I gotcha. There’s the value of a Troy ounce of gold which ain’t too shabby. But a Blackshaw ounce, that’s something else again.”
“With any luck,” said Ben. “That way we get at least the full value of the material, plus whatever money the artwork adds. It’s a backwards way of looking at the marketing. And any such sculpture would be a gaudy thing, but I’d do my best on it. The whole thing would take a while, though.”
Sonny Wright shook his head. “You’d have control over the gold the whole time. Don’t know, but it sounds fishy.”
Ephraim Teach scowled. “Shut up, Sonny, afore I shut you up. You doubt Ben? After all him and Dickie-Will’s done by us? And Ellis, too.”