Finders Keepers by Stephen King
Once upon a freer time, he would have continued up the path to Sycamore Street, because the bus stop was closer when you went that way, but not now, because the backyard where the path came out belonged to the Saubers family. If any of them saw him there and called 911, he'd likely be back in Waynesville tomorrow, probably with another five years tacked on to his original sentence, just for good luck.
He doubled back to Birch Street instead, confirmed the sidewalks were still empty, and walked to the bus stop on Garner Street. His legs were tired and the hand he'd been digging with was scraped and sore, but he felt a hundred pounds lighter. Still there! He had been sure it would be, but confirmation was so sweet.
Back at Bugshit Manor, he washed the dirt from his hands, undressed, and lay down. The place was noisier than ever, but not as noisy as D Wing at Waynesville, especially on nights like tonight, with the moon big in the sky. Morris drifted toward sleep almost at once.
Now that the trunk was confirmed, he had to be careful: that was his final thought.
More careful than ever.
4
For almost a month he has been careful; has turned up for his day job on the dot every morning and gotten in early at Bugshit Manor every night. The only person from Waynesville he'll see is Charlie Roberson, who got out on DNA with Morris's help, and Charlie doesn't rate as a known associate, because Charlie was innocent all along. At least of the crime he was sent up for.
Morris's boss at the MAC is a fat, self-important asshole, barely computer literate but probably making sixty grand a year. Sixty at least. And Morris? Eleven bucks an hour. He's on food stamps and living in a ninth-floor room not much bigger than the cell where he spent the so-called "best years of his life." Morris isn't positive his office carrel is bugged, but he wouldn't be surprised. It seems to him that everything in America is bugged these days.
It's a crappy life, and whose fault is that? He told the Parole Board time after time, and with no hesitation, that it was his; he had learned how to play the blame game from his sessions with Curd the Turd. Copping to bad choices was a necessity. If you didn't give them the old mea culpa you'd never get out, no matter what some cancer-ridden bitch hoping to curry favor with Jesus might put in a letter. Morris didn't need Duck to tell him that. He might have been born at night, as the saying went, but it wasn't last night.
But had it really been his fault?
Or the fault of that asshole right over yonder?
Across the street and about four doors down from the bench where Morris is sitting with the remains of his unwanted bagel, an obese baldy comes sailing out of Andrew Halliday Rare Editions, where he has just flipped the sign on the door from OPEN to CLOSED. It's the third time Morris has observed this lunchtime ritual, because Tuesdays are his afternoon days at the MAC. He'll go in at one and busy himself until four, working to bring the ancient filing system up-to-date. (Morris is sure the people who run the place know a lot about art and music and drama, but they know fuckall about Mac Office Manager.) At four, he'll take the crosstown bus back to his crappy ninth-floor room.
In the meantime, he's here.
Watching his old pal.
Assuming this is like the other two midday Tuesdays--Morris has no reason to think it won't be, his old pal always was a creature of habit--Andy Halliday will walk (well, waddle) down Lacemaker Lane to a cafe called Jamais Toujours. Stupid fucking name, means absolutely nothing, but sounds pretentious. Oh, but that was Andy all over, wasn't it?
Morris's old pal, the one with whom he had discussed Camus and Ginsberg and John Rothstein during many coffee breaks and pickup lunches, has put on at least a hundred pounds, the hornrims have been replaced by pricey designer spectacles, his shoes look like they cost more than all the money Morris made in his thirty-five years of prison toil, but Morris feels quite sure his old pal hasn't changed inside. As the twig is bent the bough is shaped, that was another old saying, and once a pretentious asshole, always a pretentious asshole.
The owner of Andrew Halliday Rare Editions is walking away from Morris rather than toward him, but Morris wouldn't have been concerned if Andy had crossed the street and approached. After all, what would he see? An elderly gent with narrow shoulders and bags under his eyes and thinning gray hair, wearing an el cheapo sport jacket and even cheaper gray pants, both purchased at Chapter Eleven. His old pal would accompany his growing stomach past him without a first look, let alone a second.
I told the Parole Board what they wanted to hear, Morris thinks. I had to do that, but the loss of all those years is really your fault, you conceited homo cocksucker. If it had been Rothstein and my partners I'd been arrested for, that would be different. But it wasn't. I was never even questioned about Mssrs. Rothstein, Dow, and Rogers. I lost those years because of a forced and unpleasant act of sexual congress I can't even remember. And why did that happen? Well, it's sort of like the house that Jack built. I was in the alley instead of the tavern when the Hooper bitch came by. I got booted out of the tavern because I kicked the jukebox. I kicked the jukebox for the same reason I was in the tavern in the first place: because I was pissed at you.
Why don't you try me on those notebooks around the turn of the twenty-first century, if you still have them?
Morris watches Andy waddle away from him and clenches his fists and thinks, You were like a girl that day. The hot little virgin you get in the backseat of your car and she's all yes, honey, oh yes, oh yes, I love you so much. Until you get her skirt up to her waist, that is. Then she clamps her knees together almost hard enough to break your wrist and it's all no, oh no, unhand me, what kind of girl do you think I am?
You could have been a little more diplomatic, at least, Morris thinks. A little diplomacy could have saved all those wasted years. But you couldn't spare me any, could you? Not so much as an attaboy, that must have taken guts. All I got was don't try to lay this off on me.
His old pal walks his expensive shoes into Jamais Toujours, where he will no doubt have his expanding ass kissed by the maitre d'. Morris looks at his bagel and thinks he should finish it--or at least use his teeth to scrape the cream cheese into his mouth--but his stomach is too knotted up to accept it. He will go to the MAC instead, and spend the afternoon trying to impose some order on their tits-up, bass-ackwards digital filing system. He knows he shouldn't come back here to Lacemaker Lane--no longer even a street but a kind of pricey, open-air mall from which vehicles are banned--and knows he'll probably be on the same bench next Tuesday. And the Tuesday after that. Unless he's got the notebooks. That would break the spell. No need to bother with his old pal then.
He gets up and tosses the bagel into a nearby trash barrel. He looks down toward Jamais Toujours and whispers, "You suck, old pal. You really suck. And for two cents--"
But no.
No.
Only the notebooks matter, and if Charlie Roberson will help him out, he's going after them tomorrow night. And Charlie will help him. He owes Morris a large favor, and Morris means to call it in. He knows he should wait longer, until Ellis McFarland is absolutely sure Morris is one of the good ones and turns his attention elsewhere, but the pull of the trunk and what's inside it is just too strong. He'd love to get some payback from the fat sonofabitch now feeding his face with fancy food, but revenge isn't as important as that fourth Jimmy Gold novel. There might even be a fifth! Morris knows that isn't likely, but it's possible. There was a lot of writing in those books, a mighty lot. He walks toward the bus stop, sparing one baleful glance back at Jamais Toujours and thinking, You'll never know how lucky you were.
Old pal.
5
Around the time Morris Bellamy is chucking his bagel and heading for the bus stop, Hodges is finishing his salad and thinking he could eat two more just like it. He puts the Styrofoam box and plastic spork back in the carryout bag and tosses it in the passenger footwell, reminding himself to dispose of his litter later. He likes his new car, a Prius that has yet to turn ten thousand miles, and does his best to k
It's a good thing I love you, Holly, he thinks, or I'd have to kill you.
He hears the buzz of an approaching plane, checks his watch, and sees it's eleven thirty-four. It appears that Oliver Madden is going to be johnny-on-the-spot, and that's lovely. Hodges is an on-time man himself. He grabs his sportcoat from the backseat and gets out. It doesn't hang just right because there's heavy stuff in the front pockets.
A triangular overhang juts out above the entrance doors, and it's at least ten degrees cooler in its shade. Hodges takes his new glasses from the jacket's inner pocket and scans the sky to the west. The plane, now on its final approach, swells from a speck to a blotch to an identifiable shape that matches the pictures Holly has printed out: a 2008 Beechcraft KingAir 350, red with black piping. Only twelve hundred hours on the clock, and exactly eight hundred and five landings. The one he's about to observe will be number eight-oh-six. Rated selling price, four million and change.
A man in a coverall comes out through the main door. He looks at Hodges's car, then at Hodges. "You can't park there," he says.
"You don't look all that busy today," Hodges says mildly.
"Rules are rules, mister."
"I'll be gone very shortly."
"Shortly is not the same as now. The front is for pickups and deliveries. You need to use the parking lot."
The KingAir floats over the end of the runway, now only feet from Mother Earth. Hodges jerks a thumb at it. "Do you see that plane, sir? The man flying it is an extremely dirty dog. A number of people have been looking for him for a number of years, and now here he is."
The guy in the coverall considers this as the extremely dirty dog lands the plane with nothing more than a small blue-gray puff of rubber. They watch as it disappears behind the Zane Aviation building. Then the man--probably a mechanic--turns back to Hodges. "Are you a cop?"
"No," Hodges says, "but I'm in that neighborhood. Also, I know presidents." He holds out his loosely curled hand, palm down. A fifty-dollar bill peeps from between the knuckles.
The mechanic reaches for it, then reconsiders. "Is there going to be trouble?"
"No," Hodges says.
The man in the coverall takes the fifty. "I'm supposed to bring that Navigator around for him. Right where you're parked. That's the only reason I gave you grief about it."
Now that Hodges thinks of it, that's not a bad idea. "Why don't you go on and do that? Pull it up behind my car, nice and tight. Then you might have business somewhere else for fifteen minutes or so."
"Always stuff to do in Hangar A," the man in the coverall agrees. "Hey, you're not carrying a gun, are you?"
"No."
"What about the guy in the KingAir?"
"He won't have one, either." This is almost certainly true, but in the unlikely event Madden does have one, it will probably be in his carryall. Even if it's on his person, he won't have a chance to pull it, let alone use it. Hodges hopes he never gets too old for excitement, but he has absolutely no interest in OK Corral shit.
Now he can hear the steady, swelling beat of the KingAir's props as it taxies toward the building. "Better bring that Navigator around. Then . . ."
"Hangar A, right. Good luck."
Hodges nods his thanks. "You have a good day, sir."
6
Hodges stands to the left of the doors, right hand in his sportcoat pocket, enjoying both the shade and the balmy summer air. His heart is beating a little faster than normal, but that's okay. That's just as it should be. Oliver Madden is the kind of thief who robs with a computer rather than a gun (Holly has discovered the socially engaged motherfucker has eight different Facebook pages, each under a different name), but it doesn't do to take things for granted. That's a good way to get hurt. He listens as Madden shuts the KingAir down and imagines him walking into the terminal of this small, almost-off-the-radar FBO. No, not just walking, striding. With a bounce in his step. Going to the desk, where he will arrange for his expensive turboprop to be hangared. And fueled? Probably not today. He's got plans in the city. This week he's buying casino licenses. Or so he thinks.
The Navigator pulls up, chrome twinkling in the sun, smoked gangsta glass reflecting the front of the building . . . and Hodges himself. Whoops! He sidles farther to the left. The man in the coverall gets out, tips Hodges a wave, and heads for Hangar A.
Hodges waits, wondering what Barbara might want, what a pretty girl with lots of friends might consider important enough to make her reach out to a man old enough to be her grandpa. Whatever she needs, he'll do his best to supply it. Why wouldn't he? He loves her almost as much as he loves Jerome and Holly. The four of them were in the wars together.
That's for later, he tells himself. Right now Madden's the priority. Keep your eyes on the prize.
The doors open and Oliver Madden walks out. He's whistling, and yes, he's got that Mr. Successful bounce in his step. He's at least four inches taller than Hodges's not inconsiderable six-two. Broad shoulders in a summerweight suit, the shirt open at the collar, the tie hanging loose. Handsome, chiseled features that fall somewhere between George Clooney and Michael Douglas. He's got a briefcase in his right hand and an overnight bag slung over his left shoulder. His haircut's the kind you get in one of those places where you have to book a week ahead.
Hodges steps forward. He can't decide between morning and afternoon, so just wishes Madden a good day.
Madden turns, smiling. "The same back to you, sir. Do I know you?"
"Not at all, Mr. Madden," Hodges says, returning the smile. "I'm here for the plane."
The smile withers a bit at the corners. A frown line appears between Madden's manicured brows. "I beg your pardon?"
"The plane," Hodges says. "Three-fifty Beech KingAir? Seating for ten? Tail number November-one-one-four-Delta-Kilo? Actually belongs to Dwight Cramm, of El Paso, Texas?"
The smile stays on, but boy, it's struggling. "You've mistaken me, friend. My name's Mallon, not Madden. James Mallon. As for the plane, mine's a King, all right, but the tail is N426LL, and it belongs to no one but little old me. You probably want Signature Air, next door."
Hodges nods as if Madden might be right. Then he takes out his phone, reaching crossdraw so he can keep his right hand in his pocket. "Why don't I just put through a call to Mr. Cramm? Clear this up. I believe you were at his ranch just last week? Gave him a bank check for two hundred thousand dollars? Drawn on First of Reno?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." Smile all gone.
"Well, you know what? He knows you. As James Mallon rather than Oliver Madden, but when I faxed him a photo six-pack, he had no trouble circling you."
Madden's face is entirely expressionless now, and Hodges sees he's not handsome at all. Or ugly, for that matter. He's nobody, extra tall or not, and that's how he's gotten by as long as he has, pulling one scam after another, taking in even a wily old coyote like Dwight Cramm. He's nobody, and that makes Hodges think of Brady Hartsfield, who almost blew up an auditorium filled with kids not so long ago. A chill goes up his back.
"Are you police?" Madden asks. He looks Hodges up and down. "I don't think so, you're too old. But if you are, let me see your ID."
Hodges repeats what he told the guy in the coverall: "Not exactly police, but in the neighborhood."
"Then good luck to you, Mr. In The Neighborhood. I've got appointments, and I'm running a bit late."
He starts toward the Navigator, not running but moving fast.
"You were actually right on time," Hodges says amiably, falling in step. Keeping up with him would have been hard after his retirement from the police. Back then he was living on Slim Jims and taco chips, and would have been whe
"Leave me alone," Madden says, "or I'll call the real police."
"Just a few words," Hodges says, thinking, Damn, I sound like a Jehovah's Witness. Madden is rounding the Navigator's rear end. His overnight bag swings back and forth like a pendulum.
"No words," Madden says. "You're a nut."
"You know what they say," Hodges replies as Madden reaches for the driver's-side door. "Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't."
Madden opens the door. This is really working out well, Hodges thinks as he pulls his Happy Slapper from his coat pocket. The Slapper is a knotted sock. Below the knot, the sock's foot is loaded with ball bearings. Hodges swings it, connecting with Oliver Madden's left temple. It's a Goldilocks blow, not too hard, not too soft, just right.
Madden staggers and drops his briefcase. His knees bend but don't quite buckle. Hodges seizes him above the elbow in the strong come-along grip he perfected as a member of this city's MPD and helps Madden into the driver's seat of the Navigator. The man's eyes have the floaty look of a fighter who's been tagged hard and can only hope for the round to end before his opponent follows up and puts him down for good.
"Upsa-daisy," Hodges says, and when Madden's ass is on the leather upholstery of the bucket seat, he bends and lifts in the trailing left leg. He takes his handcuffs from the left pocket of his sportcoat and has Madden tethered to the steering wheel in a trice. The Navigator's keys, on a big yellow Hertz fob, are in one of the cupholders. Hodges takes them, slams the driver's door, grabs the fallen briefcase, and walks briskly around to the passenger side. Before getting in, he tosses the keys onto the grass verge near the sign reading LOADING AND UNLOADING ONLY. A good idea, because Madden has recovered enough to be punching the SUV's start button over and over again. Each time he does it, the dashboard flashes KEY NOT DETECTED.