On the Hit List by Timothy Dalton
“Dude, cut that out. You’re gonna ruin the resale value of my car,” Taylor says, looking back at Chester, who seems unapologetic. “It’s forever unclean now.”
Chester offers a weak, “Sorry, bro.” But Taylor and I both know Chester will launch another salvo any minute. That’s when the door to 209 opens and a heavyset man walks out. He’s wearing shades and a brimmed hat, but from his size and the way he walks, it has to be Sam.
“That him?” Taylor asks.
“I think so, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. I don’t have a great angle so I can’t tell. If he sees me, he may try to bolt for it. And I don’t want him to get away again.”
The car door opens and I feel the Lexus rock as Chester’s weight exits the vehicle.
“What are you doing, Chester?” I say as I roll down the front window but still keep my voice down.
“I’m gonna go accidentally knock his hat off so you can get a good look at him. If it’s him, just honk twice and I’ll grab him. I know I’ve screwed up in the past, but I need to make this right, fellas.”
“No, wait – come back,” I hiss, but Chester is already en route, pulling his shorts up from sagging down past his ass.
It actually isn’t a terrible plan, though. If Chester can pull off the ‘accidentally’ part, that is. And honking the horn might distract Sam enough for Chester to get a clean grab. Still, part of me doesn’t trust Chester’s instincts. Okay, let me take that back, I guess you could say I trust his instincts in this situation. It’s his reflexes I can’t put the full weight of my faith behind.
The man, if it is Sam, seems to be heading to the mailbox. Chester walks toward him, reaching into his pocket for something. He pulls out a set of keys. This is perfect; he’s pretending he’s going to check for mail too. Now all he has to do is get close and ‘accidentally’ knock off Sam’s hat.
Chester is almost at the mailbox – and the presumed Sam – when out of nowhere he tosses his keys and throws a hand out, smacking Sam across the head. Sam’s hat and glasses fly through the air and hit the ground. Chester spins to face us and points at Sam, wearing a clueless look on his face that says, ‘Is this him?’
With only a split second to see the man’s visage, I reach across the center console and slam my hand on the horn, blaring out two honks.
Sam has a look of shock and disgust on his face that quickly fades into alarm when he hears the horn. And then Chester launches himself at Nesbo.
It’s an odd, clumsy grab. Chester has thrown his arms around Sam’s neck and Sam is struggling to rid himself of the fat kid who’s holding him hostage.
“I got him! I got him!” Chester yells, but his grip is already failing and he begins to slide down Sam’s equally chubby body. Chester’s hands catch hold of Sam’s shirt, which pops the buttons. He drops even further, his chunky fingers holding onto Sam’s pants. The lower half of Chester’s body drags on the ground as Sam tries to escape his assailant.
Sam throws a wild punch, which Chester blocks with extreme finesse. However, he does so with the fat of his cheeks and falls hard, but still manages to hold onto Nesbo.
“I got him! I … got … him!” Chester continues to yell, exasperated and out of breath, but by now he’s practically laying flat out on the ground as he’s dragged, with his arms still somehow locked around Sam’s left foot. Then he lets out the highest pitched scream I’ve ever heard known to man.
Taylor and I bolt from the car and sprint toward the ruckus.
A second later all Chester has in his hands is a brown flip-flop, but at that moment Taylor and I crash into Sam, and we all hit the pavement.
“Get off me, you little cocksucker!” Sam bellows.
I punch him square in the face and he goes to sleep. It isn’t like the movies or TV either, where a guy gets hit and is knocked unconscious for several hours. After a few seconds of blissful slack-jawed nap time, Sam rouses. Taylor and I scoop him up under his arms and half drag him back to his condo.
“Are you okay, Chester?” I ask over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I’m totes fine. Why?”
“When you let out that scream I thought you got hurt somehow.”
“Oh nah, that was my battle cry,” he says with a laugh.
I don’t know about a ‘battle cry’. To me it just sounded more like crying.
24 Interrogation 101
In retrospect, we learn a lot about this little encounter with Sam. Mostly what works and what doesn’t. Idle threats don’t. So two belts and half a roll of duct tape later, Sam is uncomfortably strapped to a dining room chair.
“Okay, Sam. I’ll say this once. I’m going to remove the tape from your mouth. If you try to scream … well, you’re gonna wish you hadn’t. Nod if you understand.”
Sam rolls his eyes and gives a slow, irritated nod.
A painful ripping sound echoes in the room as I pull the duct tape from Sam’s lips. He lets out a groan but bites back on his scream, opening and closing his mouth to ease the sting on his lips.
“MMMmmmgghhrrr … son of a bitch! How the hell did your stupid ass find me?” Sam grunts.
“We got sources, bro.” Chester says.
“Shush, Chester!” I fire back.
“Dude, no names, man – we need code names. You can be King, I’ll be Duece, and Taylor can be Jack or Ace. It’s like a deck of cards.”
“You do realize I just said your name, you just gave him Taylor’s name, and he already knows who I am. Sooooo … ”
Chester’s face freezes in thought.
“Nevermind,” I say.
“It’s not about that, Ellis – I mean, King. It’s about the mood, bro. It’s gotta be ominous, or he won’t take us seriously.”
“I doubt he’s taking you seriously, after your scuffle in the parking lot.” I look at Sam to see if he agrees, and he shrugs as if to say he’s indifferent to the whole situation. “See?”
“You always ruin things for me, Ellis,” Chester whines. “You can be such a tool sometimes. Plus, I could go for a lot less attitude and a little more gratitude.”
“Gratitude. For what?” My brain tries to figure out what possible thing I should be grateful to Chester for now.
“For nabbing your buddy there.” Chester nods his head toward Sam and his chest – or rather his belly – puffs up.
I close my eyes and shake my head, hoping it will force the stress from my body. “You know what? Go make yourself useful and get some stuff from the car. Maybe some snacks and a change of clothes. Your shirt is covered in grime.”
Taylor pulls his keys out and tosses them to Chester – who once again misses the easy catch, picks up the keys, and leaves.
“Tay, see if there are some water bottles in the fridge or something,” I say, and then take a moment to check my phone for any missed calls or text messages. None.* (No one loves me, most certainly not Liz right now. Plus the only two people that really call or text are right here with me in Wilmington.)
I hear Chester coming back inside and dumping stuff in the other room. By the sound of his heavy breathing, I can tell he’s changing clothes. He rounds the corner, dressed in an ugly-looking get-up, but at least he’s clean now. He’s got on his Charlotte Bobcats jersey with a pair of shorts, and he’s wearing his high-top Converse Chuck Taylors, but he’s folded down the sides so they’re modified low tops. They look ridiculous. He’s snarfing a bag of Funyuns, tilting it up in the air with one hand to speed up the delivery of food to his stomach. In his other hand is a broom.
In this get-up I can see Chester’s single tattoo on his shoulder. It’s a solid black cross. I need to take a sidebar to explain Chester’s religious views. It’s quite simple: he has none, because he’s an atheist. Why the cross then? I will tell you. Chester wanted to have his name tattooed on his arm, but he also isn’t fond of pain. So he asked the guy drilling him with ink to start with the ‘T’, and in the event the pain was too unbearable, he would conclude his business and just keep the crucifix. Cheste
Now back to the interrogation. “Alright, Sam. Why did you set me up with Tony, and where’s Kline?”
Sam makes a bad decision to stay tightlipped.
“Man, you better talk or we’re gonna shove this broom so far up your ass you’ll be able to sweep the floor while you walk,” Chester says.
I give a calming hand gesture to Chester. He really gets riled up sometimes.* (Or maybe it’s all the time.)
I ask again, and again Sam sits in silence.
“This ain’t a joke, Fat Man. I swear we will get a knife and chop some fingers off, then your balls, followed by –”
“Jesus, Chester, shut up for a minute!”
Taylor enters the room. “I can tell you haven’t found out anything yet.” He looks at Chester. “Hand me a Funyun.” The bag sails through the air and Taylor snags it easily.
“Look, Sam. Just tell us what we need to know. I’ve already spoken with the police. They think you’re dead, but I’m going to let them know you aren’t. And then I’m going to let Tony know. We might even leave you tied up here and give him the address.”
Silence follows, and Sam seems to be thinking on things long and hard.
“That’s it,” Chester says and walks out of the room. He comes right back in holding a beer bong. “I’m going to put this in your mouth and then pour some Clorox down your throat.”
I have to admit that’s pretty dark coming from Chester, and I’m somewhat terrified by the course of action he’s willing to take. But I can’t understand one thing. “Why did you bring a beer bong?”
“Road trip, bro – duh,” he says, his mouth going slack as he utters, ‘duh’.
“I’ll go get the bleach. Maybe that will loosen his tongue,” Taylor says and moves toward the kitchen, handing the Funyuns back to Chester.
“Okay … okay!” Sam yelps.
We all stand silently, waiting for what will come next.
“It was Kline all the way,” he says. “He double-crossed me. First he showed up saying he was going to arrest me on site. Even pulled a gun on me. Then he started talking business and early retirement for himself. He said he knew about my little operation with Tony and he wanted in on it. The plan was simple: I was going to buy more product than usual, and we would split everything down the middle.”
He pauses to collect his thoughts. Then he continues, “We would take the money I had and some he’d stolen from police lockup and start our own business on the side. But we had to have a fall guy.” He looks at me. “That would be you. We needed to make it look like you were the one who screwed over Tony. Not me. Still, I would need to leave the picture, so we were going to make it look like I was killed when you showed up.”
I interrupt him even though I’m sure he’ll keep talking. “And?”
“When you left, that cocksucker betrayed me. He just took all the money and the drugs.”
Taylor says, “Why’d he take the drugs?”
“He said he didn’t want me selling it to kids on the street. Can you believe it? His moral compass is a little fucked up.”
“Why not tell Tony what happened, then?” I ask.
Sam lets out a laugh. “That’s rich, kid. He would treat it as if I had stolen the money and drugs anyway. You can’t just drop that kind of ball on the Mafia. They may not give you a Columbian necktie, but it isn’t going to be a nice severance package, if you know what I mean.”
“What’s a Columbian necktie?” Chester says, munching on the Funyuns again.
Sam can’t move his arms, but his hands turn in circles as he speaks. “It’s where they slice your throat from ear to ear. Then they reach in and pull your tongue out and drop it across your chest.”
“I thought you said it was tie?”
Sam looks at Taylor, then me. “Is he serious?” He looks back at Chester. “It’s not a real tie; the tongue pulled out and laying there ends up looking like a tie.”
Chester’s eyes widen and then bulge and he swallows the mouthful of Funyuns hard and loud. “Oh my God. That is so sick, bro. Next time we tie someone up we should totally use that as a threat.” And he goes back to chowing on his snack.
“Watch him, guys. I need to make a few calls,” I say.
I pull out my cell and call Detective Reed, giving him the rundown. Having Sam is good news, but no drugs and no money don’t really do much. He can get the identity theft charges for sure, but it’ll be a tough battle getting Tony pinched. Not to mention all three of our lives will still be in danger in the meantime.
I hang up and then phone Taylor’s private detective. I explain that we don’t need any information on Sam since he’s in our custody, but we want whatever he dug up on Kline.
Turns out he’s cleaner than a whistle; nothing out of the ordinary in general. Just has a deceased wife from a few years back and still makes alimony payments to an ex-wife. I stop him at that point. It could be a long shot, but maybe she knows something – like his possible whereabouts, or other family or friends he might contact for a place to hide.* (I’m praying inside that Kline hasn’t fled the country.) He gives me a phone number. Calling her will be our next move.
25 The Call
The decision about who will call isn’t decided by a vote or by drawing straws. It’s common sense. It has to be Chester.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, why would we leave it up the dummy to place the call? Well, two reasons. We decide we’ll pretend to be police officers. So it needs to sound very professional. I’m going to be taking notes while the phone is on speaker, and Chester will be asking the questions I write down. Chester is also usually pretty good at improv, and I’ll be damned if he can’t turn on the serious and do a wicked impersonation.* (His impressions are great too. He has a fantastic Ah-nuld Schwarzenegger, a decent Morgan Freeman, and his Sir Sean Connery is spot-on. Another side note: Chester has even been known to get full refunds for items he never even purchased before, just because we bet him that he couldn’t.)
The phone is ringing and my pen is in my hand. After four rings there’s an answer, but it isn’t a normal ‘Hello’. It’s a long, drawn-out wet smoker’s cough, then a raspy, “‘Ello?”
I motion to Chester and he begins his Oscar-worthy performance in the voice and guise of Christopher Walken.
“Yes ma’am. I’m sorry to bother you … at this hour … ”
“Hour of the day?” She says, confused. “It’s two thirty in the afternoon. Are you a telemarketer?”
“No ma’am. I just thought … I might have been interrupting … your daytime soap opera … or something.”
“Is this a joke?” she says, then coughs again.
“No. Now tell me … um … is this Sharon … Gabhart?”
“Yeah,” she says, and we hear a long intake of air. It sounds like she’s smoking.
“My name is Detective Huff. My partner … Detective Doback and I are working on … an Internal Affairs investigation … involving your ex-husband … Archibald Kline.” Chester covers the speaker of the phone, laughs, and whispers to Taylor and me, “Doback and Huff.” He giggles. “Get it? From Step Brothers.”
I nod with irritation, roll my eyes, and wave my hands for him to go back to talking on the phone.* (I get the joke. He’s very clever. That’s sarcasm, by the way.)
“Oh, yes, Miss Gabhart … as I was saying, we’re investigating your husband … I mean your ex-husband. It seems … he has possibly stolen money … from the evidence looker … I mean locker … and has gone missing. Would you happen to know … where he might be?”
“Well, I couldn’t say for sure. But I will say this: if he’s stolen money, he owes me a few alimony payments. He’s a son of a bitch.” Her speech is just a tad slurred and sounds like she might have more crossed wires than my Datsun.
But Chester is able to keep the dialogue rolling. “We’ve frozen all of his assets … but with the amount of money he stole … we believe he may be attempting to …
Dammit, I wrote a big word down and now Chester is struggling to read it. He covers the speaker again and looks at me. “Extradition,” I say under my breath.
“Learn to write clearer, noob.” He uncovers the phone. “Extradition. I’m sorry, Miss Gabhart … a colleague of mine is asking me … a very annoying question.” Chester gives me a leering glare.
“Well, when you find that bastard, you tell him I want to speak with him. He owes me a shitload of back payments, and I swear I’ll take it out of that lake house he owns.”
My eyes widen, and I look back at Chester, waving my hands in circles for him to press her further.
“Excuse me – did you say … a lake house?”
“Yes. He owns one up near Lake Gaston. When we divorced I tried to get him to sell it so I could get my portion. But he owned it before we were married, and the house was in a trust, so I couldn’t get a piece of it.”
“Would you happen … to have an address?” Chester asks.
I write it down as she speaks, and Chester ends the conversation with the promise of getting back in touch when there’s a status update. * (He lays it on pretty thick near the end, mainly because he’s no longer reading from the paper and is winging it naturally at this point.)
Since we’re going on another trip, I tell Chester to grab a few changes of clothes and to also snag some more snacks and stuff from his pantry. When Chester returns from Sam’s room he’s all smiles. “Looky what I found, fellas.” In his right hand is a black pistol with a wooden hand grip. “Anyone wanna play Russian Roulette?” he says and puts the gun to his temple.
“Dude!” I yell louder than I mean to. “Don’t ever point a gun at anyone, especially yourself.”
“The safety’s on. I checked. No red, no dead, right?”