CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Cracker pulled a wrinkled piece of paper from his pocket.
He looked at it, looked at the address above the front door of the two-story white bungalow, and then knocked.
All the houses on this street looked the same.
Old. He crumbled the paper and dropped it on the stoop.
The front door opened. A man with a smashed face and impossibly wide shoulders filled the doorframe.
“You Joe Cracker Jones?” said the man.
Cracker eyed the man. He looked like one of them island people—Tongan or Samoan or something like that.
A lot of them was in the cage-fighting game.
Big and strong, but they always came out too fast, got winded, and then fell apart.
Cracker pushed past the man and stepped into the foyer.
An old white-haired man with a bruised face and a split lip sat at a table in the dining room on his right. A hand gripped Cracker’s shoulder.
“Hey, I asked you a question.”
Cracker turned, looking at the face of the Samoan or Tongan or whatever the man was, who was now holding his arm. One thing was sure, the man had been a fighter. Had scar tissue over both eyes that would bleed really nice with an elbow.
“Johnny, let him go.”
Cracker turned toward the voice. The old, white-haired man was on his feet.
“You must be Joe Cracker Jones. Thank you for coming,” said the old man. “I’m Duck. Would you like to sit down?”
Duck gestured at the table where two men were already seated.
Cracker pulled his arm out of Johnny’s grip and walked over.
He eyed a man at the end of the table with an anvil-shaped head and cauliflower ears.
Duck sat next to the other guy, who looked to be some kind of businessman in a suit and tie.
Cracker ignored the businessman and nodded at the man with cauliflower ears.
“You’re the one who called me. Derek Ryder, right? We was on a couple fight cards together. So, what’s this all about?”
“Mr. Jones, I’m hoping you might help us solve a problem,” said Duck, leaning forward in his seat.
“Who should I talk to here, Ryder?” said Cracker, shifting his gaze from Duck to the businessman. “Which of these boys is in charge?”
Derek glanced at Duck.
Cracker turned toward Duck. “So, tell me, Mr. Duck, what is it you need?”
“It’s Duck, not Mr. Duck,” said Duck, exasperated. He looked at Derek. “I thought you said he could take care of our situation. He acts like he doesn’t have a brain in his head.”
“He’ll take care of it,” said Derek. “Just tell him, and he’ll—”
Cracker let out a sharp whistle, stopping the conversation.
He stared at Duck. “Mr. Duck, if your situation involves shaking hands, introducing ourselves, sitting at a table, and making a big production out of this, then I’m not your man.
But if you want to pay me to hurt or beat a man to death, then we can talk.
Now which of these situations are we dealing with? ”
Duck sputtered, then pointed at Barry. “You tell him.”
Cracker turned to the businessman.
“Can you find and kill a man for us, Mr. Jones?” said Barry.
“Don’t know,” said Cracker. “Depends on what man and how much you’re paying.
” Cracker felt the big island boy Mr. Duck called ‘Johnny’ grab his shoulder.
He knew it wasn’t out of the norm to have muscle like Johnny hanging around for protection, but Johnny here had put hands on him twice. He was getting way too familiar.
“Why don’t you sit down?” said Johnny. “Your bullshit is wearing thin.”
Cracker turned. “I had a daddy that used to put hands on me. Didn’t like it then, and I don’t like it now.”
“You don’t listen, do you? Sit down,” said Johnny, shoving him.
Cracker stumbled. He faced Johnny, looked him up and down, and then head kicked him to the floor. Johnny fell like he’d been axed.
“Told you I don’t like hands on me,” Cracker said. He turned to the businessman. “Now, who’s this man you want dead?”
Barry looked at Johnny, out cold. He shifted his gaze to Cracker and said, “His name’s Conor Monroe.”
“You sure you want him dead? How ’bout I just rough him up?”
Barry looked at Duck.
“Dead,” said Duck, touching his split lip.
Cracker nodded at Duck. “He open your lip?”
“That’s none of your business,” said Duck, his voice rising. “I just want him in the ground.”
Cracker shrugged. “Don’t matter none to me. You want him dead, he’s dead. Just seems childish to kill a man for punching you in the mouth and giving you two black eyes. Maybe you deserved it.”
Duck’s face reddened. “If you’re not interested, you know where the door is. We can always find someone else looking for an easy payday.”
“Can’t be too easy if you had Derek call me,” said Cracker. He turned toward the businessman. “What’s it pay?”
“Ten thousand,” said Barry.
“Ten if you deliver him dead,” added Duck. “Twenty-five if you let me watch. Only payable after he’s dead.”
“I can live with twenty-five,” said Cracker. “Anything special I need to know about this Monroe boy?”
“He’s tough,” said Derek, putting a hand over his ribs.
“He do that to you?” said Cracker, pointing at Derek’s ribs.
Derek nodded. “I was beating him bloody. Next thing I know, I’m on my back. Busted ribs.”
“Everybody gets lucky,” said Cracker.
“He sure did,” said Derek.
“I meant you,” said Cracker. “If I’d cracked your ribs, I’d have gone to work and cracked a few other things. Monroe must be sweet on you.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed.
“So,” said Cracker. “I need to know where this Monroe boy lives, drinks, eats, who his friends are, where his family lives—things like that.”
“Derek can put that together for you,” said Barry.
Cracker turned to leave. “All right then. Get my twenty-five thousand ready. I’ll call when I have him. You can watch me kill him.” He looked at Derek. “Shouldn’t take long, so pay attention to your phone.”
Cracker bent down and rubbed Johnny’s chest until Johnny stirred. He helped Johnny to his feet. “You awake?” he said, holding Johnny’s shoulders and looking into his eyes.
“Yeah,” slurred Johnny.
“Good,” said Cracker. He moved his gaze over Duck, Barry, and Derek.
“I’ll see the rest of you boys later.” Then he punched Johnny in the back of the head.
Johnny dropped in a heap. Cracker gave the men a moment to stare at Johnny before adding, “By the way, I imagine you have people looking for this Monroe fella. Tell them to quit. I don’t need nobody flushing him out and setting him running before I find him.
That would be what they call, ‘a breach of contract.’” He focused his gaze on Duck.
“And I will not abide that. If you make that mistake, believe me, I will get paid, but you will be the worse for wear.” He turned and stepped on Johnny’s hand as he walked out, snapping one of his fingers.
Outside, looking up into the afternoon sun, Cracker could hear the boys inside talking to that Johnny fella, trying to wake him up. They sounded upset. Cracker raised his arms toward the sky.
It felt good to be alive.
* * *
Cracker sat in his truck outside the old, abandoned General Motors plant on the outskirts of town.
Surveillance cameras were set up around the property, so he couldn’t just cut through the fence and walk in, but there was a sign with a realty company’s phone number.
After calling their office, Cracker parked next to the main gate under one of the cameras.
The sign above the gate read ‘Warning. Twenty-four-hour surveillance. Trespassers will be prosecuted.’
The half-hour it took for the real estate agent to show up gave Cracker time to call Derek and get Conor Monroe’s address and the names of his friends.
Then he ate a protein bar and thought things over.
Twenty-five grand to kill this Monroe fella in front of Mr. Duck was a good payday, but they’d need a place to fight where Mr. Duck and that businessman could enjoy the show.
This abandoned GM plant would be perfect.
He just hoped Conor was a respectable fighter.
It was no fun fighting someone without skills.
But by the looks of Derek Ryder, Conor Monroe might make things interesting.
Not like them Orientals in their death matches.
Broken knee, broken elbow—it didn’t matter, they kept coming.
Took a broke-ass neck to get their attention.
But even though Monroe wasn’t from the Far East, he might put up a respectable fight.
A man could always hope.
Cracker finished eating his protein bar. He wiped his hands, watching his rear-view mirror as a car pulled in behind his truck. A woman got out and waved at him.
He got out of his truck, nodded, and smiled.
She talked a mile a minute as they walked toward the empty factory, rattling on about leasing and build-out options on the vacant space.
They stepped inside, and he waited while she found the lights.
It smelled like metal shavings and oil. Overhead lights clicked on, revealing a long, wide expanse of concrete floor.
It reminded Cracker of an aircraft hangar he’d once fought in down in Mississippi—wide open space with a ceiling that was three stories high.
The building was huge, but he immediately saw what he was looking for.
He walked toward a black chain-link, two-story cage in the middle of the empty factory, walking around it until he found the door.
He stepped into the cage as the realty agent clicked after him in her high heels, talking breathlessly, because she had twenty or so pounds to lose and was trying her very best to keep up.
“This is the tool crib,” she said, following Cracker into the cage.
“It’s a secure space for storing tools or equipment.
The footprint is four hundred square feet, all of which is caged top to bottom with reinforced, black-vinyl-coated, steel chain link.
” She grabbed the door and rattled it. “Once you put a lock on this door, your valuables will be very safe.”
Cracker looked over the cage. It was as good a spot as any to fight to the death. He looked at the woman. “Are there surveillance cameras inside here?”
“Yes, but they aren’t functioning. If you’d like, I can set you up with a local security company. It shouldn’t take long to have them back online.”
“I’ll let you know on that,” Cracker said. He pursed his lips, deep in thought. “My main problem is how do I get back in here to show my boss this space? He needs a hundred thousand square feet, fast.”
The agent smiled. “You can call me any time to set up an appointment.”
Cracker shook his head. “My boss is a son-of-a-bitch. He won’t wait for you. Not one minute. Best bet is to give me a key.”
The woman sighed. “I can’t do that. It’s against policy.”
Cracker walked out of the tool crib, leaving the agent behind.
“Mr. Jones?” she said, her voice rising as she ran after him.
Cracker stopped to let her catch up.
“I can’t give you a key,” she huffed. “But I can leave one at the office for you to pick up whenever you want. Will that work?”
“I don’t think so,” said Cracker. “But there’s other spaces in town, so don’t worry yourself. I appreciate your time.”
The agent hissed through clenched teeth. “God, I can get in trouble for this,” she said, taking a key off her key ring and pulling a business card out of her purse. “Here’s my spare, but please get it back to me as soon as your boss has seen the property. Can you promise you’ll do that, Mr. Jones?”
“I can,” said Cracker, taking the key and her business card. “Right after he sees it, I’ll drop the key off with your receptionist. Thank you for your understanding.”
The woman smiled. “I hope he likes it,” she said.
“He will,” said Cracker, pulling out the piece of paper with Conor’s last known address. “He’s gonna love it.”