Chapter 35
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Radioville, AK
Virgil Thomas Fellows pretended to take another sip of the whiskey Joe had poured.
The awful brown liquid stung his lips. He opened the button of his suit jacket, placed his Salvatore Ferragamo alligator briefcase on the table, unlocked the dual gold-plated latches, and opened the lid.
He tried to keep a straight face, resisting the urge to recoil at what he saw. After all, he’d put it there himself.
Fellows saw himself as a man of detail, a planner, thorough and meticulous. Planning was paramount in the world of business. And this enterprise was just temporary, a stepping stone. Fellows read the business news. He’d parlay this nest egg into a real fortune.
In the top of the briefcase lay a folio with bank papers, a legal pad, and a black Montblanc Meisterstück 25 push-button filler fountain pen—one befitting a successful businessman such as himself.
The bottom of the case was filled with bound stacks of crisp hundred-dollar bills, which he’d counted twice before packing.
In the upper-right corner of the case, a Colt Peacemaker revolver he had purchased in Sitka.
Across the table sat Joe. He had nothing against Joe, and in fact Joe had been like a big brother to him.
This was his conundrum.
He was a businessman and Joe was a businessman.
Business was all about success, and Fellows was staring success in the face, all organized in neat bundles bound by paper wraps, the pure value of his success printed right on them.
He could be a 100 percent success, or he could be a 33 percent success.
The choice was there on the table. Everything he needed to execute his business decision—the rewards laid out and the means freshly oiled, loaded, and waiting.
Virgil Fellows had never killed anyone, never even fired a gun. Until two days ago he had never even touched one. He had never wanted to. And he really didn’t want to today, either.
Yet here he sat, his conundrum right in front of him, bound in the finest-quality alligator hide.
Anyone with discerning taste would see the briefcase and immediately recognize that Virgil Fellows was someone special, someone important, someone who knew his business and had the ruthless commitment to do whatever it took to succeed in this world.
“Here are the bank statements.” Fellows slid the folder across the table.
“Figured you’d wanna give em a once-over to make sure everything’s square.
You can spot them deposits, and they oughta match the sales from them pickups you logged in your book.
Total’s at the end, and I’ve divvied it up into three equal shares, minus a bit to cover expenses—”
Joe interrupted. “Good thing! Wouldn’t want anything crooked going on here in our criminal enterprise.” His eyes moved lazily over the documents.
“Ain’t you gonna reconcile,” Fellows said, “or whatever you call it, with that book of yours?”
“Nah, kid. I reckon I trust ya,” Joe said. “Wouldn’t have gone down this road if I thought you were the slippery type.”
Virgil began stacking the bundles of cash on the table in neat rows.
Joe’s eyes widened.
“You can tally up these and cross-check the total against the statements,” Fellows said. “After that, you can take our partner…whatever his name is…you can pass him his cut. Think there’s any chance we could snag a fresh face and keep this show rolling?”
Joe downed the rest of his drink and banged the glass down on the table. “C’mon, Fellows”—his words slurred—“we had our day, and we made out well. Let’s go our separate ways and be glad we got ahead. And, remember, no need for names. He don’t know yours, and you don’t know his. Safer like that.”
“You’re right,” Fellows said. “Safer like that.”
Fellows needed time to make a proper business decision. He needed to conduct himself as a businessman—regardless of the situation. He needed to be thorough.
Joe had been making fun of him, calling him “kid,” accusing him of stealing money to buy the boat.
Joe did not respect him as a businessman.
Joe wasn’t even going to reconcile the statements against his own records.
Joe didn’t appreciate the battle garb of business, the suit, the watch, the shoes, the briefcase.
Joe didn’t understand.
If he turned over two-thirds of the cash to Joe and left, his opportunity would be gone forever.
Fellows…why was he calling himself that? Joe was the only person who had ever called him “Fellows,” and now he had him calling himself that.
Virgil wanted his life back. He wanted to be the one to decide what he was called. He wanted to buy whatever briefcase or boat he fancied without someone scolding him as if he were a child.
Virgil wanted success. Success was on the table right in front of him, and all Virgil needed to do was to act like a proper businessman.
He had spent a while considering what angle the Peacemaker should take in the case.
He decided it should be on the right, lying at an angle with the right side of the weapon up and the barrel slanted toward the bottom.
That way, he could lay his right hand on the gun, pull the hammer back, and it would already be aimed.
If he were so inclined or if his hand shook, he could probably fire the gun without lifting it, although the thought of blowing a hole through his beautiful briefcase seemed like a step backward.
Joe got up and walked toward the kitchen, opening the liquor cabinet again.
Virgil slid his chair back and stood, raising the revolver with both hands. The gun shook as he aimed it at Joe’s back. He cocked the hammer. It was heavier than he imagined. He exhaled and tried to hold steady as he squeezed the trigger.