Omaha Page 4
Time: 2 AM
By 2 am the crowds of cops and press have finally cleared out. David, Todd, Jay, Lance, Tom, Bob and Mike, a few minutes apart, take separate SUVs from the parking lot and rendezvous at an all night diner several blocks away. After checking that they've not been followed, they then drive to the other side of town.
Pulling up to a large garage door at the side of a dingy old flat roofed cinder block building, Lance hits a remote control and the door slowly rises. The SUVs pull in and the door noisily rattles down behind them.
They are in an old, unheated, auto repair shop with stalls for ten or fifteen cars. The walls are cinder block, painted gray, stained with soot and grease. The windows are dirt covered frosted glass set about 10 feet above the floor. The floor itself is marked by the blackened grease and the tread marks of many years of use. Old tires are piled in corners. Metal benches are covered with old tools, and tattered manuals. Rusted old car parts lie about in the corners. The remnants of posters and old cheesecake calendars hang on the walls. One shop light with two long tubes hangs humming and buzzing above and provides the only light.
Mike sees the van with his would-be killers in the middle of the floor directly beneath the shop light. His old car is parked in a stall at the far end of the garage, Tom and Bob's car is next to it. David pulls his SUV to within a few feet of the van, the second SUV stops behind his. Lance gets out and walks over to a metal box mounted on the wall, pulls the cover open and flips some switches. More shop lights flicker on, dim at first in the cold but slowly getting brighter as the white tubes begin to warm up.
The rest get out of the SUVs at the same time as Lance's guys hop out of their van and circle around to the rear. They unlock and pull open the door and prod out the captives within. They line them up in front of David and his people. The four are stripped to their DiscountMart underwear and cheap running shoes, their hands are tightly bound behind their backs. They shiver both in fear and from the sub zero cold. Their rapid breathing shows in quick puffs of steam.
David's people stand in a line opposite and examine the four men before them. They're mainly Midwest street trash, farm boys who thought they could make a few quick bucks in the city. Square chins, dirty blond hair, blue eyed, broad shouldered, muscular, a few tattoos, room temp IQ's, all in their mid to late twenties, none recently shaved. They cautiously glare back at their captors.
Lance walks back from the light switches past the row of four when one of the street trash mutters, "Fucking fag."
Lance spins around, targets the guy who said it and menacingly treads towards for him. The guy is tall, lots of muscle, stringy dirty blond hair, blond stubble. He spits in Lance's direction and says, in what might be described as a poor choice of words, under the circumstances, "Fucking queer."
Lance turns and says quietly to one of the bouncers, "Cut him loose, Tony." The bouncer walks over with a set of heavy duty shears and slices the nylon restraints. The blond pulls his arms around, massages his wrists, shakes his hands a few times, crouches slightly, arms forward in a wrestling stance and says, "Okay fag, boy, come and get it." Again, not the best way in which to make friends and win people over.
Lance casually walks straight towards him. The blond lunges, Lance swings slightly to the right, his arm traveling further back, fist clenched, his huge biceps fully flexed and lets go with a massive gut punch that lifts the lunging blond up into the air. His feet hit the ground with a thud as he doubles up and staggers backwards. He wobbles, straightens up, then lunges again.
Lance's arm is flexed and at shoulder height. He pivots back and to the right then slams his clenched fist full force into the on coming blond's face. There's a crunching sound and a crack. The blond's head spins violently to the right as spit, blood and teeth explode from his mouth. He collapses into a heap of teeth, blood and grease on the stained cement floor and lies motionless.
Lance brandishes his fist at the remaining three and asks, "Anyone else wanna say fag?" They noticeably cringe and nervously shake their heads no.
The blond begins to stir, his face flat on the floor. He tries to prop himself up on one arm but falls. Finally, stumbling to his feet, he spits out more blood and teeth. One of the bouncers tosses him a rag and he begins to wipe the blood from his face now smeared with black grease as well.
Lance looks over at him and sneers, "You wanna go a second round?"
The blond painfully shakes his head, his stringy blond hair now grease soaked as well, flapping against it blood stained face. He will always bear the scars of this night.
David, looking up and shaking his head, says in a low voice, "Well, besides turning them over to Lance for sparing partners, what'ya think, guys? What should we do with them?" asks David. "We need something that will send a message to the organization not to screw with us."
"Why not turn'em over to the cops?" asks Jay.
"No, they've got nothing on them, other than maybe an accessory charge for earlier tonight. Anyway, there'd be too many questions about how we caught them, why we didn't turn them in, why they were at the club, that sort of thing. We need to keep Mike out of the news for now. No, I think we need to work our own solution out."
"Dammit. These freaks are hired killers," says Mike. "Take'em out in the farmlands and dump'em in a ditch and let them freeze to death. Corpsicles tell no tales."
"Nah, that would be Jack's way of doing business."
"Damned right! And these are Jack's minions. Duh?"
"No, Mike. Calm down. You can't go freezing everybody that wants you dead."
"I say we just dump them at that first rest stop on I80 west of town and see if Joe or Pete can fetch them before they freeze or some horny truckers stuff one or two of them in their Peterbilt sleeper," Lance offers grinning.
"Ahh, and just exactly how much do you know about Peterbilt sleepers?" asks Mike.
Lance pats Mike on the butt and says, "Be happy to show you anytime, dude." Mike decides not to ask any more questions.
"Okay. Besides satisfying Lance's fantasies about three days in a truck to Barstow, that's not a bad idea," says David. "And, just out of curiosity, exactly how many Peterbilt sleepers have you been in?"
"Oh, give it a rest, will'ya. It ain't easy being easy, ya'know?" mutters Lance.
"Yeah, Lance might have stumbled onto something," says Todd. "Better yet, dump'em and then 911 the highway patrol and tell them there's a bunch of pervs doing lewd acts in the public rest rooms."
"Yeah, not bad, maybe call a few TV stations too. Should make for some nice publicity. The kind their employer won't like. And I want to hear the cover story our boys make up, I don't think the truth will do them much good. And I sure don't think Joe wants his name brought into the picture, if ya'know what I mean?" says David.
Looking over at the would-be killers he continues, "That might have consequences, guys, very unhealthy consequences. I think you guys got a problem on your hands tonight."
"Yeah, they're totally smoked," says Todd.
They look to one another and then back at David who says, "Okay, if we're all agreed?" The others nod assent, "Load'em up. Sean, you know the rest stop we're talking about? About 30 miles west on I80?"
"You bet, no problem." answers Sean. "I think that's the one Lance hangs out at."
"Grrr, you're a dead man walking Seanie."
"Probably is, but I hear he works most all of them," comments David to Lance's further annoyance. "When you get there, pull in and dump'em fast. Don't wait around. But get a good picture of them lined up in front of the building. I want a souvenir to send to Joe, Pete and Jack."
"What the fuck is everybody picking on me for?" whines Lance.
"You got it, David. I'll see if there's any messages on the walls for you too, Lance," says Sean as he ducks to avoid a cardboard box Lance hurls his way.
They prod their charges back into the van and slam the doors shut. The van starts up, the garage door rises and off they drive int
o the cold night, exhaust plumes blowing in the wind.
The others get back in their SUVs. Todd jogs back to his after killing the lights. They ride out into the night back to the Rún while the garage door descends.
Time: 2:45 AM
The van with Pete's assassins drives west on a dark and snow swept I80. It pulls into the deserted rest area and stops parallel to the curb. The captives are released, their nylon binds cut and told to line up in front of the entrance to the small building with the rest rooms. "Smile for the camera, guys," says Sean to the four guys in briefs and running shoes. In the -40F wind chill, they grasp their chests with criss crossed arms with legs tightly clasped together. Several cell phone camera pictures are taken before the van speeds off.
The four dash into the small building which, smelling of urine, is wonderfully warmer than outside. They look at one another and at the dark lamp lit parking area beyond dumbfounded. They are cold and abandoned on the prairie standing in a small brick lavatory. The fluorescent light fixtures buzz and the fan in a scuffed, old green built-in electric wall heater rumbles against the cold.
One of them says as he points out at the lot, "That Shea guy was right, we really do have a problem."
Outside, an 18-wheeler rolls slowly to a stop. It sits and waits. Finally, two bearded truckers alight, and, pointing at the guys visible through the building's large glassed front, jog towards the building. As they near and pass under one of the sodium vapor lamps, they see that one has a gun.
They panic and rush through the steel men's room door and barricade themselves behind it. The truckers, now inside the building try pushing on the door but without result. The prospect of three days on the road to Barstow with these drivers made the four very serious about keeping the door closed. A few shots are fired at the door but they fail to penetrate the thick metal panel. After several minutes of unaccepted solicitations, the truckers pee on the floor and stomp back to their big sleeper and drive off.
Cautiously the four creep back into the small lobby when they hear the truck roar off in the distance. They look with relief as they see its tail lights recede. That relief is short as, from their left, about two miles distant, they spot highway patrol cars, lights flashing, heading their way fast. One of the four quickly says to the others, "Okay, here's the story, we were kidnapped by those two truckers and escaped here. Got it?"
"Where were we kidnapped?" asks one.
"I dunno, back in Omaha a block southwest of that club where we waited in Joe's van. Say we were going to the club when we were held up at gun point. My car's near there anyway. Don't say anything about what happened at the club, we know nothing. Tell'em it happened about 9:30."
"They'll never buy it."
"You got a better story? After that mess at the club, they won't give damn about us. You heard the shooting and the screaming back there. The police will only be interested in that case right now. Just say we were kidnapped at gun point. Anyway, the bullet holes in the door will prove we're telling the truth. Tell'em we got away when they stopped to take a piss. We ran out and beat them in here and barricaded ourselves behind the door."
"What about our clothes?"
"They made us take'em off so we wouldn't be able to run away. They got'em."
The others nod just as the cops burst through the door, guns drawn. They are quickly cuffed just as a camera crew in a van from one of the Omaha stations swerves into the rest stop followed quickly by two more. Heavy broadcast quality cameras are hefted into place, banks of high intensity lights pop up from the roofs of the TV stations' trucks. They blind everyone before them. Quaffed but sleepy news readers pop in front of the cameras, microphones in hand.
Questions are asked of the senior officer, basking in attention not usually afforded to those working patrol on a rural stretch of prairie interstate. The cameramen film the restrained underwear clad would-be killers, one with ominous blood stains on his briefs, surrounded by posing cops with menacing assault rifles. Finally, the show ends and the pervs are stuffed in the back of two of the patrol cars which speed away to a waiting jail cell.
All this will make lurid eyewitness news TV video. A great feature for the morning news farm and food hour. All the next day, at every commercial break, Chyrons will tease: Perverts On The Interstate: Are your Children Safe? More Breaking news at 5, 6 and 10. The videos make Internet and the cable networks in minutes.
Time: 3 AM
The returning SUVs park behind Fort Shea, as Todd continues to call it. It's nearly three in the morning. The guys enter the main floor of the club. They drag together a few tables and pull up chairs. Mary joins them from upstairs. She goes over to the bar, pulls a bottle of scotch and some glasses and puts them on the table. Jay fetches her laptop from behind the bar. Lance says, "I need some food," and goes over and grabs a handful of packs of nuts and chips and brings them back to the table. Drinks are poured, the packs of nuts and chips are ripped open, cigarettes are lit.
They all freeze in silence as the first of several small yellow birds, daunted by the events earlier, but recognizing Jay and the others, cautiously descends and begins to poke at one of the open bags of chips. Eventually it pulls forth a large curled golden slice of fried potato. Others follow. A feathery feast erupts and singing re-commences. That chip and many more like it quickly disappear. Around the table they smile to one another at the spectacle before them.
Jay opens her laptop and powers up. It automatically connects to the club's encrypted wireless network. She quickly downloads a series of incoming messages.
David looks to her and asks, "Okay, what have we got?"
"Our web site has all the video and stills from the club tonight. First, there's the video of the whole Harry and Steve show from when they jumped onto the stage until the cops zip the body bags. Then I got the still pictures of Harry and Steve on the stage, one of the kid getting hit in the groin, several of the lasers toasting their hands, some of Harry and Steve hitting the floor, the crowd attacking them and some shots of what was left of them and, finally, the body bag shots. The site's been hit more than a half a million times and the videos are all over the Internet. Wanna see?" says Jay.
"Yeah, let's see," says David.
Jay hits a few keys and a screen rumbles down on the stage and an overhead video projector switches on. After about thirty seconds, it reaches full brightness and they all watch the replay and view the stills. Jay displays the network and Internet news site pages all with the links back to the club.
Then Jay says, "Okay, I'm just now getting the stills from the I80 rest stop. Here they are."
The cell phone camera pictures appear on the main screen.
David says, "I like that. So will Joe, Pete and Jack. Okay," turning to Jay, "Make sure there's nothing in the files that could identify us as the source and send those rest stop photos to Joe, Pete and Jack."
"Will do," says Jay.
The sit and discuss the events of the night before for a few more minutes until, finally, David says, "And in the later watch of wasting night, the setting stars to kindly rest invite. In short, let's get to bed. It'll be a busy day tomorrow."
Time: 9 AM
The next morning, the newspapers and TV have full coverage of the events of the night before at Mo Rún. There are lurid pictures and video of Harry and Steve, the shooting, Harry and Steve in the body bags. This, coupled with the seemingly unrelated story of the pervs on the interstate makes for a banner day in Omaha broadcasting. Quickly the news networks pick up the story as do local affiliates. Interviews commence on the cable news channels. The entertainment networks are also on the story to spice up an otherwise dull day of Congressional show trials. The ratings surge.
Pete's day, however, goes downhill quickly. The events took place too late to make the late news but the morning broadcasts consist of nothing but stories of the events the night before. He checks his email and finds the anonymously sent pictures and video from the night before. He has a pretty good idea of
where they originated. On the TV he sees even more. He picks up the newspapers that have been dropped outside his hotel room. He knows that when Jack sees these, there will be big trouble, very big trouble. He has seriously screwed up in a line of work that frowns on error and, worse, drawn national attention, another serious no-no. He prays there's no story giving the real reason for the club attempt. It's bad enough as it is.
In St. Louis that morning, Jack, not yet aware of what transpired the night before, switches on TV while he gets first dose of coffee for the day. Jack lives in a spacious condominium in one of the nicer old gated communities near Forest Park. Jack is about fifty. He's been in the crime business all his life as was his father before him. Jack's dad had connections and Jack used them. He started out in Vegas running money laundering then got promoted to dean of discipline in LA. He left an impressive body count and few dissatisfied customers, at least, none that ever complained. He acceded to the Midwest barony when the previous incumbent met with an untimely early demise. Jack was good at arranging that sort of thing. In St. Louis, Jack ruled an inland empire of drugs, prostitution, smuggling, gambling, loan sharking and just about every other vice known to man and beast. He had the political establishment of six states in his pocket. No one messed with Jack. His fuse was short and his reach was long.
But he freezes when he hears the news and watches angrily as the operation in Omaha collapses in a shambles. By now, the networks have begun to ask whether there's a connection between the small time drug dealers discovered on the interstate and the events at the club although there is no solid evidence of such. Not that the networks need any actual evidence, but because it gives them an excuse to show the lurid footage of four scantily clad guys, one with blood stains on his underwear. It's a ratings game, after all.
Jack now realizes that things have taken a serious turn for the worse. He knows he needs to be very careful and very ruthless. He calls one of his people and tells him to quickly get him some untraceable pre-paid cell phones so he can make some very unmonitored calls. Jack doesn't want his caller id on any phones right now. Jack thinks it's about time that he took direct control over the situation in Omaha and that it might be time that Pete took early retirement from the business. He knows too much and screws up too much. Not a good track record. Later in the day Jack receives his prepaid cell phones and begins making some calls.
At the same time in Omaha, Pete anxiously calls Joe and emotionally asks, "Have you seen the fucking TV? What the fuck happened last night? I got some anonymous email pictures and video too. How'd the fuck anyone get my email address? I don't want to talk on the phone about this. Someone may have bugged the line. Meet me at the warehouse and bring Mark and Sid. I'll be there at one o'clock."
He slams the phone, grabs his coat and storms out of the room, the door closing loudly behind him. All this is captured by the Mo Rún's hack of Pete's laptop and dutifully recorded by unsleeping software on file servers back at the club.
Time: Noon
About noon Saturday morning, David and the guys, groggy from the late night before and only limited sleep, stagger into David's apartment for a breakfast of cold pizza, strategy and videos. They watch the recorded scenes from Pete's hotel room laughing and high-fiving.
"Yo, man, he's screwed," says Mike.
"Screwed would be a lucky break, found bobbing in the Missouri, that's more likely," says Jay.
"Totally smoked. Jack's gonna go postal. Punch up the news networks and let's see some PDF's of the newspapers, especially St. Louis," says Todd.
They watch the news feeds, laughing and clapping at each new one. They cheer at the lurid, above-the-fold, full color shots in the Omaha and St. Louis papers.
After going through all the broadcasts, David says, "Ya'know, I think it's time I had a little chat with Pete."
"What, are you nuts?" says Mike.
"No, I just feel that he might be open to a little persuasion to re-negotiate his contract, so to speak."
"How's that?" asks Mike.
"Listen, he's on the ropes. Everything he's tried has come up empty. My guess is that Jack is not a very forgiving person. Am I right?"
"Oh yes, Jack doesn't like failure. Neither do Jack's colleagues. My guess is that right now, they're not too happy and a little bit concerned as to whether Jack's in control of things," says Mike. "Jack knows this too, so, I guess Pete's got a problem too."
"Then maybe we've got some leverage with Pete right now. We've turned other guys in the organization, why not Pete? He's got incentive and I don't think there's a lot of brotherly loyalty here. He may be able to hand us Jack himself."
"But once we put together our report, Jack's in plenty of trouble anyway. So why bother?" says Jay.
"Yeah, and then after ten years and a hundred lawyers, he walks free. No, that's not the way I see it. I want to nail Jack in the act. Give the cops something they can really pin on him, a real crime, not a paper trail he can buy his way out of," says David.
"Yeah, well, that's a point. But we can still do our exposé of the organization even if Jack's up on charges," says Mike.
"It's worth a try," says David.
"So, where are you gonna meet with Pete?" Mike asks.
"His hotel."
"When?" Lance asks.
"Tomorrow."
"Are you going alone?" asks Mike.
"No, Lance, you're coming too."
"No problem," says Lance.
"Jay, you willing to come along?. We may need an inconspicuous spotter. Seems like you're not on anybody's radar screen."
"Sure seems that way. I guess Jack never did his arithmetic on me, serves him right for being a sexist pig. Yeah, I'll come," says Jay.
"Is this really a good idea?" Mike asks.
"Only one way to find out. And anyway, you can all watch on Pete's rigged laptop." says David.
They finish their cold pizza and wait for Pete's appearance at the warehouse.
Time: 1 PM
Sid and Mark are the first to arrive at the warehouse. They've also seen the papers and TV. They suspect that Pete's days are numbered so they want to distance themselves from him if at all possible.
Joe arrives looking ashen. He knows things are going downhill quickly and it's just a matter of time before St. Louis goes berserk. He just wants to be sure it's Pete that gets toasted, not himself.
Sid, Mark and Joe wait nervously in Joe's bugged office.
Joe says, "I don't know what went wrong but it looks like everything that could did. Damn, now we're on freaking TV. St. Louis won't like this. They don't appreciate publicity, ya'know what I mean?"
They both nod knowledgeably. Then they hear heavy, fast foot falls stomping down the wood floored corridor. The door bursts open and in walks Pete in a rage brandishing a newspaper.
"Okay you three, what the fuck happened last night? Have you seen this crap?" waving the newspaper. "How the hell did our guys end up half naked at a rest stop out on the interstate? I want some answers, now."
Mark says, "Everything seemed okay. I got in, locked the door to the club, opened the loading dock door. Then I ducked out to go wait with Sid to cover Harry and Steve's exit, just like we planned. The last I saw, our guys were going up in the elevator. Everything was according to plan."
Sid joins in, "Mark and I were waiting out behind the club when we heard the gun shots. We went and looked in the emergency door and saw Harry and Steve getting the crap beat out'a them by the crowd and then the fire. We split. I saw the rest of it on TV this morning. I don't know what happened to our guys in the elevator."
"Well something sure the fuck went wrong. What the fuck was up with Harry and Steve? Who the hell told him to shoot some kid?"
"I guess they didn't have much choice. The papers say some kid opened fire on them," offers Joe.
"Yeah, and that got the fucking riot started. Now those corpses are all over the TV. Is there any way they can trace them back here?" asks Pete.
"Probabl
y not. But they've both got records. I think the police will put two and two together. But it still shows up as robbery and they had a revenge motive, too. I don't think they'll find out about us. Too much else to go on."
"And what's with your four guys the highway patrol picked up?"
"I had an attorney go and say he was sent by one of their families. He called me and said they put together a story that they were hijacked by some truckers and that they escaped and barricaded themselves in the men's room at the rest stop. Some horny truckers actually did try to take them on and there were bullet holes in the steel door of the men's room to prove it. One of my guys actually had a broken jaw and a lot of bruise marks, I don't know how, yet. They were released an hour ago except for the one with the broken jaw, he's still at the hospital. The lawyer told them to come here separately once they were sure no one was following them. They should start arriving soon. They'll be able to tell us what happened in the elevator."
"Okay, then we wait for them," says Pete. "Mark, Sid, can you go up the street and get some coffee and donuts?"
Mark and Sid head up the street to the coffee shop. As they leave the building, they see the first of the would be killers approaching. Mark nods at him tilting his head towards the door saying, "They're waiting." The other nods back and enters.
As they walk quickly up the street Mark says, "Pete's in big trouble. He looked desperate, don't'ya think?"
"Dead man walking. I wonder if he's spoken with Jack?"
"Who knows? Does he need to? That operation was supposed to send a message to David but it ended up that David sent a message to Jack. I wonder what other tricks that David guy has up his sleeve?"
"I think Pete's running out of tricks," says Sid. "But I wouldn't sell Jack short."
By the time Mark and Sid return, the last of the four has arrived. Mark and Sid sit back near the wall hoping their interrogation is over.
Pete, stirring his coffee nervously, begins, "Okay what the fuck happened last night?"
One of the four, Bill, says, "We got in the club as planned. Harry and Steve were holding everyone's attention, or so we thought. We got into the elevator shaft, got on the elevator and started it up. But they were waiting. Between the top two floors the elevator stopped and we were blinded by big halogen shop lights from the floor above. They had us covered and we couldn't even see them. They grabbed us, hauled us to a garage somewhere and striped us. We couldn't see where we were, the van had no windows."
Another continues, "That's where Nick shot off his mouth and one of Shea's guys beat the crap out of him. Then they put us back in the van and drove us out to the rest stop where they took some pictures and left us. A couple of truckers attacked us but we barricaded ourselves in the men's room. The highway patrol and TV crews arrived a few minutes later, obviously tipped off. We told them we were abducted at gun point. They bought it. The bullet holes on the men's room door convinced them as did Nick's broken jaw. They couldn't hold us on anything so they let us go an hour or so ago. That's about it."
Pete looks at Joe and gives an exasperated sigh and says, "Well, that David guy knew we were coming. How the fuck did he know? That's what I wanna to know." He looks towards Sid and Mark and says, "Did you see anything?"
"No boss, we didn't see anything unusual," says Mark.
Pete says, "Okay, all you guys get out of sight in case they find any surveillance video showing who lit the fireworks or you guys coming in through the freight door. At least Harry and Steve won't do any talking."
Mark, Sid and the four would-be killers get up and leave. Pete finishes his coffee, rubbing the back of his neck.
Joe leans over and in a quiet voice says, "Harry and Steve weren't gonna say much anyway, Pete. That last batch of meth I gave them would have ended them even if the crowd hadn't. It'll show up on the autopsy, though."
"All the better," smiles Pete, "The cops will chalk the incident up as a drug OD and probably won't look much further. Anyway, I'm going back to the hotel and see if I can figure a way out of this mess. You see if you can find out how that David knew we were coming."
Time: 5 PM
Mo Rún opens again Saturday afternoon at five pm, later than usual because there was a lot of cleanup to do after the night before. The door alarms are reset and new cameras are positioned to watch over them. Several plain clothes police mingle with the crowd to look for anything unusual. For the most part, it's a quiet night. The crowd trickles in and there's a lot of subdued talk about the night before. People mill around the stage and gesture to where the guy was shot, all traces of the blood stains now removed. They ogle upwards and nod approvingly at the light racks trying to spot the laser mechanisms that worked so successfully the night before.