Short Cut (The Reluctant Hustler Book 2) Page 4

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later Tom returned with the box that he’d brought with him to the bathroom. He was wearing a pair of Ryan’s jeans with the cuffs rolled up and had his rugby shirt back on.

  We sat around the dining table.

  “The moment of truth,” Rollie sad.

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but I’d play along for now. The guy had come an awfully long way for something.

  “Ryan said this was fireproof, I hope that was correct.” Tom glanced up at me. “You were supposed to know all this by now.”

  “I’ll try to catch up quick.”

  Tom found a catch and slid the blackened box open. Inside they all saw another box, this one a fat square one about the shape of a jewelry store ring box, only larger.

  “Is this like one of those Russian dolls?” Rollie asked.

  “At least it isn’t locked,” Tom said, and opened it to find a single folded piece of paper.

  And a key.

  I just shook my head.

  Tom handed me the paper. I unfolded it and looked at the numbers, letters and spaces across the top third of the paper. “A code? Does it mean anything to you?”

  Tom looked relieved. “It does if we can find the book.”

  “Care to be more specific?”

  “The code is a simple book cipher. If you have the correct key book, the numbers are corresponding pages, columns and lines to give you words or letters.”

  “Not bad,” Rollie said. “So, do you have it or what?”

  “I didn’t bring my copy for security.”

  “Ryan has a shelf of his books upstairs,” I said.

  * * *

  Tom scoured the shelf and I watched his cool demeanor melt away with each passing minute. “Damn. We may have to hit the secondhand bookstores in the area.”

  “There might be more around the house or in the basement. How about you help us out? What’s the book?”

  “It’s a dictionary.”

  Rollie nodded. “Simple and no trouble finding all your words for a message.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s easy enough. We can even splurge on a new one.”

  Tom glared at me. “Were you not listening? It can’t be just any dictionary. It has to be the exact edition Ryan used or the keys won’t match up.”

  Of course. I wasn’t sure if I was angrier at his condescending tone or at myself for being so slow.

  “There are some boxes in the basement.” I was not looking forward to turning the place upside down and I already knew if Ryan wanted something hidden it usually stayed hid. I wracked my brain for any other places he might keep books. Ryan hadn’t been the biggest reader.

  “This was fun for a minute,” Rollie said. “Time to haul up boxes?”

  “Hang on. If the book is the same as the one he used for you, Tom, then it had to be his primary key.”

  “So?” Rollie said.

  “So, more than likely he’d keep it handy. He used to sit at the kitchen table to get work done.”

  “Right.” Tom made a beeline for the kitchen.

  I was slow to keep up because my bad knee decided now was a great time to stiffen up. I had to respect the pain if I didn’t want to use an ice bag as a fashion accessory for the next week.

  I could hear pots and pans clang and the thump of Ryan’s mom’s cookbooks hitting the floor. She’d been the cook. All his recipes contained seven digits.

  Rollie and I reached the kitchen and we saw Tom sitting on the floor like a toddler intent on trashing the kitchen. Mixing bowls and saucepans covered the linoleum.

  And in his hands, he clutched a very old hardcover tome. Despite its obvious age it was the only book in sight not covered with dust.

  “The American College Dictionary.” Tom searched the first pages. “Bob’s your fucking uncle!” His finger jabbed at the page.

  “That’s what we want, right?” Rollie asked.

  “I think so.” I said. “Tom? We good?”

  Tom was already at the table and had spread out the coded message and was flipping pages. “Better than trying to track down a forty-plus-year-old edition.”

  “Stay right there,” Rollie said, beginning to return the cookware. “I’ll get these.” His own place was compulsively tidy and he never let me get away with me leaving clutter in the kitchen.

  If Tom heard the sarcasm, he gave no sign. I peered over his shoulder. The guy’s fingers danced through the pages and down columns with a practiced ease that told me he and Ryan must have used this code often.

  Numbers translated to the paper next to the code. I could see “PNC 801 Ch …”

  Tom was beginning to sweat. “Another code?”

  Rollie and I grinned. “Nope,” I said. “Is the next part Christian?”

  “Yes.” Tom looked up from his work.

  “I think we know where the key goes,” I said.

  “The PNC Bank over on Christian Street,” Rollie finished.

  Chapter 6

  PNC Bank

  The rest of the coded message after the address had read a cryptic “Kyle Only.” Armed with the key, I stood outside this neighborhood bank branch. It was one block off of the famous Philadelphia Italian Market. I wore a dark blue windbreaker, as the gray skies threatened to resume spitting at any moment.

  The bank sat on a street corner across from a small grocery store and a pharmacy. I opened the door not really knowing what to expect and strode up to a young lady who sat at the first desk.

  Ms. Bailey, per her name tag, looked up from her computer screen. “May I help you?”

  “I hope so. I guess you could say I’m here for a friend. I need to see a safe deposit box.”

  Her demeanor cooled and she just watched me while waiting for me to continue.

  I fumbled a hand in my pocket and read the number off the tiny cardboard envelope that held the key. “It’s box J29.”

  She typed and I could hear the sound of her long fingernails ticking on the keys. They were painted with tiny flags of different countries. I recognized Jamaica’s yellow and green on her thumb.

  “Are you on the list?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never needed to get in, so—”

  “Name?”

  I shouldn’t have felt like such a sneak, but all the same I hesitated before giving out my real name. I didn’t see what difference it would make, as I’d never even heard of this account before.

  “Name?” she repeated.

  “Logan. Kyle Logan.”

  She scrolled down a list. “ID?”

  I handed over my license.

  She looked it over and stood up. “Come with me.”

  I followed her to a massive steel door to the safe where the boxes were stored. Ms. Bailey took out a clipboard and handed it to me.

  “Sign here.”

  I’d never signed for anything at their branch. I didn’t even bank here. But I owed it to everyone on this scavenger hunt to play it out. I scribbled my signature.

  Ms. Bailey scrutinized my writing with an apparent sample, and with my driver’s license.

  “Thank you.” She handed back the license and turned toward the vault. I didn’t see her hit any hidden security buttons so I followed her inside, to a steel wall covered with numbered boxes.

  She found the box, one of the big ones about the width of a shoebox and maybe twice as high. She turned the key and I took out mine and the key worked. I shouldn’t have been surprised, but I was anyway. She opened the door and slid the box partway out. It was covered on top but otherwise looked like a heavy drawer.

  “You can go into the room to the right of the vault for privacy. Come get me when you are done.”

  I thanked her and when I was alone pulled the box out.

  I almost broke my foot when the thing dropped like it was loaded with concrete. If not for my work boot it would have made plenty of noise. Ryan should have mentioned something about wearing steel-toed banker shoes.

  The box wasn’
t too much to carry. It was probably no more than twenty pounds, but the weight had caught me by surprise.

  I made it to the windowless viewing room without further incident and closed the door behind me. The room contained bare walls, a single gray metal table and two folding chairs.

  Okay Ryan, what’s on your mind?

  I lifted the lid and the first things that caught my eye were neat stacks of bills. There was a loaded stainless steel .38 revolver in a brown leather ankle holster, two boxes of ammunition. There were also several drivers’ licenses from different states with Ryan’s face. They were wrapped in rubber bands.

  Jesus.

  And an envelope with my name on it, printed in Ryan’s handwriting.

  My heart was thumping hard in my chest. I took a seat for the first time since entering the room and tore open the envelope. I pulled out several pages, all cursive, maybe so I’d be sure he’d written them himself. It was dated seven months ago, written just before he was killed.

  Hey Buddy:

  Sorry for whatever led to your reading this but here you are, so whatever happened is over and done. As I write this you probably wish you never agreed to help me out. Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you but as they say, it seemed like a good idea at the time!

  Anyway, things have gotten hairy and if I guess right, I may have to go deep underground, probably for a while, at least until I can smooth things over with our favorite neighborhood mobsters. You should be okay, but there’s a little something in here for you if you have to go dark as well.

  I hope not, both for your sake and for mine. I need your help. I already know you are going to be pissed, or is that more pissed? Probably the second.

  I’d meant to show you this stuff myself, but circumstances beyond my control seem to have intervened. You got this far, so you will know how to make sense of what is on the thumb drive. Long story short, it’s all the people who I help and who help me. You should know that I have already told them they can trust you like they would me. Reach out to them if you need to and you may find some of them trying to get in touch with you. Anything you could do for them while I am away would be greatly appreciated. Feel free to use some of the money in here to keep things moving or in case of emergency.

  I know you may not be comfortable with a lot of this, but I didn’t know where else to turn. See, part of the reason I asked you to help on the other thing was I knew you’d be great at this sort of freelance work if you gave it a chance. Isn’t that the essence of all business? Find a need and fill it. There are plenty of needs out there and I’m not talking about hard core types, just regular folk who the system can’t be bothered to help. I fill in the gaps and do favors. And collect favors.

  But the real thing I will forever owe you on is the Mr. Beautiful project. I gave Tom enough to get you here, and he’s been covering us over in the Sand Box. If he’s here now, it means things are moving. We won’t get this sort of chance again, believe me.

  Use what you find to make sure the package gets where it needs to go. I thought it would wait until the art project was done but hey, sometimes there’s a fly in the ointment.

  As for all the other hustles, you’ll notice, maybe for the first time, that there are plenty of things I won’t do. I’m not looking to hurt anyone and more importantly I’m not trying to piss off a certain Shamrock crew by stepping on their toes.

  Since I’m writing this, obviously I did a lot more than piss them off, but I promise I will make it right. In the meantime, don’t give them a reason to make an example out of you. Any loans or other stuff I get into is small time action they can’t be bothered with. If it is going well, reach out and show them respect. Yes, that means giving them a taste. Think of it as PR fees. But you want to stay out of Sheehan’s way. Try the O’Briens, if you need to get in touch Meg is a good starting point. You know, if she didn’t still have a thing for me, I think she’d settle for you again!

  You may need all of this more than you realize. I’ve always been a survivor and I have a bad feeling that some of the problems at Delivergistics with those shooting investigations might mushroom enough to wreck the whole company. It can’t hurt to have some side hustles to fall back on, am I right? We can talk more when I get back, but there’s room to expand. You might surprise yourself.

  It’s getting late. Use as much or as little of the cash or anything else, but please help Tom out. He knowns the plan but needs you to cross the finish line. He’ll explain. This is the big one.

  R.

  My head reeled, trying to take in everything. All the crap Ryan had helped me into (and out of) was wrapped up in this huge idea to get me into his own little family business. Whatever it was, exactly, it was clear he had my future planned for a long time. I’d never heard of any of it, let alone agreed to it, at least until I did bite on the one project and had been sorry ever since.

  Despite all the advance planning, Ryan hadn’t counted on his own luck finally running dry.

  At the same time, I was flattered that he showed so much trust in me. Ryan had gone to great lengths to open doors for me. Now all I had to decide was whether or not I was willing to walk through them.

  It was all a bit much to take in at one sitting and there was no doubt plenty more on that thumb drive, so I pocketed that and decided to leave the rest in the box where it would all be safe from prying eyes and sticky fingers. I was still waiting to figure out Tom’s real angle. Maybe he just wanted in to the box and my value to him would be over. That thought didn’t scare me, as I’d never known Tom to be dangerous that way. A sneak for certain, but not a killer.

  I began to close up the box and remembered something.

  I lifted the lid and thumbed through a packet of cash. The paper band sagged after I had removed twenty-two of the crisp hundred-dollar bills. Suddenly I wanted some hipster coffee and a short conversation about where some Eastern European freelancers could place Beetle’s debt.

  Chapter 7

  During the drive to see those assholes in the coffee shop, I kept replaying chunks of Ryan’s letter in my head. So much of it confused me, but some parts made perfect sense. The random people who had begun to turn up, not just at Ryan’s house but right to Rollie’s door, knew where I lived, and expected my help.

  Oddly, now that I had this context, I felt bad about turning some of them away. The look on one old guy’s face in particular haunted me. He’d wanted medicine, he claimed, for his sick sister. At the time I assumed this was some sort of scam and he was an addict himself or he was trying to con the neighborhood out of some cash. We got those types too, though few tried that crap on Rollie twice.

  This man just may have been turning to what he saw as his last resort. I still doubted I could do anything to help him. I certainly hadn’t spotted a medicine cabinet in that safe deposit box.

  The thumb drive might have some answers. The more I thought about that, the angrier I became at Ryan. The balls on him, to plan my life for me and not even let me in on the game. It made my blood boil. I didn’t need any help screwing my life up and he’d already almost gotten me, Rollie and especially Beth killed.

  I spotted a parking place near the café and angled my truck toward it only to get cut off by a Prius. Part of me relished a confrontation, but I had too much on my plate and getting busted for a beef over a parking space right now would be too stupid, even for me.

  I smiled to myself, thinking that if Ryan had survived, I might have kicked his ass, especially for the danger he’d brought on Beth, despite his best intentions, but I also knew I would have forgiven the prick eventually, even if I never worked with him again. Beth had been kidnapped and held hostage for leverage on us, but Ryan died during the operation to rescue her.

  After a few minutes another spot opened up. The pre-dinner crowd was leaving and I took advantage of the window. I hoped this Milosh guy was around.

  I passed the Prius dorks on the way in, but they were on their phones and didn’t notice me or were smart enough to make i
t seem like they didn’t. I think I weighed as much as both of them put together.

  I noticed right away another group of people seated at the back table where Rollie and I had met the Eastern Europeans before. They were oblivious millennials, not Milosh lackeys. Damn.

  I had turned around to leave when I heard an accented voice call out, “Mr. Beeg Man. Hey!”

  A glance over my shoulder told me the skinny kid behind the counter was speaking to me. He had a shock of dark hair that fell over his eyes like a sheepdog’s, but he was looking at me all the same.

  “Me?”

  “Yes.” He gestured for me to come closer.

  “What?”

  The kid lowered his voice. “He wants to see you. I will call him.”

  What the hell was this? “I don’t have all day.” The kid was already on a cell.

  His accent was just like Milosh’s which meant the freelance shylock might be more than a passing fad here in Fishtown. I wondered who really owned the shop and just as quickly decided to stay the hell out of it.

  The kid was nodding at the phone and speaking quickly. I didn’t catch the language other than it wasn’t English.

  “Out back,” he said to me finally. “He will be waiting.”

  Why did this guy look like he was trying to suppress a fit of the giggles? The skin crawled on the back of my neck.

  “You tell him maybe next time. I have to go.”

  The kid didn’t even react and I stepped to the door only to find Milosh’s goon filling the space. Now that he was standing, he only had an inch or two on me, but he looked like a T-90 tank, one that was at least ten years my junior.

  I shuffled toward the back and he followed. The rest of the customers paid no attention. I doubted calling for help would have mattered anyway, but I noticed one guy reading an e-book had a large coffee, or grandioso or whatever the fuck they called it, sitting in front of him. The important thing was that it was full, and judging by the steam curling off the top, that it was piping hot.

  Might work.

  “Out back.” Mr. Tank pointed, in case I missed the subtlety.