Authors: Don Bruns
“You got the permission?”
“I just asked Sandy, Skip. Hey, no need to get upset. You’re in charge. You’re the man. I just wanted clarification.”
What happened to Person in Charge of the Project? I think the entire title evaporated that morning. Almost everyone on the project knew more than I did, and had taken more responsibility than I had. I looked at my cheap Timex watch. It was nine thirty in the morning. Nine thirty. The day had just started, and I was ready to go home. For good.
By noon I’d run into two more problems. The manufacturer had sent the wrong smoke alarms and we were short by twenty motion detectors. Unless we could pull them from another job site, it would be another two or three days from the time they were shipped. My head throbbed and I wanted a beer. Two, no make that three beers, back to back.
“Ready to rumble, amigo?”
“What?”
“Lunch? A little trip to see where the Fengmiester went yesterday?” He stood in the entranceway, pointing to the glass door.
“I shouldn’t leave, James. There are about a million problems with this project, and—”
“You need to get away. Come on.” Throwing his arm over
my shoulder, James walked me out the door. “We’ll follow up on those addresses, stop at a little bar I know and have a sandwich and a beer. You’ll feel better. Trust me.”
I get into so much trouble when I trust James Lessor.
We walked to the truck in a drizzle. The only problem with the drizzle was that the truck’s wiper had one speed. Very, very slow. About a month ago, during a heavy cloudburst, James had to stick his head out the driver’s-side window to see where we were going.
“We can take my Chevy.”
“No. Let’s use the truck. I mean, it’s a new business venture, this spy thing, and I think we should use it.” The idea seemed to make sense to him.
James climbed in and started the engine, black smoke from the tailpipe swirling in the wind and rain.
“I was thinking about a sign. We could stencil it on the side.”
“What? Spymobile? I tend to think that would give it away, James.”
He rolled his eyes. “Settle down, pard. Now, tell me what kind of a business everybody needs from a service truck.”
I thought for a moment. Everybody had to eat, but they bought their food from a grocery store. Or a Schwan’s truck. That didn’t work. Locksmith, auto repair, carpenter—
“It’s easy, Skip. A couple of years ago they even sent one to the space station to fix the toilet. A plumber.”
“I remember that.”
“Well, I’m thinking we open a plumbing business.”
“That’s your cover?”
“Lessor and Moore Plumbing. Or maybe Buddy’s Plumbing. Or—”
“I get it, I get it.” From deep in the back of my brain I remembered a quote from Albert Einstein. Somebody in college shared it with me. “If I had my life to live over again, I’d be a plumber.” I’m sure it was taken out of context. Or, maybe not.
“We’re good to go anywhere. Nobody’s going to question a plumber. Some poor schlob’s crapper is backed up or the pipes have burst in his kitchen or his drains need to be cleaned out. Everybody needs a plumber sometime in their life. Am I right?” We hit a bump and I thought the bottom of the truck was going to fall out.
“Do we want the truck permanently decorated with a sign that advertises a business we really don’t have?”
James lit a cigarette with one hand, clutching the wheel with the other. The steering on this vehicle was tough enough with two hands, and when he hit the next bump in the road the truck veered, almost nicking a car in the other lane.
“Okay, let’s get a magnetic sign. Take it off when we’re home.”
“Sure. I guess that works.”
The rain had become a downpour, beating against the glass, and the windshield was streaked with dirty water, some running off the top of our truck, some splashing up from puddles in the potholes.
“Pard, check your addresses. I think we’re coming up on one right now.” I was surprised he could see anything.
I’d written down the three addresses where Feng had gone after work. They were all within a fifteen-square-mile area
surrounding Carol City. I pointed out the crossroad, and James took a right onto Palm Breeze Way. Where they came up with these names I have no clue. The romantic name of the street was quickly disproved by the run-down shacks and shanties that lined the street. Pothole after pothole caused splash after splash and bump after bump and two blocks in I thought we were going to blow the entire suspension. What was left of it. And then, like magic, the rain stopped. The sun peeked through the clouds and steam rose from the pavement.
“Right there. Stop.” A two-story cement-block building, about the size of a convenience store, sat on a solitary lot. Weeds grew up around it, and red and black gang graffiti covered the otherwise colorless structure.
“This was one of his stops?” A gentle rain had started up, filling the temporary reprieve.
“Appears to be. According to the computer.”
James pulled over to the curb into what used to be a small parking lot. He jumped from the truck and ran up to the building, never succeeding in dodging the raindrops. He yanked on the heavy metal door, which refused to open.
Getting back into the truck, he shook the water from his face and hair. Like a dog. “Padlocked. Rusty old padlock. I don’t think the place has been open for years.”
“Well, he was here.”
“Let’s hit the next place.”
“Probably about three miles.”
“We can do this.” He started the truck, and we drove down Palm Breeze Way. The shabby dwellings just got shabbier.
A left on Bianca Drive, another curving left onto Bonita Boulevard, and I saw a small laundry on the right. Chinese letters in the window, and under them the name C
HEN’S
L
AUNDRY
.
“So he had to drop off clothes.”
“Disappointing so far, eh, pard?”
He pulled back out on the road, and I glanced in my side mirror. “James, check out your mirror.”
He glanced out. “Is that gray car an Accord?”
“I believe it is.”
“There’s a lot of gray Hondas in Carol City, Skip.”
“Or, maybe Feng is hitting his stops again.”
The car hung back a couple of blocks, then turned off the road, and I lost it. “Must have been someone else.”
“You’ve got his license number.”
I thought for a moment. I’d been intimate with his car. We’d been physical, and I didn’t even have the number. “You must have taken it down, James.”
“Jeez. Great spies we are.” James banged his fist on the steering wheel. “What’s our last stop?”
“This is stupid. Let’s go to the bar you talked about and have a—” I stared hard into the side mirror, making sure of what I saw.
“What is it?”
“Gray Honda. Maybe two blocks back.” There were a couple of cars and another box truck between us. I viewed the Honda as it maneuvered behind the other vehicles.
“How would he know where we were?”
“It’s probably all a coincidence.”
“Where do I turn, pard?”
“Next street. Forty-seventh.”
He turned and picked up speed. Not much, but a little. The engine chugged along. The Little Engine That Could. There were some commercial buildings, then a rundown strip mall with three of the five businesses boarded up.
“Any sign of the graymobile?”
There were none.
“On your right, James. Right there.”
He stepped on the brakes and there was a metal on metal sound. Another problem with the truck. We needed new brakes.
“It’s a day care center.”
“So Feng’s got a kid. He had to pick him up.” James shrugged his shoulders.
I noticed the name. Recognized the name. Tiny Tots Academy. Somewhere Carol Conroy had picked up one of their pencils. I was sure she didn’t have any kids. “Keep driving.”
He did. Swerving to avoid the caverns in the road and trying to maintain a speed at about forty miles per hour. Quick for Forty-seventh avenue. I glanced in the mirror and there it was. No mistake. A gray Honda. It never slowed down at the day care center, but hung back, blending in with the light traffic.
“He’s back, James.”
“Son of a bitch. He knows exactly where we are.”
“I should have brought the laptop. Why didn’t I?”
James took a sharp right, then a left. Then back out to Forty-seventh. “You never thought about him following us.”
“If I had it, we could tell if the Honda was Feng. It would be so easy. We’d just check out his car, and we’d know immediately if it was him.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, pard.” James braked hard, the grinding and squealing painful to my ears. He took a hard right into a parking lot of a small restaurant. Anita’s Place. The sign in the window said closed for family emergency. It was a Mexican restaurant. Just as well. I’m not a big fan of Mexican food.
James opened the door and got out of the truck.
“Hey, man, it’s closed.” I yelled out the window after him.
He didn’t respond, but ducked down, and I lost sight of him. I jumped out of the truck and looked around. No sign of James, no sign of the gray Honda. Nothing. “James?”
Everything was quiet. A couple of cars passed, kicking up a
spray, and the gentle raindrops spattered around me. Nothing. “James?”
“Skip, here. Check it out.”
He was nowhere.
“Skip?”
From under the truck.
For the second time in two days I scooted under a vehicle. “What?”
James pointed to the gas tank. “Check it out, pally.”
Feeling the wet pavement through my soaked shirt, I gazed up. Fastened to the metal tank was a gray box, very much resembling a GPS unit.
My cell phone rang on the way back. The ring was Springsteen, the musical opening to “Born in the U.S.A.”
“Mr. Moore?”
I didn’t recognize the voice.
“This is Carol Conroy.”
I reached over and nudged James. He glanced at me and took his eyes off the road as we hit a crater that went halfway to China. The truck shook like we’d encountered an earthquake. We had to do something about the shocks. “Yes, Mrs. Conroy. What can I do for you?”
“For what I’m going to pay you, I hope you can do a lot.” There was venom in her voice.
“What do you have in mind?”
“I need to know what’s going on in one of the offices at Synco.”
“What’s going on?” Maybe someone was having sex on a desktop. Maybe someone was doing a second set of books or taking drugs.
“Is there any way that you can record conversations? Without being obvious?”
“Mrs. Conroy, can you hold on for just a moment?”
“Of course.”
We were pulling into the Synco Systems parking lot, and I scanned the blacktop looking for Feng’s gray Honda. It didn’t seem to be on the property. “James,” I put my hand over the phone and spoke in a loud whisper, “she wants us to bug somebody’s office.” It hit me that no matter how much this lady was willing to pay, I could be in a lot of trouble. But I also remembered that this lady thought her life was in danger. If I could save a life—
“We can do that.”
“Yeah? What if we get caught?”
“She’s calling the shots, amigo. She’s the owner’s daughter. Not only that, she’s the president’s wife. She’s a double threat, amigo. If she tells us to do something, it’s part of the job.”
For the right amount of money, you can justify just about anything. Sarah Crumbly had already reached that conclusion. James seemed to have always been there. And, for a split second, I thought about James’s rationalization and figured he was right. This was going to be a really nice paycheck.
“Mrs. Conroy?” James drove through the puddles and parked the truck in the identical spot he’d parked it this morning. He turned off the ignition and we sat there listening to the engine sputter and crackle. “We can probably handle that.” Feng’s office. It had to be. And, it would serve two purposes. We could find out what the little man’s agenda was. Find out why he was following us, and, at the same time, we could report to Carol Conroy on his conversations.
“Good. How soon can you report to me?” Maybe she was trying to get evidence on the little guy so she could go to her
father. Maybe she needed to worm her way back into papa’s good graces. This was my imagination at work, but it all made sense. She’d told me that she and her dad were not on the best of terms. Finding a mole in the company might help cement that relationship and at the same time help her insure her inheritance. Of course, this was all a guess.
“How soon can I report to you? Um, tomorrow. Will that be soon enough?” I couldn’t wait to give her the news that Feng was the guy who was messing with her Lexus.
“No. That’s not soon enough. However, it’s probably the best you can do.”
The lady was a stone-cold bitch. Getting a shot in as often as she could. “We’ll find a way to do it.”
She was quiet for a moment. I could hear her breathing on the other end of the line. “Mrs. Conroy?”
“Yes. Just do it, okay?” I wasn’t sure that she was sure. The tone of her voice led me to believe that maybe she was hesitant. But here was someone who thought her life may be in danger, and she was taking steps to find out.
“Okay. You can call me late tomorrow afternoon, and I’ll give you a report. We’ll have some sort of recording, or notes.” James and I would figure out how to do it later. Right now, I just wanted to cement the project. And my bonus. I wanted to nail Feng myself. And we could get this done.
“Okay.”
I hung up the phone.
“We’re going to bug somebody’s office?”
“We are.”
“Feng?”
“Yes.” And then it hit me. Just as the phone rang again.
“Hello.”
“Mr. Moore, I seriously wonder if I hired the right person for this job. Are you a complete idiot?”
“I can assure you, Mrs. Conroy, this will be taken care of.”
“You don’t even know whose office I want you to monitor. I am seriously reconsidering my decision here.”
I realized she’d never told me whose office needed bugged. But I’d figured it out on my own. I just didn’t want her to realize that James and I had already started looking into Feng.