Tory Stone Excerpt
By
Graybeard Paine
Somebody
dumped a perfectly good body in the river and I found him. That’s my job. My name is Tory Stone. I live
on the Lazi Dawg because the environmental people want to pay me to watch the
river and because the sound of the paddlewheel is nicer than the sound of my
ex-husband bragging about himself.
The
guy ruined my supper; floaters always do. But I forgave him when I got the
brief case off his wrist. I didn’t count it, but guessed about a million in one
hundred dollar bills; more money than I’ve ever seen in one chunk. I stashed
the money in my hidey-hole under the black water tanks because that’s the kind
of gal I am. It’s better than going back to teaching whiney kids or defending
whiney crooks. Besides, the guy isn’t going to miss the money.
By
the time authorities decided what to do and who was in charge, I had a pretty
good story to tell. I promised to put it in writing and shooed them off the
Lazi Dawg. A couple of glasses of wine, a few thoughts of sex and a million
dollars makes one sleep like a baby.
I
batted the radio snooze button several times before I realized the phone was
chirping like a berserk cricket.
"Fucking
phone," I thought as I answered, “Tory Stone.”
My
brother’s voice said. “You still in bed? It’s damned near noon!”
“Had
a busy night, “ I said, trying to shake the cobwebs loose.
“Yeah,
I know,” my brother, Troy answered, “That’s why I called. You’ve got a
problem!”
I
came fully awake. Brother Troy was the first half of “Stone and Stone” and
wanted me to be the second half. He made his money by keeping high-end
criminals from playing golf at a Federal pen. He knew local judges and local
crooks on a first name basis. When he said ,”problem”, it had to be a big one.
He continued, “That guy you fished out of the River was Howard Bruskin. He made a fortune selling plumbing supplies. He was a long time friend and maybe partner of Joe Cipriano. Joe wants to talk to you.”
“Christ!
What does that piece of shit want with me?” I said. “The last time I saw him I
almost got killed. And I still haven’t seen one penny of that fifty thousand he
owes me. You wouldn’t want to sue the bastard for me would you big brother.”
Troy
laughed and said, “Not this week.”
I
laughed and briefly thought of my last job for Cipriano. He offered fifty
thousand to recover his boat, a classic 42-foot Mathews. I got it back for him,
but he wouldn’t pay because some things were missing. The two guys who had the
boat made an unsuccessful swim for shore. I stuffed the cash under the black
water tanks on the Lazi Dawg and gave the cocaine to the catfish. I told
Cipriano that the two guys got the money and the cocaine. Hey, is it wrong to
lie to a crook?
My
brother continued, “The message Joe had for you was that he wants what was in
the brief case. He also said that someone has hired outside muscle to persuade
you. It’s not one of his guys, so do what you have to do.”
I
said, “Hey, there wasn’t any briefcase.” I said it with sincerity.
“Well,”
Troy said, “Cipriano says there should have been one, and he wants what’s in
it.”
Thanks
brother,” I said. “You’ve made my day. Anything else.”
“Yeah,
I’m sending Coyfish to help out.”
I
hung up the phone and smiled, “Coyfish”. He had good manners and a tight ass. I
liked him. He was also pretty good in a fight.
Jimmy
Coyfish arrived just before dark. He showed up as he usually does, looking like
a NFL linebacker. He brought two giant pizzas, a good bottle of Merlot, and a
handsome smile.
We
sat, quietly enjoying the food and wine and the conversation that slowly danced
around our thoughts.
Coyfish
smiled and said, “ Good food, good wine and good company. What more could a man
want?”
I
could feel the sexual tension rise between us and said, “I can think of
things.” Just then, the frogs stopped chirping.
I
grabbed my Colt thirty eight, blew out the candle and whispered, “No frogs.”
The riverbank was absolutely silent-most unusual for this time of year.
Coyfish
stood silently on one side of the door, I on the other. We waited for the
slight scuffle that would announce the arrival of our visitor. We heard a thump
and the boat shifted slightly as the intruder stepped aboard.
The
latch turned slowly and the door opened a crack. Coyfish yanked the door fully
open and I grabbed the intruders wrist. With a strong pull and a flip of the
hip, I threw the intruder to the far side. He dropped his gun, gave off a short
sob and collapsed semi-conscious and in need of air.
Our
visitor was big, about 6’2”, two hundred pounds, perhaps 30 years old, dark
brown eyes and skin the color of bar-rail mahogany. I knew him. He was a
part-time detective, part-time cocaine dealer and full time bastard who hung
out at the River Club in East Saint Louis.
“Charley
Wilkes,” I said, “Why did you leave the ladies in Saint Louis to prowl my boat
in the middle of the night?”
Charley
sat silently, nursing a split lip and the growing knot on his forehead. He
didn’t look happy.
“Jimmy,”
I said, “You check out his car while I try to find out what this creep is up
to. Be careful! There may be more than one.”
“So,”
I said, “what’s up? Who sent you?” Charley didn’t answer.
I
reached down and slid Charley’s wallet into my hand. He kicked my ankle hard
and dived through the door into the River. I followed him with two shots from
my thirty eight.
Jimmy
rushed in, “Did you shoot him?”
“No,
I didn’t want to mess up my river. But, that guy can swim like a torpedo.” I
laughed.
“Charley’s
car was a black Lincoln Town Car registered to Joe Cipriano. Smells like
Charley used funny tobacco in there.”
“Surprise!”
I said, “I’ll fix his ass!”
A quick
911 call on the cell phone, accurate description of car and driver and
anonymous report of drug transportation meant big problems for Charley.
I’d
go after Cipriano’s ass in the morning.