[2010] The Ghost of Blackwood Lane Read online

  Marcus nodded. “Sure, boss. Anything else you want me to do to her in particular?”

  Vincent knew what he was talking about and shook his head, even though out here in the woods would be the perfect place to do it. “No, just take her home. If she fights back, you can smack her around a little, but don’t kill her. Just take her home for me and make sure she stays there until I get back.”

  “Okay. You’ll take the boat back?”

  “Yeah,” Vincent nodded. “When you find her, call one of the boys and have them pick you guys up. Keep it low-profile, okay? Just get her home and stay there.”

  Marcus nodded and headed into the woods, following the trail and the occasional prints that Vincent could see, even at this distance. She hadn’t been careful in hiding her tracks.

  He took a long last look around after Marcus disappeared into the trees. The clearing was small and would’ve been hard to find without the bloody stain on the rock. He’d gotten lucky, and that only made him more angry.

  Vincent Luciano waded out to the small boat and climbed in. With a long glance back, he powered up the engine and headed for the pier on the far end of the lake.

  ------

  The truck stop was a bustling place. She’d stopped at the rarely used ladies’ room first to clean herself up. She’d torn her swimsuit into strips and bandaged her leg, and she’d pulled her jeans on over her bloodied shorts.

  It had taken her longer than it should have to get here, but at least she was here. All she had to do now was find someone who could help.

  A huge lot full of semis and large trucks encircled a low complex of buildings. She thought about the just climbing aboard one of the trucks and hiding until it was far away from this place, but she thought better of it and headed for the restaurant building, next to the gas station. She didn’t want to waste time going in the wrong direction, now that she’d managed to get away.

  Vincent would come home tonight and read the note and be furious. She wondered when he would go to the lake to look for her. Would he go tonight, when he found the note? She didn’t think so. It gave her a perverse thrill to dream about him upset, out of control and madder than he’d been in a long time. He’d probably get some of his buddies and come out to the lake in the morning, and then, with any luck, he’d find the pile of clothes.

  And he would think she was dead. Finally, she would be free.

  Judy entered the restaurant and looked around, wondering what to do next. She wondered if she should start asking around for someone going to Texas, or maybe get a quick bite to eat first. Part of her realized that she was famished and needed food and water badly, but the rest of her wanted to just climb onto the first truck going south.

  Finally, after a moment of standing in the entryway to the diner, her fear of Vincent won out over everything else. If he found her now, after what she’d done, he would probably kill her. She’d have time to eat later. Now she needed to get away.

  “Excuse me!” she said loudly, screwing up her courage. “Is anyone going to Texas? Anybody I can catch a ride with? I’ll pay.”

  There were low murmurs around the tables as people looked up at her and then went back to their sandwiches and newspapers.

  Nobody was going? What were the chances of that?

  “Is there anyone who can give me a ride south, maybe to Louisville, or Atlanta?”

  A long silent moment with no responses from anyone, and she was starting to think that she was going out of her mind when a voice spoke up from behind her.

  “I can take you wherever you want to go, lady,” the voice said.

  She turned and was about to begin thanking the man when she realized who it was. Marcus Wright, one of Vincent’s men.

  Her stomach dropped as she saw two other guys with him—all of them were friends of Vincent’s, and all worked for him.

  “So,” Marcus smiled, “where do you want to go today?” The smile was not a friendly one.

  Judy realized that they had come in before she had. How? How had they found her so quickly?

  This was going to be very bad.

  She lowered her head and started to cry.

  The three men surrounded her and led her outside. One of their cars was waiting, running. The tears came then from her eyes, strong and helpless, as they bundled her inside the car and drove off.

  Chapter 14

  Vincent’s wife was safe and sound and tucked away, waiting for him to come home. Marcus had done a good job, tracking her down and getting to the truck stop out on 64 before she’d even arrived.

  But Vincent had other things to think about now. He wasn’t worried about tonight’s meeting, but his brother was—in fact, he was a twitching, nervous wreck.

  It was almost 7 p.m. on Friday, and the sky was starting to darken as the sun dipped below the buildings of downtown St. Louis. The Luciano boys waited in Vincent’s Mustang, parked on the top level of the Arch parking garage. The tall ribbon of steel and concrete arced across the sky above them, dominating the skyline and casting a long, parabolic shadow over the Mississippi River and East St. Louis beyond. Tourists were returning from the landmark, climbing into their station wagons and minivans and heading elsewhere. Vincent had parked the Mustang so that they would have a great view, but they weren’t looking at the sights—they were watching for D.W., their contact, or for Shotgun or any of his men. Alphonse “Shotgun” Pope was the head of the East Dogs, the main gang in East St. Louis. There was always a chance that his group of thugs had somehow heard about this first meet and shown up to make things interesting.

  Vincent glanced at Tony—the man was counting the money again, probably for the fifth time. Vincent knew he was worried.

  The buy was set up to happen in about twenty minutes, and they had gotten here early. Ten grand took a few minutes to count. In the movies, money was always bundled in pretty stacks with wrappers on them—who had time to do that? It was all dirty money, anyway, so why clean it up? Besides, anyone who handled a lot of money knew that those little paper straps broke too easily—rubber bands worked better.

  “Tony, it’s all there,” Vincent said, his eyes on the ramp that led to the top level. “You don’t need to count it again.”

  Tony nodded, and Vincent could tell that he wasn’t listening. This was their first buy together, so they were taking care of it themselves—nobody built up a relationship with major suppliers by farming it out to assistants. Or at least not until much later in the relationship. Vincent knew the dealer, having made many smaller buys from him over the past three years, but Vincent was preparing to move up to a whole new level of distribution. That meant a lot more of the raw material. And that meant much more contact with men like D.W.

  Most of the narcotics for the region came in through the docks in East St. Louis, Illinois, which was a notorious place—all the freeways through the dirty, broken-down town were elevated so that people traveling through (or over) the town wouldn’t have to see or experience it in any way. There were rumors about carloads of tourists accidentally taking the wrong exit, getting off in East St. Louis, and getting mugged or killed. The town had a reputation as a place to avoid.

  The city government barely existed above the poverty level; sometimes residents’ trash would go months before getting picked up. The town was the perfect example of inner city urban decay, and the Lucianos had big plans for it.

  Tony and Vincent’s new alliance, and Tony’s realization that he would never be able to see his dreams come true by staying in the safe but unprofitable world of legitimacy, had produced a new plan for the dingy town.

  Things had changed in the last couple of years, after Tony Luciano had based his gambling riverboat in East St. Louis, building a huge, secure pier and docking complex with expansive and well-lit parking lots. Hundreds of customers a day now braved the “wilds” of East St. Louis to visit the floating casino known as the Princess Anne. The Princess Anne was a conversion job, an old barge that had been converted into a casino and tow
ed up from New Orleans. The renovation had almost bankrupted him, but now the casino was finally turning handsome profit.

  Very little of the money that Luciano and his casino earned went to the city of East St. Louis—he had negotiated the agreement long before the mayor and city council had realized the extent of the cash flow from the legalized gambling.

  Now Tony’s organization had to make only a small monthly contribution to the city’s coffers to retain the lease on the dock and pier area.

  Although the Princess Anne was doing well, Tony had decided ten months ago that to truly make a killing he’d have to design and build a real casino riverboat from the keel up. After months of planning, they had started construction in the slip next to the Anne. The Princess Margaret would be a beautiful ship, unlike anything else along the Mississippi.

  Vincent glanced over at the casino boats—they were upriver from the Arch, on the opposite side of the wide Mississippi River. The Margaret and the Anne leaned up against the casino dock complex, the larger boat towering over her smaller sister. Gambling had to occur on the river to be legal, so the buildings on the dock were support buildings and warehouses that fronted the huge parking lot. Vincent could see people working on the larger boat—one of the tiny workers was walking up the gangplank carrying what looked like a large piece of drywall. The Margaret would be a beautiful ship, capable of holding four times as many gamblers as the Anne, if they could ever get it done. But the project was almost out of money. That was part of the reason Tony had turned to his brother for advice and eventually agreed to partner with him.

  Vincent, for what it was worth, thought the new casino would be a success. He and Tony had walked these docks not long ago, talking. Vincent had been impressed by the construction and genuinely saddened to hear about the organization’s financial problems. He could’ve predicted them—and had. But he’d kept his “I told you so’s” to himself. They had talked during the whole tour of the half-completed ship, and somewhere along their meandering walk among the decks of the Princess Anne, they had decided to get back into business together.

  They had also decided to take a huge gamble of their own and try to revolutionize the narcotics industry in the St. Louis area. They would make it efficient, and it would be run by professionals, not by a bunch of thugs. And, most importantly, the business would turn a massive profit. Lastly, they had agreed that if they were going to move into this business, they were going in with both feet. Vincent would pocket his portion of the profits and grow his new portion of their shared venture. And Tony would finally have the funds to finish his floating beauty.

  “It’s a beautiful boat, huh?”

  Vincent turned to look at his brother and smiled.

  “I was just thinking that.”

  Tony had finally finished his latest count of the money.

  “You’re gonna need a lot more than that, though,” Vincent said, nodding at the bag of cash in his brother’s lap.

  “I know,” Tony said. Vincent knew the man was obsessed with money, but sometimes, obsession was a good thing. It was a strong motivator.

  “You nervous?” Tony asked.

  Vincent shook his head, trying to look bored. “Nope. These guys are good. I’ve worked with them before, bought a lot of stuff from them. Their organization is clean—we’ll have no problem.”

  Tony nodded, and Vincent knew what he was thinking: he didn’t want to worry about trouble, like a police sting, while they were just getting started. It pleased Vincent that his brother was joining him down here in the gutter—it would make him a better man, and a much wealthier one. Of course, the cash in the bag was Tony’s seed money—Vincent wouldn’t have been able to front that kind of cash on so short a notice. Even though Tony said his organization was going broke, he still had deeper pockets than Vincent’s fledgling criminal organization had ever known.

  A couple of minutes later, a shiny black Volvo appeared on the ramp of the parking garage. It made two large, lazy circles around the empty concrete crisscrossed with white lines, and then slowed to a stop a few yards from the Mustang. Two large black men climbed from the car and leaned against it; a third man remained in the back.

  The Lucianos got out and walked over to the Volvo. Vincent could sense Tony’s nervousness as their shoes clicked against the concrete on their way to the meet. His brother would have to learn to control his apprehension.

  Each was patted down by the waiting men, and then one of them nodded at the man in the car. He climbed out and walked up to Tony and Vincent.

  “So, you’re the older brother I’ve heard about,” D.W. said, smiling in a way that Vincent hadn’t seen before in their various meets. “Vincent has spoken of you often. I’m Dwayne Williams. Most folks just call me D.W.”

  He put out his hand and Tony took it. Then he stepped back and nodded at the other two men, who wandered off to form a perimeter around the group of men.

  Tony glanced at him, and Vincent nodded. The older brother stepped forward and handed D.W. the large duffel bag. He took it and smiled, opening it on the hood of the car. He flipped through a couple of the bundles, probably more out of habit than out of a lack of trust, and closed the bag back up.

  “Very nice. Now, am I correct in understanding that this is simply an opening step in our venture?” D.W. asked, his eyes on the Luciano brothers.

  Tony and Vincent nodded in unison. Tony started to say something, but Vincent touched his elbow and shook his head to quiet him.

  D.W. looked at them for a moment longer and then seemed to decide. He picked up the bag and walked around to the trunk of the Volvo, motioning for them to follow. In the open trunk was a metal suitcase. D.W. pulled it from the trunk and kneeled to open it, showing the contents to the Lucianos. Inside were dozens and dozens of tightly packed, carefully wrapped packages that looked like white bricks.

  “Now, please listen to me carefully,” D.W. began. “This is a sign of my good will. Normally, for ten grand in cash, I would sell you ten grand worth of the finished product. That would have a street value of around 40 grand. For you, it will be different. This is 10 grand worth before it’s cut—you’ll have to do that, but it will effectively double the size of this shipment. You’re looking at close to 70 grand.”

  D.W. studied their eyes for a long moment.

  “I think you understand why I’m doing this—I want to do business with you for a while. If I understand you correctly, you’ll be able to buy and distribute more coke than this town has ever known, and that’s good for my business,” he said, closing the case and handing it to Vincent. “When this is gone, let me know. And don’t let it get out where it came from. I also sell to Shotgun Pope and his crew, but they’ve maxed out what they can handle. He won’t be happy when you move in.” D.W. nodded at the suitcase in Vincent’s hand. “But what you’ve got there, that should get you started.”

  They shook hands again—a gentlemanly gesture to conclude a dirty agreement—and then D.W. and his men got into their Volvo and drove away.

  Vincent looked at his brother. Tony was smiling and staring at the case in his hands, but Vincent’s expression wiped the smile off of his face.

  “This is going to be ugly,” Vincent said, his voice low and serious. “You know that, right? He was talking about the East Dogs and Pope. Those guys are not stupid—they have a distribution network in place already. I’ve come up against them before, several times. The East Dogs are not to be messed with, unless we take them out all at once, and that is messy. Do we take over their network or start our own?”

  Tony was looking at the empty ramp where the Volvo had left their sight.

  “I think we use them for a while and then start our own on the side,” Tony said. “Of course it will be ugly, but first, we offer this stuff to the gang lords and let them send it out through their channels. That will tell us who they are and where they are. Then, we get rid of the higher elements and take over.”

  Vincent shook his head. “No, that will never
work. The soldiers in Shotgun’s set are too loyal—they’ll never leave, and we won’t be able to buy them off. They’re all Bloods. They have a code, and they’re serious about it. It’s not something a group of white boys can just step in and run—they only hire from within, so to speak.”

  Vincent could see his brother thinking it through as they walked to the car and climbed in. “Then we need to start our own organization of dealers. We can hire away a few of his less loyal dealers by giving them better cuts. Distribution will be faster and more efficient with our own people. The final product will be better, and we’ll own the market,” Tony said.

  Vincent was pleased. He knew Tony was good at organizing—that’s why Tony had ended up running the family business while he worked at that dump of a restaurant and scratched by on whatever jobs he could drum up with his crew.

  Tony could see the big picture—that’s what made this partnership so great. Vincent had the killer instinct, which his brother sorely lacked, but his brother knew how to pull things together.

  Vincent looked over at his brother as they drove off, and smiled. “This is going to be ugly. But after it’s done, we’ll run this town.”

  Chapter 15

  Judy gingerly climbed up from the couch and made her way into the kitchen for more Advil. Vincent had beaten her so badly when he got home that it felt like every part of her was throbbing. After a while, he’d gotten tired of yelling at her, saying over and over again how she’d almost messed up something big for him, and he’d gone to bed. She’d stayed near the scene of the beating, lying on the couch and watching TV with the volume on low.

  It had been a beating to end all beatings, too much to even think about. On some level, she felt completely dead.

  But somewhere deeper, she felt strangely overjoyed. She had done it, almost—she had come up with a plan, carried it out, and almost gotten away. If she had just climbed into the bed of one of those trucks, she would be halfway to somewhere else by now. The failure should have defeated her, but for some reason, even after the beating, she felt giddy, energized, and alive at taking control.