The Soft Core

Sheriff Coyle was stuffing her loose hair under her cap, reading her brief in preparation. She wondered how badly the sleepless night, and her sorrow, might make her look beaten. Because she wasn’t a lick. A loosely lumped group of crime tourists and newsies with mics were hanging around the Nye County Sheriff’s Office awaiting the lurid report of the previous night. The television news crew was situated and ready to shoot, the camera man raised his hand, then dropped it into a point of direction back to the sheriff. His red light came on.

“Now, I got a bit to cover here, so I won’t be taking any questions. I’ll make myself available at a later date. You will understand after I’ve spoken here.

“Last night we had an incident at an address in Pahrump, a small ranch here. Like nothing you would ever expect in our little town. But… it’s a hard day… for many… and for me.

“There was an assault, a home invasion, on fellow residents, gunmen just did their dirty work, and I won’t go into what we have discovered or what we know at this time because, obviously, it’s a new investigation. But one of our residents has been killed…” and still with beautiful irony she could not get over, she puffed up a little, “…but the assailants suffered severely. There were a number of perps dead on the scene…” she paused in pride… and some gratification for the intervention of early justice, “… six of them, due to a firm defense by regular Americans. What our town is made of…” she looked directly at the camera, “I want all of you to remember that!

“But since the case is just getting started, I won’t share details, but that we know there are two more perpetrators that escaped the scene driving what we think was an older model Jeep Grand Cherokee, four-door. Gold or dusty off-white. We don’t have a plate or anything else to bring to the community yet, but as it is fit to report, we will do so. Of the six deceased intruders, only one was a Pahrump resident. It makes us contemplate many things, but we are unable to speak to any of them just yet. Early information is, they are all ex-cons, lifelong perpetrators. It was their lives. Now it’s their deaths.

“And one more item, connected to the events of last night, our suspect in the homicide at the entertainment club on Thursday has been found and apprehended. But at the same time, we have discovered evidence that exonerates him in that matter. So, pending some filings…” this was ‘police-talk’ for when I’m done talking with the camera, “…he will be released.

“We will be talking with the State Police, and we will let you all know of our progress in the days to come. Thank you.”

Darlene turned from the microphone, voices snapping out questions, Detective Bunting keeping a shoulder between she and the barking now assailing her. She walked back into the office without another word.

*********************

The boys were hugging Donnie all over again, the same as they did in the very early morning hour when they met him as he was brought into the Sheriff’s Office for holding. Maybe for safety. They felt his rage and sorrow for the good people that would risk their lives for him, Carson committing the final devotion. He’d seen a lot of that – and given a lot of that – in his life. But this occasion, they were celebrating his forthcoming release just announced by the sheriff; it was out of relief more than anything. Donnie Yankovich cheated death again. But there was no longer that hope for Mark and Laz. Their embrace of joy turned to tears… in the unmerciful truth of the world, in fullness of regret and sadness, there was joy that something was retrieved from this sewage spill of grief.

The whore had told them what she had witnessed of their friends’ disposal. She failed to tell them of any other details. She gave them a rough description of their location, but was lost in drugs, fear and darkness. Detective Bunting would be long in the field searching in the coming days. As the vets savored the moment, with every word of gratitude for Donnie’s survival, there were four vows of revenge. It would be suitable reprisal worthy of any scab born to a toxic existence.

The irony in this strange milieu was Donnie was hugging his three buddies in his cell while they had watched the sheriff’s news address on a television brought into them; the address occurred not 50 feet away, just outside the station’s windows. They even picked up the curious echo of her words in the delay of transmission through the television.

Knowing Donnie would be walking soon, the others brought him up on the rough draft of plans they had worked on delivering to The Zanzibar Club. But there were glitches.

“We don’t have the firepower if they have numbers. I’d rather have more than a Glock or your Sig.”

“I think I know where we can get what we need.” Donnie asserted in conviction.

“Where? Where have you been diggin’ while being held captive?”

“With some damn fine people who know what we’re about. But we’re gonna have to right it with the sheriff… because it’s a crime scene right now.”

What awful truth might find us if we don’t find it first?

**********************

By noon on Monday, the Charleston View volunteer fire department had been called out of California to the wastelands of southwestern Nevada. In that vast stretch of unforgiveable terrain and sparse desert salad, in the foothills of the Spring Mountain Range, there was an isolated car fire. Small ravines, remoteness, the very gimmicks sought in hiding bodies, a vehicle frame was found still simmering, black smoke an easy announcement in the early morning.

The fire brigade found a charred pile of scrap metal that still held the relative shape of an SUV. There wasn’t a piece of fabric that could be identified, the fire’s purpose complete; just that scorched black and pitted red skeleton remained. The area had obviously been splashed with accelerants, lots of accelerants, as the sand had glazed into glass from the inferno, creating a swatch in the desert that looked like the map of Maine.

“Burnt to a crisp, Chief. Nothing but the floor and frame and some metal hubs that were wheels… Yessir, we’ll wait the crime scene group… but not sure what they could possibly pull out of this mess… No, there’s nothing, at least that I could ever begin to guess… all I can tell you, it’s an SUV frame, burned into the glass of the sand. If I were any kind of an artist, I’d tell you there was some subliminal shit here about Man’s creation and the spoiling of our nature… Yessir, I know that sounds stupid… and no, Tom, I’m not smoking weed again!”

There would be a cruiser from Charleston View, and as a courtesy and jurisdiction, the Chief called Pahrump and advised Sheriff Coyle, “Seeing how you got that jackpot goin’ on in your neck of the woods, I thought you’d want to know, but we got a burnt-out SUV about eight miles from us leaning the Vegas way… yea, one of those dumps… yes, we’ll be on site. It just felt like your business… sure Darlene. My people will be waiting for yours. You bet. Good luck with your mess there. If I can help, let me know.”

It was a kind offer, but Darlene Coyle knew this was her mess, her raging inferno… hers alone.

********************

“We’re coming over in an hour. These guys wanted a little American food… McDonalds.” His words reeked of shame or hubris, cousins of the same red face. “They think McDonalds is like Disney or something.”

Big Sal didn’t dare mention to Jacob what happened last night. It was a royal clusterfuck; she had no way of knowing professional talent would have been worth hiring. It was an old, feeble couple for Christ’s sake. Leonard, Gregory and a handful of their thug friends seemed an easy solution. Two ancient sets of bones against all of those guns. Leonard and Gregory were the only ones that got away. Now, everything has moved up!

The consultants were here to divvy up the final shares, she assumed, and then they’d want to get back out. But if she knew Darlene Coyle, that little fucking sheriff would be back out here with warrants. The business needed to move. She had to hurry everything along because she had an as-yet trip arranging to be arranged.

“Fuck, let ‘em eat cake. Who cares? Do they know how important this is?” Then she tossed out the makeshift finish so to not project her plans, “For Gorko? Have all the shit in his camp and never worry about an annuity to us. He’ll be satisfied, don’t you think?”

He wanted badly to give her the briefest comfort, strictly out of deference to his money he’d be losing, but he felt none otherwise. And the visitors wouldn’t improve upon things. It was an odd arrival of the consultants, his holding a sign for “The Reigert Company”, a bogus ruse but a signal that Jacob French was their driver. And then an impossibly silent drive from Vegas to Pahrump, only to find a room at the Holiday Inn Express. They all took their suites without words nor acknowledgement to Jacob, with their host and driver only tossing out, “We should meet in the morning… or noon, whatever you guys like.” They entered the elevator without another word. No, there was no comfort he could offer Big Sal.

“Well, these guys are here to conclude the splits I think… And I’m pretty sure he’s ready to move on everything as fast as he can.” But Jacob knew things were being discovered in the banks, and their take would not be as substantial as they all had hoped. Too little was working well. He was considering vamoosing as soon as the Turks were back at the airport. He had probably siphoned enough of his own treasures through the course of these stings that he could retire to Palm Springs… or Cabo.

“Hurry it up, Jacob. I’m running out of patience.”

“Not sure your patience has a vote, Sal.” He was growing concerned his didn’t either.

************************

Art was at the McDonalds waiting for their orders. He volunteered to get the food because he needed to get out. The emotional boobytrap that was every day since they came to Vegas was wearing on him… on all of them. But they were focused, and finetuning their scheme to pay Mark’s and Lazlo’s last best wishes on their murderers. Art’s head was swimming in sorrow, anger, fear… vengeance… so, yea, the walk to get food was important.

As he sipped on a Coke, waiting on his order, watching others get filled, he saw the three men walk in, immediately picking up a vibe, like these men did not belong. Art stopped watching the fries being salted… Now it was men in drab, loose attire. Colors in olive and camel brown. Fatigues in another environment. And more so, a humorless tone about the men, even as the lead chuckled coming in. That man made eye contact with Art, and it held a moment, neither relinquishing the stare… the assessments.

Art also noted the new smell, foreign to any McDonalds, washing out the fry oil and singed burgers… it was heavy cologne. Something familiar in that… in this… in them.

He stepped up to the counter and began in a gruff broken English, “Da Big Mac meal, two of dem. One qua-ter pound some extra french-fry.”

“Will that quarter-pounder be a meal or a single sandwich?”

The man seemed offended. “What? We order two meals and not anoder? Of course… of course, is a meal. And give drink cups, no waiting for dose.”

Art kept watching. The man ordering turned to find Art’s continued stare, and he walked over, while handing the cups to his mates for the soft-drink fountain. But he didn’t walk to the fountain, he stopped a few feet from Art staring at him. It felt like a barroom challenge. A stupid gesture.

“Can I help you?” Art asked.

“No, maybe I help you?”

“Only if you’re making my French-fries, otherwise, no.” Then Art looked him up and down, his friends too, who were dispensing sodas, “Nice ensembles. You guys all sort of match.” He smiled.

The foreigner didn’t. He spit on the floor, aiming for Art’s boots.

Boots. The ex-marine knew military boots… and the men who wore them… and the habitual cologne thing.

“Order number 36.”

Art held up his ticket, “That be me!” He walked over and grabbed his to-go sacks and the four Cokes in a carry-all, and turned to go. The foreigner still gauging the veteran as he exited.

‘Lot going on in this fucking little town,’ was what Art was thinking.

*********************

“Middle Eastern. No question. I only heard him stumbling over an order and his cute little threat. So, couldn’t tell you where he was from… not Iraq, I know that much. Heavy brow, his face was grey from his shaved stubble… one of them was a weird blonde thing, looked maybe German… the third was a mirror of the alpha-dick.”

Cliff was stuffing fries in his maw, three and four at a time, talking in his chomp, “You get a fix on something?”

“Not sure. They just felt like they were in business. And I don’t mean domestic business.”

“Just all done up in fatigues? Anything else other than that?”

Just then Donnie, who had been on the phone with his bank IT and the cops turned and said, “They’re Turks. Bet my ass on it! At least the two of ‘em.”

“Turks. Why Turks?”

“Because the forensics guys on my accounts working with the banks have identified IP addresses in Turkey.”

“VPN, Donnie, your thieves could be anywhere.”

“Yea, they’ve discovered three or four sources from other places, Kansas City, Waukesha Wisconsin. But there’s a redundancy in Turkey.”

“So they think it’s Turkish? Your specialists?”

“No, they haven’t determined that. But I have.”

Johnny pulled up his chair, “Tell me.”

“I was the target, not Marky. I see it. You said that Jack fucker, they had me pegged. You guys were the problem that snuck up on ‘em.”

“More like you were when you wouldn’t cooperate and die, motherfucker!” Cliff was getting hot.

“Me and you guys. They bit off more than they could chew, and it got running away from them.”

“Literally, dude. But why Turkey?”

“Think about it. Waukesha? Kansas City? I’m sure there’ll be a couple more IP’s identified, but the big leaks are to Turkey. And if you are gonna run some domestic game like this, stealing from high rollers and killing them, do you want it an easy stroll for the authorities? No, you kick dirt over your shit anyway you can. Nothing easier than off-loading the contract, taking your cut and looking like a fucking proprietor of business.”

As if Donnie needed anymore reason, he too was growing enraged all over again… and shamed that he was indeed why all this happened. He would finish his thoughts.

“That fucking cunt over there has a deal with some underworld fuck in Turkey, and those guys are doing the real thieving. And these new goons are their mercenaries here to help quiet all this shit. Bet my teeth. And that fat cunt is getting a cut and burying the bodies…” he began to tear up, “… our boys… others…” He bowed his head, Art leaned over and rubbed the back of his neck in mercy. “We gonna blow that bitch the fuck up!”