Levon's Trade

  He’d clocked in and was earning so it didn’t matter what the boss was up to. And Joe Bob wasn’t talking as he drove. The big man’s face was pinched. His eyes were red and tired behind his tinted Ray Bans. The muscles in his neck were tense. Joe Bob Wiley was a local football hero. A high school phenom who went on to more fame at Wake Forest until a wicked hit in his second season ruined his right knee joint beyond any repair that even modern surgery could affect. No limp and only a little pain but no more broken field running for this good old boy. So he came on board Manners Contract Builders as a gladhanding hometown celebrity and found out he liked construction and had a talent for planning. In twenty years he had his name on the company and was calling all the shots while Winston Manners retired to Florida to fish, golf and collect a monthly dividend from the growing business.

  “You’re making what these days?” Joe Bob spoke up as he cruised the center lane south away from the city traffic.

  “You pay me fifteen an hour,” Levon said.

  “I pay you a hell of a lot more than that,” Joe Bob snorted.

  “Well, there’s overtime, sir.”

  “Overtime, shit! You’re on site more than I am. You clock seventy hours a week sometimes. You earned a four figure check over Labor Day, son.”

  “Guys call out. Sometimes we’re short so I come in.”

  “You got no place else to be?”

  “I’m widowed and my little girl lives with my wife’s father.”

  “So, nothing but time on your hands, huh?”

  “If I’m at work I’m not getting in trouble,” Levon said and watched the endless lights gliding past in the opposite lane.

  “You’re ex-military, right?” Joe Bob said and flipped the lever to shift into a right exit lane.

  “That’s right.”

  “Which branch?”

  “I was one of the good guys, sir.”

  Joe Bob barked a laugh at that. There was no spirit in it. It was more a reaction of surprise than humor.

  They pulled into a place called Andy’s Bunker, nestled in a grove of evergreens between a Home Depot and a Walmart. It looked like it had been there since Prohibition ended. Flat roof and asbestos siding painted in a riot of blue and orange. The sign promised BBQ and ice cold beer. There were a few pickups on the lot already.

  “I need help and I think you’re the man to help me. I’m willing to pay a shitload more than fifteen an hour,” Joe Bob said, turning in his seat. His voice was low. The bullshit and bluster gone now.

  “I’m not doing anything illegal, sir,” Levon said meeting the big man’s gaze.

  “And I wouldn’t ask you to. Nothing strictly immoral or illegal.”

  Levon waited.

  “I need you to find my daughter,” Joe Bob said opening his door and turning to hide from his passenger the sudden well of tears.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “A mission is honorable so long as your heart and your mind are in the same place and the outcome is just.”

  5

  * * *

  Joe Bob and Levon took a booth at the rear of Andy’s Bunker. The place was quiet. The country pop on the jukebox was turned way down so the four guys at the end of the bar could hear two women arguing on some political panel show.

  The bartender brought them a pair of glasses and a pitcher of Coors. Levon didn’t touch his glass.

  “Go on. Have a beer,” Joe Bob said.

  “I’m on the clock, sir.”

  “I’m the damned boss and I say it’s okay. And call me Joe Bob.”

  Levon poured a short beer and took a sip.

  “Do you know we’ve had zero losses at Evergreen Estates? We’re close to finishing the first phase and there’s not so much as a nail missing from inventory,” Joe Bob said.

  “That’s a good thing, right?”

  “And no vandalism. No fights. Nobody showing up high or drunk. Just everything running smooth and easy.”

  “This is about your daughter?”

  “I’ve never been on a job where there’s been zero shrinkage. These Mexes walk off with anything they can carry. Tools. Lumber. Plumbing. Hell, I build it into my estimates. They’ll take concrete if they can. Wet concrete right out of the truck. And don’t get me started on vendors, son. Pirates is what they are.”

  Levon took another sip, watching Joe Bob drain his second glass.

  “The only difference between this job and all those others is you, Cade. I brought you on this summer and thefts stopped like someone turned off a tap. The only variable is you being there near all the time. And even when you’re not there, the rest of the security I hired is more on the ball than they used to be and the laborers keep their hands to themselves. You either scare them all shitless or maybe you’ve been a good influence.”

  Levon nodded.

  “I looked into you, Cade. I mean, past your bullshit résumé when you applied. I Googled you and you know what I found.”

  Levon looked at him level across the table.

  “I found jack shit. Oh, I found out you were born in Raleigh and when. You graduated high school. You live in a one-bedroom in a complex I built. Your wife passed two years ago and you have a little girl that doesn’t live with you and you’re in a custody fight with your father-in-law. You have no criminal record and, until a year ago, you were in the service. That sound right to you?”

  “That’s the public record, sir.”

  The argument on the television spread to the four men at the bar. They were in a three to one deadlock and telling each other how full of shit the other was. Joe Bob waited until the outnumbered party stormed off to the men’s room before continuing.

  “Only it’s not real clear which branch you were in. Your record has more redactions than Obama’s college transcripts. You trained with the Navy, the Marines, the Rangers and a few outfits that only had letters and numbers. There’s some dates and places but the rest just isn’t there. What isn’t there tells a story. It tells me you’ve been places and done things.”

  Levon let the beer warm in his hand.

  “I need someone with your knowledge. I need someone to find my daughter,” Joe Bob said.

  “I’m not a detective,” Levon said.

  “Don’t you think I hired a detective? A private outfit that came highly recommended. They told me they’d exhausted every lead. Didn’t find Jenna. Didn’t send my check back either.”

  “What do the police say?”

  “They tell me she ran away. They tell me she’s shacked up with some dude. They say there’s no evidence of foul play. I know every parent says this but my girl isn’t like that. She’s serious about her classes. She’s engaged to a nice local boy here in Huntsville. She’s not some tramp who’d run off.”

  “Like I said, sir. I’m not a detective.”

  “I know that. That’s not what I need. I’m figuring you didn’t spend your time in uniform repairing air conditioners at Fort Bragg. The story all those blanks in your record tells me is that you were some kind of badass.”

  Levon took a pull of the flat beer.

  Joe Bob removed his tinted glasses and leaned over the table to look into Levon’s face. The older man’s eyes were rimmed red. His skin was dry like paper. His chin bunched and quivered as he spoke in a whisper.

  “I have the reports from the Tampa police and the Hillsborough County sheriff. I have the papers from the agency I hired. Timelines and witnesses and all that. They take Jenna up to a little past midnight on a Friday three weeks ago and they end. I flew down there, I’ve lived there for the past few weeks. And all anyone can tell me is that there’s nothing they can do to follow this any further. There’s nothing the law can do. You understand me, Cade?”

  “You said this was nothing illegal, sir.”

  “There’s the law and then there’s law, son. I’m talking justice.”

  “Excuse me, sir, but you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about my gir
l. My little girl. You have a daughter.”

  “I can’t say I understand what you’re feeling, sir. I can say I’d imagine I’d feel the exact same as you about now.”

  “But what would you do about it?” Joe Bob said, eyes shifting, searching into Levon’s.

  Levon’s eyes remained still pools gleaming from the surrounding scar tissue.

  “Fifty thousand. Cash. Tax free,” Joe Bob said in a whisper.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Please,” Joe Bob said. He enclosed his hand around Levon’s, pressing it to the smooth glass.

  “Drive me on back to the site or fire me, sir,” Levon said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m just not in that line of work anymore.”

  Joe Bob released the other man’s hand.

  “I’ll meet you at the truck. Take you back to the site for your shift,” Joe Bob said. He seemed to shrink, to recede into a smaller space than he occupied before.

  One of the men at the bar started to make a remark as Levon made his way to the door. Something about two men holding hands and this wasn’t that kind of place. He was heading for his punchline until Levon met his gaze for a second in passing. The wag turned back to the bar and drained his Bud instead of finishing his sentence.

  Joe Bob dropped him at the office shack. There was no talk on the drive back.

  Levon worked his own shift. When Wayne Spinelli called in to say his wife was sick and couldn’t watch the kids on her own Levon agreed to work a double and was on the site until morning.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “Heroes die. I need you to kill. I don’t need you to die. I want guys who can die I can pick ’em on any street corner. Heroes. Who needs ’em? Nobody’s asking you to look for grenades to jump on. If you do and you live you need to know that I will personally kick your ass until all the shrapnel pops out.”

  6

  * * *

  The judge reached for the hockey puck he used for a gavel in place of hammer. It was autographed by Bobby Orr and encased in Lucite. The judge was a Philadelphia transplant. Each time he brought the puck down he imagined he heard the score buzzer going off at the Spectrum in South Philly.

  “I am granting a continuance in this matter until . . ” The judge held the paper it in his hand and lowered his eyes through the bottom portion of his glasses. “February the twelfth, ten AM in this courtroom. Until then, happy holidays.”

  The puck came down. He shoots. He adjudicates. The crowd roars.

  “Another fucking continuance,” Matt Torrance said with some heat once he and Levon were out in the courthouse lobby.

  “He didn’t even show up,” Levon said.

  “Your father-in-law? The prick? Why should he show up? He already paid for the continuance. Why waste his own time?” Matt’s nose wrinkled in disgust.

  “Matt, I know you’re my advocate but you don’t need to get this pissed off. It’s not like I’m going to pay you extra for giving a shit.”

  “I need a drink. You need a drink?”

  “Coffee. I have a shift later.”

  They picked a place within easy walk of the county courthouse. A faux-Irish bar that had been a real Irish bar before the neighborhood gentrified. They snagged a couple of stools at a bar packed with lawyers, clerks and other cogs in the machine of county politics.

  “Is there anything we can do to stop these continuances? This is the third one,” Levon said.

  “The good doctor is going to continue to drive you into the poorhouse. He’s running the clock out on your finances. And, no, there’s not a damned thing I can do but stamp my loafers.” Matt sighed.

  “I’m not getting any closer to custody. Once a week visitation isn’t cutting it. Being without Merry is killing me.”

  “You know if he crushes you on custody he’ll move to curtail visitation or try and limit it further.”

  Levon nodded over his coffee.

  “What did you do to make this guy hate you so much?”

  “He blames me for Arlene’s death.”

  “Cancer, right? How’s that work? How’s he blame you for that? He’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake.”

  “I stressed her. I wasn’t there. Neglect. I don’t know. Grief doesn’t have to make sense,” Levon said.

  “I have to be honest with you, I am not optimistic. At the risk of my own job security I have to tell you it doesn’t look good,” Matt said. He swirled a stick in his highball.

  Levon sipped coffee.

  “Your father-in-law draws a lot of water in this county. He’s got money and friends and one hell of a reputation as a neurosurgeon. He’s a generations-long local and you’re not. Me, I never met a neurosurgeon who wasn’t some kind of weirdo but people actually like this prick. Plus he has the cash to nickel and dime you on legal fees forever. I mean, you’re making maybe thirty kay a year? Less? You’ll wind up with nothing and still not be allowed to see your little girl.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse. Like I said, I feel it. Which means I know it but I can’t say how I know it. He’s going to win custody and come after you even harder to take away all your parental rights. You live alone in a one-bedroom going paycheck to paycheck. He’s not only going to show that you can’t support a child but that you shouldn’t have access to Mary.”

  “Merry.”

  “Say again?”

  “Merry, not Mary. Her name is Meredith.”

  Matt waved that aside.

  “Right. Right. Right. What I’m saying is that this doctor won’t be happy until you look like the lovechild of Ted Bundy and Tonya Harding.”

  “Tonya—?”

  “Before your time. Generational thing. The important thing is that you have to ask yourself what you want to do now. Do you stop here and be happy with seeing her on Saturdays or go on and have no money and risk never seeing her again until she’s eighteen and emancipated.”

  “She’s nine. That’s nine years of Wendy’s and hugs in parking lots.”

  “Right. And you leave her with Gramps and he has nine years to turn her against you. I get it. I’ve seen this all before. The choice is a shitty one. It’s extortion. It sucks.” Matt took a gulp of highball.

  “What would it take to beat this?” Levon said.

  “Money. Enough money to overcome the doc’s old boy influence and bring this to court for a ruling. Enough money to let the other side know you’re all-in so they stop slow-walking. Do you have the kind of money?” Matt shrugged and took another long pull.

  “I know where I can get it,” Levon said and walked from the bar, leaving Matt choking on his last swallow.

  Gunny Leffertz said:

  “You can’t go dying on every hill. There’s no honor in it. Custer’s famous. For what? For all the times he won? No. For the one time he fucked up. You want to be famous and dead? Your name on a wall? Or do you want to win? You have to know when it’s time to back off and when it’s time to go grizzly. You have to know when winning the hill is worth the blood and when the hill is just a pile of shit. Sometimes it’s not your day to win. Every day is your day to die.”

  7

  * * *

  “You said you wanted printouts,” Joe Bob said and slid a stack of paper folders across the counter.

  Levon riffled through them. Neatly typed reports from an investigation firm in Tampa. Less neatly typed county papers with handwritten notations. There were maps and lists and an envelope packed with an inch-thick stack of bills.

  “Expenses. Jabroni money. Whatever you need it for. It doesn’t come off the fifty thousand,” Joe Bob said.

  Joe Bob called it his mancave. It was a daylight basement in his six thousand square foot house in Liberty Park. There was a home theater and a matched pair of pool tables and a wall of vintage pinball machines. The wall opposite was a gallery of photos, framed jerseys, footballs and helmets from Joe Bob’s storied past. They were sitting at a granite topped table set by a fully stocked wet bar.

&
nbsp; “What do you want for your money?” Levon said.

  “Excuse me?” Joe Bob said.

  “I need to know what we’re talking about here. You want her found. I get that. What if she can’t be found? What if I find her and it’s not good news?”

  “That’s cold talk, son.”

  “I need the terms. Your terms.”

  “The money’s yours. All of it. No matter what. I need commitment. You’re my last play.”

  “Good news. Bad news. No news. The fifty is mine. That’s a lot of trust, sir.”

  “It’s a lot of pressure, is what it is. If you’re the man I think you are, Cade. And I know you are. You won’t stop until you’ve earned every dollar.”

  “Fair enough, sir.”

  “When can you start, son?”

  “If you can cover my shifts this week I’ll head down to Tampa tomorrow first thing,” Levon said and dropped the sheaf of files into the waiting satchel and the envelope of cash into his jacket pocket.

  “Hell, if I can’t I’ll walk the site myself,” Joe Bob said standing.

  They shook hands and Levon left the house.

  And went on the hunt.

  8

  * * *

  “That was Levon,” Marcia Roth said, setting the cordless down on the kitchen table.

  “What did he want?” Dr. Jordan Roth said without looking up from his open laptop.

  “He said he’ll be away this weekend. Something with work. He won’t be able to take Merry.”

  The doctor said nothing. He was reading and scrolling.

  “She’ll be broken hearted.” Marcia sighed.

  “Hm,” the doctor said.

  “She needs those visits, Jordan.”