Black Cat Weekly #95

Chapter 7-1

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

The Barb Goffman Presents series showcases

the best in modern mystery and crime stories,

personally selected by one of the most acclaimed

personally selected by one of the most acclaimedshort stories authors and editors in the mystery

short stories authors and editors in the mysteryfield, Barb Goffman, for Black Cat Weekly.

field, Barb Goffman, for .

byBarbara knew her marriage was over the second the FBI stormed her home. The Feds fired tear gas through the windows of her ranch. She watched black-clad figures flood into her home from behind binoculars on a ridgeline a mile from the raid. She’d miss the place, the horses, and the peace of living in the country, but Will had sold her out.

“Clean Willie strikes again,” she said to herself.

She hated the nickname that had attached itself to her husband. It was an ugly reminder of what he was capable of when push came to shove. He always got away clean... even when it was at the expense of his own crew. This time the son of a b***h was burning her to save his own a*s. The brilliance of his ruthlessness had blinded her, but over the years, as he sold out crew members, then friends and now her, she saw it for what it was—the instincts of someone who didn’t give a s**t about anyone other than himself. She’d seen this day coming and she’d prepped for it. She turned her back on her beloved home and got behind the wheel of her car.

“No tears. No remorse,” she said to herself. That was the way she had to think. The way Will thought.

Speeding down the hillside, she cursed Will for his impulsive nature. If he’d listened to her, they wouldn’t be in this s**t, but he had to go for the next shiny object no matter how far out on a limb it was. She’d been happy with the art scams, the bogus property deals, and the investment boiler rooms that had earned them millions, but that wasn’t good enough for Will. He had to go for the big one, the one where the downside outweighed the upside, the one that got people killed. Will’s Holy Grail was the US Treasury. You didn’t take on the federal government and not expect them to come back at you. She could cut her own deal with the Feds, but it would mean jail time. The public and the politicians would demand it. Besides, considering the FBI was kicking in her door, Will had already cut a deal. He wouldn’t abide by it. He was just using her to slip out the back door.

She grabbed the cell phone from the car’s center console and hit speed dial.

After three rings, a voice said, “Yes.”

“Give me Papa.”

“There’s no Papa here, lady.”

“Tell him it’s Babs, Clean Willie’s woman.”

If Will’s moniker didn’t get her in, nothing would. Will had screwed Papa over for years, and it had cost him five years of his life. Helping her would square accounts.

“What you want, Babs?” Papa’s voice was thick from decades of smoking cigars.

“I told you I’d be calling.”

A slow, dirty laugh filled the line. Barbara pictured Papa’s teeth, big enough to challenge any Osmond family member. He’d make her squirm, but as long as she got what she wanted, she’d squirm.

“So things have come to a head with Clean Willie?”

“Yeah.”

She wondered what bill of goods he’d sold the FBI and what story he’d concocted about her. Knowing her husband, it would be a colorful one and there’d be a paper trail to back it up. It was sad to think her life up until this moment was over. She’d get over it. She’d live. Even if the legendary Clean Willie didn’t.

“Irreconcilably. I want it done.”

“Want what?”

This was Papa making her squirm.

“If you can’t say it, you can’t have it.”

If she hadn’t needed Papa, she would’ve kicked the son of a b***h in the balls. That would kill that smile. “I want a Haitian Divorce.”

“Good. Good. You’re on your way to being a free woman. You’ll need to see the Haitian yourself. He’ll want to be paid in person.”

She could have bitched about having to travel to Haiti, but being out of the country for a while sounded good.

“You got money? A clean passport? You can travel, right?”

“I can travel. I have his money.”

“Get yourself to Port-au-Prince, then call me.”

“Will do.”

“Just don’t forget, Papa needs his co-pay before you leave.”

“You’ll get your money,” she said and hung up.

Barbara drove the forty miles to her unit in a crappy, public-storage facility in Colorado Springs. Will didn’t know about the unit. It was under a fake identity after all. She’d only kept it as a last resort.

Inside she kept all the things she’d ever need—cash, a clean identity, clothes, a g*n (that she sadly couldn’t take with her) and a boring-as-can-be Honda. Inside the safe there was close to two hundred and fifty grand. She took fifty. It was all she needed for now. Ten for Papa. Twenty-five for the Haitian. The remainder was for expenses. She put the money in a roller bag with enough clothes to last her a week. She’d buy more if she needed them.

She ditched her ID, credit cards, jewelry, and anything that identified her as Barbara. She was now Linda Miller. A wave of sadness draped itself over her shoulders. She liked being Barbara, but even once she had her Haitian Divorce, she could never be Barbara again. That saddened her more than she expected. She hoped she’d get to like Linda just as much.

Barbara stared at her wedding ring sitting in her palm. Will had given it to her after their first big score. It hadn’t been off her finger since. She’d considered it unlucky to take the ring off. Her luck had run out regardless. Screw superstition, she thought, but she couldn’t bring herself to sling the ring in with the rest of her jewelry in the safe. She slipped the ornate band back on. She’d give it back to Will at the divorce. That thought put a smile on her face. Not a joyous one. But a f**k-you one.

Swapping her Audi for the Honda, she left her old identity there in that storage unit to gather dust. Once on US 24, she settled in for a long drive. Denver airport was right on her doorstep, but she wasn’t taking any chances on her name being flagged, even with her rock-solid Linda Miller identity. No, she’d drive to Miami and catch a flight to Haiti from there.

There was no way she’d reach Miami in one shot, so she checked into a motel in St. Louis and into another in Atlanta the following night. In Atlanta, she dyed her blond hair auburn to match Linda’s red hair on the driver’s license and passport, put Papa’s ten grand in a FedEx envelope, and booked her flight to Haiti.

Hitting the road the next morning, a single thought distracted her—she wasn’t headline news. At the very least, she expected some FBI alert saying there was a manhunt in progress and asking people to call some tip line. But there was nothing on the national or local news. She didn’t know what to make of that. Either the Feds knew exactly where to find her or she wasn’t important to their case. Either way, they wouldn’t be waiting for her in South Florida.

She spent the night in a hotel in Coral Gables, not twenty minutes from Miami International. The following morning, she checked into her flight with thirty grand stashed in her clothes, which was all the cash she was taking to Haiti. She’d stowed the remaining cash under the Honda’s spare wheel.

Security wasn’t a problem. Her flight was around two-thirds full. She was pleased to see plenty of White faces on the plane. The last thing she needed was to stick out more like a sore thumb than necessary.

Port-au-Prince’s cloying heat hit her like a fist. The humidity enveloped her the moment she left the air-conditioned cool of the aircraft. She shuffled along with her fellow passengers into the airport as they chattered away. French and English flew over her head. She didn’t talk to anyone. It was the way she wanted it—or had wanted it. She’d kept to herself on the flight, shooting down anyone’s attempts to chat. Now she regretted that. A lone tourist stuck out. She needed decoys and fast.

She scanned the crowd and locked onto a chatty pair of American couples a dozen people behind her. She let other people drift ahead of her until they caught up to her, then stepped on one of their toes “by accident” to kick off a conversation. She sold them a line about traveling alone on account of a friend canceling her trip at the last moment. Taking pity on her, they welcomed her into their fold. Now they were a group of five. After blowing through customs and immigration with her disposable friends, she passed through and out of the terminal, ghosting them.

Cab drivers descended upon her. French hailed down upon her from all directions. She didn’t understand a word, but she understood the subtext—you’re White, which means you have money and we want it. She hated hustlers, hypocritical under the circumstances, but it was more to do with small-time hustlers. Their desperation disgusted her. Black or White, she respected hustlers with cool. Hustlers like herself and Clean Willie. Hustlers like the broad-shouldered guy staring directly at her, leaning against an aged Toyota sedan with his arms crossed against his chest. This guy knew tourists spooked easily and that playing it cool won the day. She pointed at Mr. Cool.

He shoved his competition aside and grabbed her roller bag. The second the competition knew they’d lost out, they pounced on the next set of tourists.

Her driver opened a rear door for her to get in and put her roller in the trunk. The car sank a couple of inches when the driver dropped into his seat.

“Where to?”

She handed him a scrap of paper with an address she’d gotten from Papa.

The cabbie frowned. “What is your name?”

Barbara’s neck muscles tightened. “Linda.”

“You do not want to go here, Linda.”

She didn’t buckle under the weight of the man’s concern. “I do.”

“I know this place. People go there for one purpose. It’s not for you. It’s not for anyone. Whatever your problems are, they can be solved another way.”

She leaned forward in her seat. “What’s your name?”

“Maurice.”

“Maurice, if I had any other way of resolving this issue, I would do it, but I don’t, so please take me to this address.”

Maurice sighed and turned away from her.

Port-au-Prince changed as they left the modern feel of the airport for the city streets. Bad roads were packed to capacity with vehicles. Mopeds cut in and out of traffic and seemed to be the smartest form of transportation if you wanted to get somewhere fast. Buildings and homes were packed tight and not well. This was a city of hard living. She’d known tough times, but dollars to donuts, these people knew harder.

Maurice didn’t talk to her during the ride. She’d disappointed him. That or he pitied her. She’d wait for another time to be embarrassed. She just wanted to get this done and move on with her life.