CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ray turned the key and started the engine. He let it idle for a few minutes, then turned on the heat. It was a frigid night. He sipped his now cold coffee for the caffeine effect.

The Riv was parked between stacks of shipping containers, the big kind that were loaded on to ocean-going vessels. The spot afforded him a view of the Wharf, but concealed the car from any casual onlookers. It was nearly two am. Business on the wharf had finally died down, though he had been surprised that it was active till midnight. A seedy-looking establishment called the Redeye Bar had been bustling (for a weeknight) but it, too, was slowing up. Even the working girls, shivering in their skimpy outfits, had long since gone home.

Fraser slept like a babe in the seat beside him. He had wanted to take first watch or at least flip a coin for it, but Ray had put his foot down. He, at least, had managed a few hours sleep in his own bed after their return from the train station in Aurora. Fraser was running on fumes. Dief snored loudly in the back.

He sipped coffee as he waited. There was a steady exodus of unsteady patrons from the Redeye. They made their way alone or in pairs to their vehicles, many of which were motorcycles. Ray shivered at the thought of riding a bike in this weather. He had put a down payment on a Harley-Davidson motorcycle with his first paycheck and rode that baby everywhere all summer long. The love affair had lasted only until the weather turned.

The neon sign went dark. Another twenty minutes, and he saw the waitresses leave in a huddle. Then, the bartender. He fussed with locks and alarm system before walking, head down, to his car. Ray glanced at his watch. It was 2:25 am. He reached over and shook his partner's shoulder. Fraser's eyes flew open. Then, he sat up straight, instantly alert.

"Nice nap?"

"Yes, Ray."

"The bar closed," he said, turning off the engine. "Time to boogie."

They exited the Riv quietly, Fraser holding the seat forward for Dief. Brannigan's Wharf was a big complex, housing several warehouses, the bar, a boatworks, a dock with large and small commercial watercraft tethered. This was no sailing marina for yachts and pleasure boats, but a real working waterfront. The gentrification that was creeping in on some lakeside neighborhoods hadn't found this place yet. Ray was keeping a lookout for nighttime security in the form of a rent-a-cop, but none was apparent. Still, they kept to the shadows.

The purpose of this field trip was to scope out the Wharf in the wee hours, the same time of night that Brian Mosely might have dropped ten barrels of maple syrup into the water for his partner, Albert Ames, to retrieve. Ray knew it was a longshot, but they had little else to go on. The opacity of the ownership records of the City's commercial docks, a notorious hotbed of smuggling, prostitution, drug-dealing, and the like, was legendary. There would be no warrants on the strength of what evidence they had. A daytime canvass was the next step, but Ray knew that would yield little information and even less cooperation, if not downright hostility, especially if there was a mob connection down here.

"What are we looking for, Benny?" he asked, in a low tone.

"Anything and everything."

"In other words," he complained, "you don't know."

"Yes."

Diefenbaker was nosing the dock, going back and forth and in circles, fascinated by the rich array of odors. They walked the length of the wharf, past the bar and the boatworks to the last warehouse which jutted out over the water. A tugboat was moored in front of the warehouse, facing out into the vastness of the Lake, but it was dark and silent. Water slapped against the pilings. Ray peered down. He said, "It must be low tide."

"Actually, Ray," Fraser said, "the Great Lakes are essentially non-tidal."

"No," he protested. "I've seen the tides change."

Fraser kept his tone low, but conversational. "It's a common misconception. The water levels in the Great Lakes do vary, of course. Depending on precipitation or water table levels. And, variations occur with the seasons." He paused. "True tides, that is, changes in water level due to the gravitational force of the sun and moon, are barely measurable on the Great Lakes. No more than five centimeters." He shone his penlight down in the narrow space between the pier and the warehouse. "The greater fluctuations in lake levels - what most people think of as the changing tide - are produced by wind and barometric pressure changes."

"Thank you, Mr. Know-It-All," Ray said, though he actually found this episode of Fraser Facts interesting, for once. Not that he'd ever admit it. "I bet you got that out of a library book."

"Indeed I did, Ray."

Ray sized up the pier, the warehouse, and the other buildings. He leaned over and spat. As he watched the spittle plop into the water, and the rings that emanated from it, he said, "Actually, the water only seems lower here because the warehouse is built up higher than the other buildings along here."

Fraser eyed the lines of the structure. "You're right, Ray. Hmmm."

"Hmmm what?"

"It would appear that a small boat or, perhaps, a barge could be loaded, or unloaded from underneath this warehouse." He pointed at the tugboat, "And then towed out into the Lake without being observed."

Ray saw what it meant. "Mighty convenient for a certain type of cargo."

From where they stood, the space was too narrow and the angle too steep to see under the warehouse. Fraser shone his flashlight along the edge, illuminating a wooden ladder affixed to the pier. He exchanged glances with Ray, then turned off the light.

He went first, climbing quietly down the wooden rungs. Ray followed, wincing as he felt a splinter lodge in the palm of his hand. All he could hear was the lapping of the lake against the pier. It echoed loudly in the confined space. When he reached the end of the ladder, he felt around with one foot and found a narrow wooden ledge. It was wet. He stepped on to it, carefully. Fraser shined the penlight onto a fully loaded barge floating under the warehouse. With his usual grace, he stepped off the ledge and on to the gunnel, then down into the barge. He navigated a narrow passage between cargo rates to an open space, about five feet by ten feet in the dead center of the barge. He illuminated the way for Ray to follow. Ray stepped on to the barge, and nearly took a header as the current rocked the vessel.

He regained his balance, then took a look around. There was a boathouse effect formed in the area under the warehouse. It was open in the front. He could see the back of the tug and the Lake beyond. The pier was on the left; the rear and right sides were enclosed in the same weathered planking that the warehouse was made of. He joined Fraser in the open space in the middle. Cargo was stacked everywhere else under heavy duty tarpaulins. Without cutting the tightly lashed ropes binding the tarps, Ray couldn't tell what was there, except it appeared to be square or rectangular in shape. Crates and boxes, presumably.

"I don't see any barrels," he said, in a low voice to Fraser. "Is this incoming or outgoing freight?"

"I don't know," he replied, shining the light around the cargo space. "But, you're right. There are no barrels."

Ray peeled up one of the tarps. "Gimme your knife. I think there's a loose slat here I can pry off."

"Don't we need a warrant to open that?" Fraser asked, merely as a matter of form. He was already bending to reach his boot sheath.

"Nah, a knife works better."

Fraser doused the light.

"Wha –? " Ray began, then heard it himself. A car engine. His head snapped around. They were standing nearly at water level, below the level of the pier. In the narrow space between the bottom of the warehouse and the top of the pier, he saw a pair of headlights. Correction - more than one pair. The vehicles were coming their way, too fast for them to get out from under without being seen. Four cars pulled up in front of the warehouse. Ray heard several male voices, and counted at least seven pairs of feet. He hunkered down next to Fraser, and drew his gun. He let out the breath he was holding when the entourage entered the warehouse by the main entrance, without taking notice of their presence.

Interior lights blazed on. Light filtered through the loose floorboards of the warehouse, patchily illuminating the barge below. Fraser climbed on to a stack of crates, assuming a wide stance to keep his balance, as the barge rocked gently. He peered through the slats overhead, but the angle was wrong to see the people who had entered. He could, however, hear clearly.

"Where's Frankie?" a man asked.

"He'll be here," another answered. "Relax."

"Easy for you to say," the first man replied. Fraser recognized the gravelly voice of Vinnie, the gunman from Oak Park Beach. He whispered that fact to Ray, who was keeping an eye on the pier and the tugboat.

"What's Frankie wanna talk to us about?" a new voice asked, nervously. Fraser thought that was Vinnie's partner, though it was hard to judge, given that he had mostly heard Joey's voice emanating from inside a toilet.

"Whaddya think?" Vinnie said.

"That wasn't our fault!"

"Shut up, Joey," he said, wearily.

There was a silence. Fraser looked down at Ray. He was crouched behind a crate, gun arm braced on the top of it, watching the pier. Fraser filled him in on the conversation so far.

"We gotta call this in, Benny," he whispered. "We need backup."

Fraser agreed. He was about to climb down when another set of headlights appeared. He froze in place. The vehicle pulled up in front of the warehouse, close to their position. Two sets of feet exited the front doors of the automobile. One opened the back door. A third pair of feet stepped out.

"You two, wait out here," said the owner of those feet in a tone of absolute authority. "This won't take long."

"Yessir," one man replied.

"Sure, Boss," said the other. He stood on the pier, close to the ladder and lit a cigarette. The other man hurried to open the warehouse door for the "Boss", then joined the smoker. He lit his own cigarette. Ray's stomach tightened as he smelled the smoke. Their escape route was blocked.

Fraser didn't dare move. Stuck on the crate, he strained to hear what was happening above him. Ray kept an eye on the smokers and stayed very, very still.

Fraser heard a chorus of greetings: "Frankie!" "Hey, Frankie." "Frankie's here." "Good night for it, eh, Boss?"

"Hello, boys. Yeah, great night. Perfect weather." The heavy tread of Frankie's footsteps sounded above as he stepped into the center of the warehouse, near where Fraser stood underneath.

"Vinnie. Joey." Frankie said, without inflection.

"Frankie! Hey, you're looking good! Is that a new –?"

"Shut up, Joey!" Vinnie said, fiercely.

"I was just –"

"Just shut up," Vinnie said, quietly. Then, he said, "Frank, I'm glad to see you. Look, we need a little more time."

"You've had time, Vin. You find the kid yet?"

"Not yet, Frank," he said, placatingly. "He dropped outta sight. Hasn't been back to the marina, or anyplace he usually hangs out."

"You got the rest of the goods?"

"Yeah, right where Mosely told us. Not much left. A couple of jars." He paused. "I got guys watching the spot in case the kid shows up."

"Maybe, he got outta town already."

"I don't think so. We put guys at the bus and train stations and the airport pretty fast." He added, "The kid don't have no car. No money, either." A pause. "We'll find him," he repeated.

A pause, then Frankie continued in a conversational tone. "What about this other guy, the off-duty cop?"

"I don't know that he was a cop, Frankie. I was just guessin." Vinnie's voice acquired a pleading tone. "Coulda been just a civilian."

"So, 'just a civilian' with no piece and a kid throwing rocks can take on two of my men and get the better of them? Is that what you're telling me?" Frankie's voice dripped with scorn.

"There was the dog, too!" Joey put in.

"Shut up, Joey!" Vinnie said, sharply. The voices were now loud enough that Ray could hear.

Frankie's voice grew ice-cold. "That's right. The big white dog. The K-9." There was an ominous pause. "Except there ain't no white dog in the K-9s in this city. Only German Shepherds."

"Maybe it was a ghost dog," a new voice said, snickering. Several men joined in his laughter.

Vinnie's voice was desperate now. "We'll get em, Frank. We just need –"

"You need?! What about what I need?!" His voice rose. "You're the one who brought Mosely in on my operation. You vouched for him! And he stole from me. My personal stock! Mine!" Fraser heard him thump his chest. " Now, you lost the kid! You lost the cop! You lost the dog!" He paused. "Joey, here, still stinks!"

"I took a shower –!"

"Shut up, Joey," Vinnie said, hopelessly. "Frank, come on. You and me, we go way back, when we were kids –"

"Coupla kids made a laughingstock outta me! You made a laughingstock outta me!" Frankie shouted. "Nobody does that to Frankie Nardo! Nobody!"

Ray started. Frankie "The Toothpick" Nardo! Not good. Not good at all!

Vinnie shouted, "No, Frank, wait–!"

"Do it, boys!"

Fraser heard a barrage of sounds in rapid succession: the crisp snap of Frank Nardo's fingers; two screams; a hail of gunshots; two thuds, nearly right over his head. Through the slats, one brown eye stared vacantly down at him. He reared back, nearly losing his balance before recovering. There was raucous laughter inside the warehouse. Ray tugged at his pants leg. Fraser climbed down as quietly as he could. The two men outside the warehouse continued to smoke. One said, "Bon voyage, boys." They laughed.

Ray whispered in his ear. "That's Toothpick Nardo, Benny. He won't think twice about plugging a couple of cops. We gotta get outta here."

"Understood," he whispered back. "But, barring jumping into freezing water, swimming our way out of the boathouse, past the tugboat, around the warehouse, then back to shore, without being observed ..." He pointed at the smokers. "We have to get past those two."

"Yeah," Ray said, assessing the best way to take out two armed goons without alerting the entire pack of armed goons. Just then, heavy footsteps sounded above them. The warehouse door opened and two feet walked unhurriedly back to the car. The smoking men hastily threw their cigarettes into the water and hurried to the vehicle. "We going home now, Boss?" the driver said. Frank Nardo grunted in the affirmative and climbed in. The men got in and the engine turned over. The headlights shone briefly on Ray and Fraser's faces, then turned around and drove back off the pier.

"Thank you, God," Ray whispered. Now was their chance, while the rest of the goons were still in the warehouse. "Go, Benny."

Several things happened at once. A loud mechanical noise sounded; a trapdoor in the floor above them sprang open; light flooded the barge, lighting the crates, Fraser, Ray, and the surrounding water; Ray shoved Fraser, hard, in the back, causing him to stumble forward; and two bodies tumbled down into the clear space of the deck, landing right on top of Ray. He went down under them like a sack of potatoes. Fraser recovered his balance, but before he could take a step to aid Ray, a head poked down through the trapdoor. He dropped and scuttled back in the narrow passage between the crates.

"Bullseye!" the protruding head exclaimed, laughing. "That's a full load now!" The head withdrew but the trapdoor remained open, the light from above fully illuminating the space below. Several more heads appeared and there were catcalls and derisive remarks directed at the bodies. From his vantage, Fraser heard more footsteps above, and outside as some of the men exited the warehouse and bustled about the pier and the tugboat. He peered between the crates. He couldn't make out his friend in the tangle of bodies. He had no idea whether Ray was cleverly using the bodies on top of him as cover, or was out cold, perhaps even now suffocating under the literal dead weight of two large men. Or, the unwelcome thought intruded, was dead already, his neck having snapped on impact. He ruthlessly pushed that line of thought away and resisted the nearly overwhelming urge to rush to his friend. Breaking cover wouldn't help Ray. Breaking cover would only get both of them killed. He had to stay hidden. It was the logical thing to do.

Fraser never felt less logical in his life.

An engine cranked and turned over. Not a car. It was the tugboat. Lights blazed on the boat as men scurried on and around it. The engine raced, the water in the boathouse churned, the barge rocked violently. Fraser inhaled diesel exhaust and suppressed the urge to cough.

"Wooof!"

He looked up. Dief poked his head over the side of the pier. With a growing sense of urgency, Fraser snatched his notebook out of his breast pocket and quickly scrawled, "BRAN WRF BARG TPK NARDO." Between his haste and the pitching of the boat, his writing was nearly illegible. But there was no time. The engine roared and belched smoke as the tugboat pulled forward. The fifty foot cable connecting them snapped taut. As he tossed the notebook up to Dief, the barge lurched forward, causing his aim to fall short. Dief lunged, barely catching the notebook in his teeth.

"Thatcher. Go." Fraser mouthed.

Dief stared at him, distress evident in his eyes.

"Go!"

The wolf went. Frazer squeezed himself into the narrow space between the gunnel and the crates. The barge cleared the boathouse slowly. He could hear men calling between the pier and the tugboat, but dared not lift his head. As the barge cleared the structure, the tugboat turned slightly, heading into the channel. Then, it increased speed, quickly leaving the lights of the warehouse behind. The tug's running lights faintly illuminated the barge, but the stacked crates and the shadows they cast obscured the area where the bodies lay.

Fraser moved. He shoved Joey's body unceremoniously off of Vinnie, then pulled Vinnie off of Ray. He knelt beside his friend. He was lying on his back, eyes closed, arms outflung, unconscious or -

"Is he dead?"

Fraser started violently and nearly fell over. "Dad!" He took a shaky breath. "Don't do that!"

"Sorry, son," Robert Fraser said.

Ray's overcoat was bunched up around his neck. He pushed it aside, fumbling for a pulse.

"Well?"

"I thought you could tell me," he said, testily.

"It doesn't work that way."

Fraser was rewarded with a pulse. Slow, but regular. "He's alive," he said, closing his eyes for a moment, in relief.

He stood, looking over the tops of crates to the tugboat, before risking the penlight. Ray was utterly limp, but he noted the steady rise and fall of his chest. He held the light in his teeth, and examined him with gentle hands. There was a lump on the back of his head, but the skin wasn't broken. He moved down his torso and limbs. No obvious fractures or wounds. While there was an alarming amount of blood on his overcoat, it appeared not to belong to Ray.

Fraser rocked back on his haunches. He looked back toward Brannigan's Wharf. The lights of the warehouse were still visible, but were receding rapidly. Even if he dropped into the frigid water now, he'd never make it back to shore. Certainly, not with an injured man in tow.

"You're in a pickle, son."

"Tell me something I don't know, Dad." He gently slapped Ray's cheek, calling his name over and over. He kept looking toward the tugboat, but there was a fifty foot length of cable between the boat and where it attached at the front of the barge. They were in the middle of the barge, another twenty five feet further away, and hidden behind the stacked crates that filled most of the vessel. The rumble of the engine was loud and carried over the water, loud enough to obscure the sound of voices on the barge. The men on the boat seemed to be content to stay in the relative warmth of the wheelhouse. Fraser didn't blame them for that. It was a cold night, and the wind was biting.

"They're going to dump the bodies in the Lake, son."

"I know, Dad."

"They'll stop the boat and come back here to do that, you know."

"I know, Dad."

Ray stirred. "Lemme sleep, Ma," he mumbled, twisting away from Fraser's ministrations.

"Rise and shine, Yank! Rise and shine!" Bob Fraser called, loudly.

"Rise 'n shine, y'self," he muttered. "Fi' mo mintz."

Fraser and the ghost of his father exchanged stunned glances. He shook Ray's shoulder. "Ray, it's Benny. Wake up."

His eyes fluttered, then he focused blearily on Fraser's face. "Benny?" He flicked his eyes around. "Where's Ma?"

"She's not here, Ray," he assured him. "It's just you and me." He gestured vaguely over his shoulder. "See?"

"Yank! Hey, Yank!" his father, waved his arms. Fraser held his breath, but Ray didn't react.

"How do you feel, Ray?"

"I've been better," he muttered, then tried to sit up. "Whoa," he said, reeling.

Fraser caught his shoulders and eased him back down on the deck. "Take it easy. We're safe for the moment."

Ray put a shaky hand to the back of his head. "Who hit me?" His head throbbed.

"They did."

He turned his head, painfully and took in the crumpled corpses lying a few feet away. "Oh." With a wry twist of his lips, he said, "You gotta watch that temper of yours, Benny. It'll get you in real trouble someday."

"Oh, no! I didn't –" he protested, then he realized Ray was pulling his leg. He took it as a sign that his friend was recovering. "Do you have your mobile phone?"

Ray brightened and reached into his overcoat pocket. He grabbed his cell phone and pulled. The antenna came away with a piece of the phone dangling from it. He reached into the pocket again. Then, he pulled out another part. And another. The device was smashed to pieces. That explained the sharp pain in his right hip. He had landed on the phone. Hard. "Nuts!"

Fraser was philosophical. "I doubt that there would have been a signal anyway."

His father stood on the deck, hands on his hips, breathing deeply. "Ah! Smell that salt air!"

"It's freshwater," Fraser muttered.

"I'll take some water," Ray said.

"I don't have any," he said. "Sorry." He glared at his father.

Ray closed his eyes, letting the odd exchange go, then tried sitting up again, this time successfully, though he lowered his head into his hands and swallowed hard a couple of times. After a moment, he looked up, frowning. "Where are we?" he demanded, suspiciously.

Fraser glanced at his watch. "We've been cruising for nine and a half minutes at an approximate speed of 30 knots."

"On Lake Michigan?"

"Yes, on the Lake they call Michigan."

"Lake Michigan," he repeated.

"Yes, the Lake they call Michigan."

"Lake Michigan," Ray insisted, then winced and rubbed his head.

"I think that blow knocked a hole in his bag of marbles, son," Bob said, worriedly.

Alarmed, Fraser extended a hand. "How many fingers am I holding up, Ray?"

He batted his hand down in irritation. "Tell me what happened."

Fraser sat down next to him, keeping a weather eye on the tugboat as he did. "Well, Ray," he said, lightly, "I have good news and bad news."

Ray gave him a withering look, but played along, "What's the good news?"

"You're alive," he said, sincerely.

He flashed him a wan smile. "Yeah, Benny. That is good news," he said, glancing at Vinnie and Joey. He took a deep breath. "So ... what's the bad news?"

Fraser told him.

"You're right, Benny," Ray said, miserably, "that's not funny at all." He reached out. "Give me a hand." Fraser helped him scoot back against a crate, facing the front of the barge and the tugboat. "So, how many on the tug?"

"Five, I think."

"Where're we going?"

He pulled out his compass. The luminous dial glowed green. "Northeast. We've been on this heading since we pulled away from the docks."

"What's northeast?"

"Eventually, the Atlantic Ocean. And beyond that, France. But, this isn't an ocean-going vessel, so I imagine our destination would fall short of Europe –" He stopped at Ray's caustic look, then said, "If we stay on this heading, we would reach the Straits of Mackinac and enter the waters of the Lake they call Huron."

He gaped at him. "You're kidding me, right?"

"I'm not saying we will continue on this heading." He rubbed an eyebrow with his thumb. "I don't know where we're going."

Ray, looking at the corpses, cut in. "They wouldn't go that far before dumping these two." He looked up at Fraser. "How would they do it? They're all the way up there where it's nice and toasty, and Vinnie and Joey are back here. Where's it's not." He pulled his overcoat closer. While they were sheltered from the wind by the stacks of crates surrounding them, it was still cold.

His father said, "Stop the boat, disconnect the tow cable, pull alongside the barge, board it, weight the bodies, and throw them overboard."

Fraser repeated that for Ray's benefit.

"So, we'd have some warning."

"Yes," he said, then "although, they could shoot us without boarding first." He looked over his shoulder, but his father was gone.

"But, we can shoot back." Ray reached under his arm and checked his weapon. It was intact and he had one extra clip. Unfortunately, his ankle gun was locked in the drawer of the night stand beside his bed. The trigger guard had been sticking and he hadn't had a chance to take it in for repair. Damn!

"Yes, Ray. But, forgive me for pointing this out, the barge is unpowered. The tugboat could maroon us, or ram us, or capsize us, or –"

"OK, OK, I get the picture," he said. "So, what do we do?"

"Conceal ourselves and wait."

"Wait for what?"

"An opportunity to overpower our adversaries or escape."

Ray looked around. "Not many places to conceal ourselves on this thing."

"On the contrary, Ray," he said, thumping the crate that Ray was leaning against. "This should do nicely."