Hellbound Read online

  “Pardon me, sir,” said a sharp-edged voice.

  Bryce turned to stare into the cool, unfeeling eyes of Dom Locasio. He tried to hide the shock but was not sure how well he succeeded. “Yes?” he said, brow furrowed.

  “I’m trying to locate one of your people who knew my father, Nick Dominico, back in New Jersey. Ever heard of him?”

  Bryce forced a grin and gave his best impression of Southernese. “Afraid not, young fella. Can’t think of anybody I know from New Jersey.”

  “Somebody on our bus?” Fred asked with a curious frown.

  Locasio eyed them coolly. “All I recall is he’s a member of Lovely Lane Church in Madison.”

  Fred gave him an indulgent look as he rubbed his chin speculatively. “What’s his name? I could probably tell you exactly where to find him. I know just about everybody at Lovely Lane.”

  Bryce spoke with a chuckle. “I think Fred’s been there since they built the place.”

  “Not quite, but almost. I’ve been there some sixty years.”

  Locasio nodded. “Sorry, I don’t know the name. Thanks anyway.”

  Hamilton MacArthur was not a large man, only a man with a large ego. Those years in a corporate seat of power had left him with an inflated view of himself. He had become accustomed to making decisions involving millions of dollars, thousands of policyholders and hundreds of employees. And though he realized the days of underlings kowtowing to his every whim were gone, he still expected to be treated like the formidable personage he felt himself to be.

  So far on this trip, he had not been disappointed. Matilda Ellis, who had done work for his company in years past, spoke quite flatteringly while introducing him to other passengers. Those he had talked with appeared duly impressed. His attire was a considerable cut above the crowd, which, of course, was what he had expected. When he encountered Troy Walden beside the drink and snack machines at the rest area, he was quick to imply his importance.

  “Fred Scott tells me you were president of the Nashville Association of Life Underwriters at one time. The company I headed always swung its weight behind the agents’ projects.”

  “As I recall, your company helped sponsor the Sales Congress when I was president,” Walden said, smiling. “That’s been several years back, though. I’m retired now.”

  “I stepped down last year myself. How do you like retirement?”

  “No complaints. My company has a good retirement program. I imagine you did quite well.”

  MacArthur sipped on his Coke. “Our executives enjoy a quite liberal retirement plan. Of course, my stock in the company provides the backbone of my portfolio.”

  “Too bad your company doesn’t take as good a care of its agents,” Walden said. The smile had disappeared. “A friend of mine retired from there last year and got screwed out of his renewals.”

  MacArthur’s eyes flashed. “Your friend must have neglected his clients. We have a point system. We take away points if you give poor service. It affects overall compensation, including retirement.”

  Walden shoved his hands in his pockets. “I understand you used to be in the investment end of the business. Are you still involved in that area?”

  MacArthur rubbed the cold can against his cheek. With the temperature climbing, it felt good. And he was happy to get off the subject of retirement. He knew what Troy Walden was thinking. The company sometimes saw fit to take away points when an agent neared retirement. And those executives protected by a liberal retirement program were the ones who made the decisions.

  “I’m only involved in investments for my own account,” he said. “The past year I’ve enjoyed trading in commodities.”

  “You buy and sell futures?” Walden asked.

  “Futures contracts and options.”

  “I’ve always heard commodities was a place where you could lose your shirt.”

  MacArthur gave him a smug smile. “If you don’t know what you’re doing. It is also a place where you can make a fortune, especially when prices are exceptionally volatile. Remember back when wheat prices hit a record high? I bought five May wheat contracts just as the price started to rise. With the leverage available through low margins, I only paid about twelve thousand dollars. A month later, the price had gone up a dollar-thirty a bushel. I closed out my position with a profit of over twenty thousand dollars.”

  Walden looked impressed. “If a fellow could do that every month or so, he’d be in hog heaven.”

  MacArthur took another swig of his Coke. “I’ve been trading lately in futures options. That limits your risk. And you can buy an option with very little cash.”

  During his tenure with the insurance company, he wasn’t allowed to deal with anything but safe, low-risk investments like government bonds and blue ribbon stocks. Now that he was dealing with his own money, he could do as he pleased. Nevertheless, he was not a big risk-taker. He would invest only a small pool of surplus cash in the futures market. Where commodities were concerned, he was strictly a recreational investor. He played that market only for the thrill of the chase.

  “I used to trade options on stocks,” Walden said. “Is it any different with futures?”

  “An option is an option. You need to watch your delta and use the gamma when it’s favorable.”

  MacArthur slowly became aware of a solidly built man in a dark blue suit standing nearby, looking at him with an oddly blank stare. Finding the look a bit disconcerting, he turned to the man and asked, “Something I can do for you?”

  The stranger fumbled in his pocket, produced a dollar bill, stepped forward and spoke in an unexpectedly high-pitched voice. “You got change for a dollar? I want to get a drink out of the machine.”

  Frowning, MacArthur fished a handful of coins from his pocket, selected four quarters and made the exchange. He promptly dismissed the intruder, turning back to Walden as the man headed for the machines.

  “You should talk to my roommate,” Walden said. “He was involved in investments before he retired. He made a fascinating play with interest rates and currencies.”

  “Really? How interesting.”

  As the man in the blue suit scurried past, clutching his drink can like a pack rat headed for his lair, MacArthur narrowed his eyes. “Wasn’t that the strangest looking character? He could have gotten change out of the machine.”

  “I think he was one of those three odd ducks we saw at lunch in Natchez, dressed like they were headed for a funeral.”

  MacArthur pursed his lips. “Come to think of it, I believe you’re right.”

  22

  Back on the highway, Joe Blow pointed the Cadillac toward New Orleans and jammed the accelerator as though he were vying for an inside lane at Talladega. Beside him, Ziggy quickly recounted how he had put the make on Hamilton MacArthur.

  “He’s got to be our man,” Ziggy said with certainty.

  Locasio flicked his lighter and took a long drag on his cigarette. “What makes you so damn sure?”

  “All that investment talk. About commodities and something called futures and options. It was way over my head. A lot of shit about deltas and gammas, whatever the hell they are. Sounded like Greek to me.”

  “Ziggy’s right, Dom,” Joe said. “Remember, Boots told us Pagano was a big earner for the family.”

  “I know.” Locasio twitched his jaw. “Trouble is, when I talked to that Bryce Reynolds, I got a gut feeling he knew who I was.”

  “You ever meet Pagano?”

  “No.”

  “Then how the hell would he know you?”

  “I don’t know, dammit. It just seemed like this guy did. Maybe he saw me with Boots back in my younger days. I’d say Reynolds and MacArthur are both possibles.”

  Ziggy stared at him and smoldered. The dour, stocky mobster had been born stubborn and hadn’t changed in forty years. He wasn’t happy with Dom’s domineering. Sure, he knew Dom was being groomed for a leading role, while he and the others had been relegated to the status of bit players, but that
didn’t make him any more eager to be bossed around by some kid still wet behind the ears.

  “I say it’s MacArthur,” he said. “What you gonna do about it?”

  “I’ll call Marco in Nashville, see what he can dig up on both of them.”

  Ziggy shrugged. “Better tell him to dig fast. What if Pagano gets scared and decides to blow?”

  “We’ll be watching. Anyway, I don’t think he will. Remember this little jewel?” Locasio reached into his coat and pulled out the medal attached to the blue ribbon. “The old man’s got balls.” Then a devilish grin twisted his face. “And I plan to cut the suckers off and hang ’em over the rearview mirror.”

  The sky glowed brightly above a translucent net of wispy clouds that waited to catch the dropping sun. As Chick exited I-12 north of the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, Tillie grabbed the microphone for an update.

  “We will be stopping for supper in a few minutes at a restaurant near Lake Pontchartrain. I’m sorry you’re going to miss what I’m sure will be a gorgeous sunset, but it’ll be gone by the time we get back on the road. The causeway runs twenty-four miles across the lake and would’ve given you a grand view. But we’ll have other opportunities.

  “About New Orleans, a word of advice. It’s no different than any big city that caters to tourists. In fact, it’s not nearly as bad as some places in Europe, like Rome, for example. Fred and Betty Lou Scott can tell you about that. They were with me on a European tour a few years back. In Rome, the pickpockets are terrible. Bag snatchers will ride along the street on motor scooters, reaching out to grab handbags right off your shoulders. Thank God there won’t be anything like that in New Orleans, but I just wanted to caution you to be careful. Ladies, watch your bags. Hang onto them tightly when you’re in a crowd. And guys, look after those bulging billfolds. It’s better to take out some of your cash and put it in a front pocket.”

  Fred spoke up. “I carry mine in a pouch that hooks onto my belt. Slips down inside the waistband of my trousers.”

  “Great idea,” said Tillie.

  The restaurant sat just north of the choppy, brackish lake. The big red and white bus pulled up at the entrance nearly at dusk and the Silver Shadows streamed off, the women dutifully clutching their bags. For some, the effort would be too difficult. To reach the dining area, they had to negotiate a trap baited with an endless array of souvenirs and overpriced bric-a-brac. Tillie found it necessary to coax several laggards into the waiting line for tables, including Polly, whose crinkled eyes gazed on a small doll in a green satin hoop skirt.

  “You can shop after you eat,” Tillie said.

  MacArthur advised her that he would be in after using his cell phone to call his wife, giving their expected arrival time at the hotel. Tillie thought MacArthur was the only other passenger with a cell phone. Most of them seemed happy to be away from the annoyance of the perverse ringing machines.

  With token reluctance, Bryce accepted Troy’s invitation to join him and the same foursome that had dined together the previous evening. They were ushered to a round table near a wall that displayed an array of ancient, rusted farm implements, including a scythe with a wicked-looking blade below a curved wooden handle.

  “You haven’t lived till you’ve attacked a wheat field with one of those gadgets,” said Troy, pointing at the scythe.

  Betty Lou narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tell me you really used one of those things.”

  “Well, maybe not in earnest. But I watched my grandpa use one many a time.” He turned toward Bryce. “You ever encounter one of those?”

  Bryce cocked an eyebrow. “Not except in the hands of the Grim Reaper.”

  “Hey, man,” Troy said, feigning a frown. “Don’t use that word in front of old people.”

  Sarah Anne turned up her nose. “Speak for yourself, Troy.”

  Betty Lou spoke up. “What did you think of Tillie’s warning about pickpockets and bag-snatchers?”

  “I wouldn’t worry a whole lot about it,” said Bryce. “Just use a little elemental common sense.”

  Troy leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, “I’m not sure how much of that you’ll find in this crowd.”

  “Don’t sell us short, Troy,” Marge said, finally breaking her silence. She sat at the opposite corner of the table from Bryce.

  Bryce gave her a salute. “Thanks for taking up for the common folks, Marge.”

  “Wouldn’t be so bad if we were just plain common folks,” Troy said, rumpling his brow. “But we’re common old folks.”

  “What got you on this old people bashing kick, Troy?” Sarah Anne asked. “You make it sound like there’s something wrong with being over sixty-five. Heck, we seniors are a great bunch. We’re not the ones who commit all the crimes and cause all the violence and mess up the environment. You don’t find seniors getting AIDS.”

  Troy propped his elbows on the table and stared at her. “What are you talking about, woman? We’ve got more aids than anybody. KitchenAids, Rolaids, hearing aids, Bandaids...”

  That broke them up. When the waitress appeared in the midst of the laughter, she folded her arms and said, “How about letting me in on the joke?”

  “You’re too young,” Fred said, still chuckling.

  While the others were giving their drink orders, Bryce took a careful look around the dining room. Locasio and his two pals were nowhere to be seen. Was that a good sign? He wasn’t sure. If the mobster had caught that startled look back at the rest area lobby, he might have concluded Bryce was his man. Would they be waiting for him at the hotel? Maybe the time had come to play that hole card he had been holding back.

  He decided for the moment he should simply remain wary. He might as well enjoy whatever respite he got from this deadly game of tag they were playing.

  As he turned back toward the table with an abrupt twist of his head, his gaze locked onto Marge’s. He got the impression she had been staring at him. When he started to smile, she ducked her head toward the menu. Her cheeks took on a pinkish tinge, like a girl who’d been caught peeking at a forbidden book.

  Betty Lou put the focus back onto his pursuers after the waitress brought their drinks and took their orders.

  “When we stopped at the rest area this afternoon, I saw one of those men from New Jersey that Clara was telling us about,” she said. “I didn’t hear anybody say if they’d tried to pull some kind of scam.”

  Troy looked skeptical. “One of the older guys approached Hamilton MacArthur while we were talking near the soft drink machines. He just wanted change to get a Coke or something. That doesn’t sound very devious to me.”

  Not as devious as Locasio had been, Bryce thought. But had that approach been something more than just a desire for a Coke? There was no way to know.

  Fred stirred his coffee deliberately. “The young guy came up to Bryce and asked if he’d ever heard of his father, somebody from New Jersey.”

  “Nick Dominico, or something like that.” Bryce gave a wave of dismissal. It had been an obvious lie. “Never heard of the guy.”

  Marge nodded. “He asked me if I could point you out, Bryce. Mentioned something about his father then.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said Sarah Anne with a conspiratorial grin. “You should have told him you were his dad’s best friend, Bryce. Maybe he died and left some money to a long lost acquaintance.”

  Bryce was not at all pleased to learn that Locasio had asked about him. He might as well put his badge back on. But he masked his concern with a laugh. “I guess I should go look him up, tell him I just remembered his father was an old buddy from the war. We were in the Battle of the Bulge together.”

  Marge’s eyes snapped open wide. “You were in that?”

  “The Battle of the Bulge? Yeah. Bastogne.”

  “My brother Keith was there,” Troy said. “He was a sergeant in Division Headquarters of the 101st Airborne. Said it was really bad. One of his jobs was to process recommendations for medals. He said he never saw so many Purple Hear
ts.”

  Bryce’s face sobered as he remembered. “Yeah. A lot of fine young guys didn’t make it out of there. Some of them were good friends of mine.”

  “Keith never talked about it much,” Marge said. “He told me a few things that happened, but it was obviously painful to recall.”

  Bryce looked across at her. “I know how he felt.”

  Instead of a sunset view, they got a moonlit crossing of Lake Pontchartrain, the big enclosed tidal bay that connected to the Gulf of Mexico through Lake Borgne. As they drove along I-10 toward downtown New Orleans, Troy, who had returned to his seat at the back, told Bryce about his chat with MacArthur.

  “I still think the guy’s full of bull,” Troy said, “but it sounds like he’s done well in the markets. If you can believe him.”

  “Which markets?”

  “Commodity futures and options. Said he made over twenty thousand on one wheat trade. You ought to talk to him. You can probably relate to it better than me. I was too much of a novice to get into stuff like that.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” Bryce said. He hadn’t traded futures but he was familiar with the financial commodities market.

  “Virginia and I have enough stocks and bonds, plus my insurance renewals, to afford a comfortable retirement,” Troy said. He leaned back in the seat and locked his fingers behind his head. “But the investment I still like best is land. Waldens have always been close to the land.”

  Bryce gave him a bittersweet look. “My only tangible assets are my house and my car. There’s nobody to leave anything to when I die.”

  He had thought about drawing up a will to dispose of the Swiss treasure trove he had amassed trading on his own account. He might give it to churches or charities, but he would have to hire a lawyer who would likely start digging into his background. He hadn’t been willing to risk that. But without a will, his tidy fortune would probably wind up in some wily Swiss banker’s pockets.