Murdam went to his property nearest the docks, a prepaid room at a weekly rate hotel, to gather his thoughts. A simple room, mainly a stash of surveillance equipment, some canned food, first aid supplies, nothing illegal. He sat down at a desk with a legal pad and opened a bottle of scotch. He alternated between his pencil and his shot glass.
Deuce on the level? If so, so what, don’t need his job
Deuce bribed/beaten/etc to lure me out
By who? Who wants me dead?
Murdam laughed to himself as he took a shot. Not enough paper. Try a different angle.
Who knows I’m in VC? Gracey, Sewell, Pock, Davis
Go-betweens and agents. Not all of them knew he was George Murdam, and not all of them knew he was currently in Victors Crossing .There were several standing contracts out on him from the syndicate, but most of them couldn’t be paid out anymore. Still, Murdam didn’t travel in those circles anymore, and was very careful with what information he allowed. If they got to one of them, they probably wouldn’t need to go through Deuce to find him.
He drew a line from their names to Deuce’s. He tried to think of a connection, but there was none he knew of. He had made his own introduction to Deuce a couple of months ago. Try another angle.
Stonewall - who wants dead?
Deuce didn’t know Murdam, but he did know him as Stonewall, and even he must have connected Stonewall to a handful of deaths and disappearances in the projects. Murdam drew some lines from Stonewall’s name to the names of those particular contracts. Some were gang related, but even family members want revenge sometimes.
Deuce to ?
How did Deuce connect to whoever sent that text? Maybe they used him as an informer too. Maybe he was shooting his mouth off about the payoffs he was getting from Murdam. Whoever it was, Murdam needed to know about them.
? - what known?
He, or they, were not very good. Too many mistakes. What are the possibilities?
cops - gang - hit team
It could be the cops. Deuce could have gotten into some trouble and offered Stonewall up. One of the gangs may be looking for revenge. Or it could be another hitter, hired by parties unknown.
What now?
He could spring the trap, guns blazing. Murdam didn’t want to play that way anymore. He needed to know who was after him.
Murdam pulled out a map of the area. He had no intention of going near the warehouse, but there was only one exit onto the main street. He finished his shot and grabbed a pair of binoculars.
Murdam shooed away a couple of hookers that knocked on his car window as he staked out two blocks from the dock exits. Nobody was surprised by the binoculars - he passed for either a private detective or a pervert, both not uncommon in the area. He had bottles of water but didn’t bring any food - if he didn’t catch anything tonight, there was no point in surveilling during the day when traffic picked up. He hoped his target did the same. Even cops go for food runs.
Murdam ignored delivery trucks, security cars, and a couple of cars with obvious dock workers. He started after one sedan, but stopped when he pulled alongside and saw a hardhat on the passenger seat.
Three hours in, an Escalade pulled out. The driver had too much gel in his hair to be a dock worker. Designer shirt and gold chain. Murdam couldn’t tell from that distance if he was tan or Hispanic. Murdam followed the car to a fast food drive through. The long time spent ordering confirmed it was for more than one.
Murdam parked on the street outside the parking lot. After paying at the window, the Escalade pulled over into a spot in the parking lot to wait for the order. An employee in a paper hat came out minutes later with several bags and some drinks in a cardboard carrier. As soon as paper hat made it back to the door, Murdam slid up to the Escalade. The window was still down, the driver going through the bags. Murdam swung a left hook into the window against his jaw. The driver was dazed, but not out.
Murdam opened the driver’s door and roughly shoved the driver into the passenger seat. Murdam got in. “What the...” Murdam slammed an elbow into his cheek. He pulled his head down by the hair with his left arm, squeezing the sides of his throat with the crook of his right elbow. The driver barely struggle before going limp.
Murdam started the car and drove to an alley a couple blocks away. He got out of the car, went around the other side and pulled the driver out as he started to stir. Murdam shoved him to the alley asphalt and quickly checked his armpits, belt, and ankles. No gun. He checked the front seats and found a 9mm in the center console. He pulled a lever to pop the trunk.
“Get up.” The driver was barely moving. Murdam hoisted him up by his silk shirt and shoved him against the car. A pair of police cuffs came out and clasped his wrists behind his back. Murdam pressed the barrel of the 9mm against his forehead. “You start making noise, I’ll slam your head in the door until it stops. Got it?”
Murdam looked in the trunk. Jumper cables, a tool kit, a box of shotgun shells. Murdam moved those to the front seat and tossed the driver in the trunk.