Broken Hero

Chapter 6

It nearly made Calloway sick to his stomach to have to forgo his usual high end wardrobe and luxury sedan in favor of blue collar clothing more befitting a construction worker and a primer blue Honda Civic with an odometer so high that its value was slightly less than the contents of the average convenience store abandoned change tray, but it was the only way to avoid major suspicion when going to the Chelsea warehouse where he based his operations. The warehouse was located in an industrial park on Eastern Avenue, on the western shore of the Chelsea River. He'd chosen it for its proximity to Logan Airport to make receiving his product from Canada and distributing it throughout the Greater Boston area easier, and because there was exactly one road leading in and out of it, making it harder for the cops or rivals to sneak up and easier to keep people he didn't want escaping contained and isolated.

There were several other junker cars already parked outside it when he pulled in. The clothing, the car, and the missing money put him in an extremely foul mood, and he planned to channel it towards getting answers from his employees. Calloway got out of the car, opened one of the rear doors to retrieve a large duffel bag, and went inside the warehouse.

A number of large folding tables had been set up inside. Normally these were used for unpacking shipments of product for distribution and sale, as well as for counting and consolidating the money gained from those sales. Now they were arranged in rows one behind the other like a classroom for Calloway's fact-finding quest. His subordinates sat in folding chairs behind each table, and Helder stood to one side of them. They all stiffened to attention upon seeing Calloway come in. "So what's this about, Boss?" asked one of them.

Calloway walked towards the front of the assemblage without saying a word. He held up the duffel bag, opened it, and slowly removed a sheathed Union Army cavalry saber. He normally kept it displayed over his fireplace back home, and the sight of the weapon immediately put everybody on edge. He held it by the grip in one hand, resting it on his shoulder without unsheathing it, and casually walked around the tables. "In our line of work, gentlemen," he said to them as calmly and as evenly as he could, "we have no regulatory oversight, no third-party mediator with whom we can register our grievances for any hope of redress. We have only ourselves. And when we have only ourselves, we have no choice but to operate in an environment of mutual trust. I have to trust you to do everything I tell you to in an above-board manner and, in turn, you have to trust me to treat you with dignity and respect and properly compensate you for your efforts."

One subordinate raised his hand. "Uh, sir, what's this all about?"

"There has been a discrepancy in regards to the recent shipment of funds we were sending back to our suppliers."

"Does this have to do with that plane crash up in Danvers?" another subordinate asked.

Calloway really wanted to unsheathe the sword and drive it through the man's face all the way to the hilt for being so ignorant, but he didn't need the rest of them to immediately clam up as a result. Plus disposing of a dead body was problematic at best, and would invite unnecessary attention from the police than they might already be receiving. "Yes," he said in barely suppressed exasperation, "this has to do with the plane crash in Danvers. That was our plane, and it was heading back to Canada to pay our suppliers and pick up a fresh load of product. But that isn't why I convened this meeting."

"Well, why did you?" asked another subordinate.

Calloway stopped walking. He turned to face the group and asked, "How much money was placed aboard the plane?"

The assemblage looked at each other and to Helder in confusion. "What do you mean 'how much money was on the plane?'" the first subordinate to speak asked.