John studies the terms—where identity is temporary, and consequences are not.
The Substitute
Written by Don Blinebry | Noir and Nonsense Originals
Synopsis
When Sweeney witnesses a mob execution, he becomes a marked man.
His solution—hire The Substitute, a man who can legally assume his identity.
But stepping into someone else’s life means inheriting everything… including the danger.
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“Must every job involve more risk than the last? If I didn’t know better . . . .” John Addison wore his pained expression like a non-verbal argument. Those hours spent learning to emote had paid dividends.
“I just picked a name from a list, John—your list. You’re reading too much into coincidence.”
“Maybe, but at this rate, you’re going to get yourself killed. I don’t like the set up.”
“You never do.” I paid John to worry. He was my lawyer as well as my business partner.
“It’s dangerous and . . . .”
“All our jobs are dangerous. We’d be out of business if they weren’t. Any pluses?”
“Well, it’s local, so no travel. The retainer cleared the bank this morning.”
“Sweet. I hate living out of a suitcase. What have we got?”
“Found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or maybe the right time, depending on your point of view.”
Addison pulled his rimless glasses down the length of his nose and gave me his well-practiced look of resignation before reading from the papers he held. “Sweeney, Brendan. Saloonkeeper, age thirty-four, married, two children, a boy and a girl, ages seven and nine respectively. Found himself in the wrong place at the wrong time, or maybe the right time, depending on your point of view. He witnessed a mob execution and lived to tell about it. Now our illustrious District Attorney wants to put him in front of the Grand Jury.”
“Let me guess. Friend Sweeney is getting cold feet.”
“No. He’s getting death threats. His family is being threatened. He doesn’t have any faith in the DA’s ability to protect him. That’s why his lawyer called me.”
“Smart lawyer. Has he explained to his client that by hiring us, he forfeits all legal claims to his identity until the job is completed?”
“I’ll assume he has, but go over that with the client as a precaution. In any event, the requisite paperwork was signed and sent back with the retainer. Legally, we’re on solid ground. I also have a picture of Mr. Sweeney. I’ll email it along with the pertinent details. I still don’t like this.”
“You worry too much, John. It will make you old.”
“You don’t worry enough. One of these days, it’ll make you dead.”
I folded John’s notes into a pocket and gave him my most reassuring smile. “Give the mouthpiece a call. Get me a meeting with Sweeney. Usual place. Usual rules. He shows up alone.”
The coffee shop at the Academy Street Station was a constant flurry of activity, varying only in intensity between rush hour and the lunch crowd. Sweeney looked like his picture—a thickset Irishman with a florid face and reddish-blonde hair that conceded his clan’s Scottish roots.
He registered surprise, then annoyance when I put out an arm to block his progress. “Take a seat, Mr. Sweeney, before that over-sized head of yours stops a bullet.”
“You’re . . . ?” He hovered over the table, staring.
“Sit down! Yes. Are you having second thoughts about this?”
Sweeney sat. “No. Well, okay, maybe. It’s just that I thought . . . you’d be bigger, I guess. More dangerous.”
“More dangerous or more obvious? Going unnoticed is an asset in this business. Are you prepared to start?”
“Now? Well, I suppose. I should call my wife and . . . .”
“Suppose? Suppose I’d been an assassin. You’d be calling no one. Frankly, I’m surprised you’re still alive. The neighborhood nasties must be off their game. Either we start or we don’t. It’s your life. You choose.”
Sweeney’s face lost some color at the prospect of his own demise and he looked like he might be ill. I signaled the barista to bring two coffees.
“You understand, Mr. Sweeney, that I am about to assume every aspect of your life. Did your lawyer explain that to you? That legally, I will become you?”
Sweeney gulped his coffee and swallowed hard. “Yes, but I can still . . . .”
“You can still what? Until this contract is completed, you are a non-person. You do only what I tell you. The terms are specific. I will keep you alive until the threat is eliminated. Fail to follow my instructions and the contract is void. You’ll be back on your own. Is that what you want?
Sweeney sat in silence.
“I’ll take that as a no.” I put my briefcase on the table and opened it. “Give me your cell phone and your keys. Are the keys for the tavern on here? Show me. Do you keep any weapons there?
“My grandfather’s shotgun. It’s been there since he opened the tavern.”
“That may come in handy. This is your new phone. It’s been modified to accept only incoming calls. These are your keys. One is for the white delivery van parked out back. The other is for your hotel room. Directions and the rest of your instructions are on the passenger seat. Here, put this hat on. Give me your jacket. The barista will show you out the back. Go directly to the hotel. Speak to no one. I’ll call you.”
I picked up his jacket and my briefcase, nodded to the barista and left. I had a full night’s work ahead of me.
At seven the next morning, I called Sweeney. He didn’t sound happy, but that was to be expected of a man whose routine has been disrupted. “Do not leave the hotel, Mr. Sweeney. I have a man on your floor. Another in the lobby. You’re quite safe. Keep the shades drawn. Stay away from the windows. You’ll be easier to protect if you follow instructions to the letter. I trust you used the hair dye I left? Don’t worry. It’s not permanent. It’s a game now. We wait.”
I listened to him curse me, but that was just Irish recalcitrance. He was quite happy to no longer be Brendan Sweeney.
The first day passed without incident. On the second day, the hotel started getting some unwarranted attention. It was nothing overt—a few extra deliveries, odd inquiries at the desk and switchboard. It was enough. On day three, I called Sweeney early and made a change.
“You’re moving today. The van is parked behind the hotel by the south lobby entrance. Leave at precisely 8:30. Traffic is heaviest then.”
Sweeney balked and cursed me. Two days in a cramped hotel room had only served to consolidate his fears. It was a pattern I’d seen before.
I ignored his complaints and continued with the instructions. “A blue pick-up will follow you when you leave. That’s one of my people. As long as you see the truck, you’re safe. Drive directly to the tavern and come in through the delivery entrance. I’ll leave the door open. Confine yourself to the kitchen area unless I tell you otherwise. You’ll be easier to protect if you’re here close at hand.”
“His hand came out clean. He held it near his right shoulder like an idiot politician swearing on a stack of bibles.”
The brass bell on the door of Sweeney’s Tavern rang and a couple of mugs in overcoats strode in. It was too warm a day for a jacket, let alone a coat. The taller one went to the end of the bar on my left. His shadow stayed several paces back.
“Lunch doesn’t start until eleven, boys. You’re early.” I polished a glass. “Something I can get you?”
“You ain’t Sweeney.” The tall one spat the accusation.
“I’m the substitute. Sweeney’s sick.”
“Substitute, huh? Okay, substitute, gimme a whiskey.”
“Rocks or neat?”
“Rocks with a splash.”
The bell rang and another overcoat came in. This time, I recognized the face—Carmine “The Clown” Carnivale, mob enforcer and target of the Grand Jury. He drifted to the end on the bar on my right. This was how they played the game. They were primed for the kill.
I added water to the Jameson and slid the drink down the bar. It made three-quarters of the journey before a pile of cocktail napkins blocked its progress. The tall guy grunted and moved a few steps to retrieve it. That was his last voluntary action.
My foot tapped the detonator and the shaped charge beneath the bar overhang blew him halfway across the room. Concussive shock waves momentarily disrupt the senses—advantage goes to the one who knows they’re coming. I pulled my Walther from under the bar, put a cap above shadow-boy’s left eye and turned the gun on Carmine.
His hand was already inside the overcoat near his left shoulder. He struck that pose.
I struck mine. “I wanna see nothin’ but fingers, Carmine.”
His hand came out clean. He held it near his right shoulder like an idiot politician swearing on a stack of bibles.
I got out Sweeney’s sawn-off, cocked both hammers, put the Walther on the bar and leveled the shotgun at Carmine’s chest.
His face lost color. He backed up as I came from behind the bar. “Who the hell are you?” His voice was raspy.
“I’m the substitute. I trade places with people who’d rather not be who they are for whatever reason. For your purposes, I’m Sweeney. You wanted to talk?”
“Yeah, that’s it, talk. Not this . . . this insanity. I wanted to tell you you’re mistaken. That’s what I want you should tell the Grand Jury.”
“There won’t be a Grand Jury, Carmine. You’re about to join the dearly departed.”
“You can’t just kill me in cold blood.”
“Why not? I just killed your two pals. Well, almost.” The tall man still twitched.
“But you can’t . . . at least let me call my wife. Say goodbye.”
“Oh, well, sure.” Carmine’s hand plunged into his pocket just as I pulled both triggers. The blast nearly cut him in half.
“You can have your saloon back, Mr. Sweeney. It’s over.”
Sweeney came out from the backroom, took one look and developed a case of the dry heaves.
I poured whiskey to calm him.
Sweeney drank.
“You’re officially Brendan Sweeney again.” I wiped down both guns. “Call 911.”
“Jesus H., you just freakin’ killed everybody.”
“Yes. What did you expect? Oh, one thing I’ve been meaning to
tell you . . . .”
“I didn’t expect this. How the hell am I going to explain this?”
“You might have a little trouble, especially with the C4 but not too much. Listen, about your wife, her and I kinda . . . .”
“I don’t even know where to begin.”
“You begin by telling the dispatcher that Mr. Carnivale stopped by to help you rehearse your testimony. Did I mention your kids really seem to like me?”
“Okay. Calling 911 now. What am I saying? Oh, yes, Mr. Carnivale.”
“Stop worrying. The DA will be happy to talk about Carmine in the past tense. Your wife and I will be going away, Sweeney. She’s taking the children. You still have the house, of course. I suppose I should tell you that I never intended . . . .”
“It’s still ringing. Aren’t they supposed to answer right away?”
“Patience. Sometimes they’re busy. I have to go. Your wife and children are waiting.”
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“Me? I said I’m going out the back. Your lawyer will have the final accounting by Tuesday. Good day, Mr. Sweeney.”
Meet the Usual Suspects
A Cinematic Moment
The Substitute, brought briefly to life.
Evidence Room
Found near the scene.
A noir keepsake.
Just take it. No questions asked.
