by Rachel Ford
He came again with a haymaker, grunting with rage, a fight me like a man, you coward anger radiating off of him.
Jason jumped into the vehicle and shut the door after himself. I stepped away from the swing, and it didn’t come close. The big guy’s face started to change, creeping toward the shade of blood trickling out of his mouth.
He came at me again and again. I moved, again and again.
His frustration grew. He was breathing harder, and each new breath sent little flecks of spit and blood flying from his mouth. All the while, I kept us moving, round and round.
He charged me, barreling forward with his arm poised for a right hook. A knockout blow, maybe, if he could land it.
I started to step left. He started to adjust accordingly. He threw the punch. I darted forward and rightward, coming in tight with a jab to the nose. Bone crunched, and blood slicked my palm. The guy shuddered, and I pushed past him before he could adjust course a second time.
I turned, using the momentum I’d already built for a brutal elbow jab to the side of the head.
The big guy staggered forward, sideward, and then went down.
Chapter Twelve
Which was a problem. Now I had an inert, three-hundred-pound lump in my driveway.
I checked him for a pulse. It was strong and steady.
Jason, meanwhile, climbed out of the vehicle. He had his arms wrapped around himself, and his hands tucked under his armpits. He was murmuring, “Holy shit. Oh fuck. Holy motherfucker,” in a random order.
I searched the big guy for weapons. He had a switchblade in his pocket, but nothing else. If he had a gun, I figured it’d still be in the truck.
“Holy shit,” Jason said again. “Is he dead? That’s overkill, man.”
I looked up at him. “Who the hell is this guy?”
“I told you, I don’t know his name. My, uh, friend – the one I owe money? He called him Tiny. You know, like a joke? Because he’s so big?”
“Thanks for spelling it out. The subtlety might have gone over my head.”
“Is he dead?” he said again.
“No. But he is going to need medical attention.”
“Oh shit.”
“Now, this guy, this ‘friend’…the hired muscle thing is for more than show, right?”
Jason nodded, a little miserably.
“And you owe him five grand?”
He nodded again.
“So you borrowed money from someone you knew would send meatheads like this to collect if you didn’t pay up, while you were living with Megan. And you what? Thought you could stiff him and nothing would happen? Or maybe your sister and the kids could tackle him while you hid?”
“I was going to pay him back.”
“With what?”
Jason didn’t answer at once. He just stood there, looking more miserable than ever. “I don’t know. Things didn’t – they didn’t work out. But I’d already borrowed the money.”
“Jesus.” I shook my head.
“I know. I fucked up. But I borrowed the money before I was at Meg’s place. I know it doesn’t make it smart. But – well, I never thought her and the kids would be in danger. Or Andy. That’s why…well, why I didn’t go home.”
“Why you brought him here, instead, you mean?”
He nodded.
“Thanks for that.”
“I had to go somewhere.”
“You could have gone to the cops.”
“I couldn’t, dude. You know that.”
He wasn’t wrong. Even if we disregarded the leverage his dealer naturally had on him, and any resultant sentence, it didn’t eliminate the danger to Megan and the kids. He could always order a hit. A crime boss, even a low level one, in prison was just a crime boss with an alibi.
But there was another factor that didn’t make sense. “How did you know where I live?”
Jason looked blank. Not an innocent blank. A deer in the headlights blank. “Uh…”
“How?”
“Your address is on your driver’s license.”
“Which is in my wallet.”
“Yeah, but I caught a glimpse of it yesterday.”
I thought back to the day before. My wallet had left my pocket exactly three times: twice when I bought food, and once when I settled in to sleep. And there was no way he could have seen my address at the drive through. Even if his vision was good enough to read it at a glimpse, and his memory good enough to retain it from a glimpse, simple geometry made it impossible. The angle between his seat and mine wouldn’t have allowed it.
Which left one alternative. He’d gone through it while I slept. I took a step toward him. “Did you rob me, Jason?”
“Jesus, no, man.”
“Then what the hell were you doing going through my wallet?”
“I didn’t –”
“Bullshit.” I took another step forward.
He threw up his palms. “Alright, alright: I might have, you know, taken a peek while you were asleep.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t going to rob you.”
“Then why?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess…look, I was supposed to pay yesterday, okay? I was going to go talk to him, but then everything happened with Andy, and…well, I couldn’t.
“I know you’re some kind of math guy. Work in insurance. You got money. I…I thought maybe you might have what I needed on you.”
“You were going to rob me.”
“For two seconds. I swear, man. I picked the wallet up, and then I thought about what I was doing. And I changed my mind.”
“I should have let him kick your ass.”
“Owen, come on: I didn’t do it.”
“No, you just thought about it. And then led this dumbass here.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“You’re damned right you will. And you’re going to start by telling me everything.”
He did, and what’s more, I believed him. He’d borrowed money from a guy called Travis. He didn’t know his last name.
He did know that Travis sold a bit of everything, from cars to meth, some of it legal and some of it not. He knew Travis employed a handful of enforcers, and he knew that bad things happened to people who didn’t square away their debts.
And he knew where Travis operated. He worked all of his gigs out of his auto shop, Hotrods on Hemlock. He had the street address: 1208 Hemlock Ave.
He had everything but the five grand. Which is where I came in. I gave him my keys and my bank card and pin, and I promised to break both of his legs if he took out a cent over five thousand, or if anyone ever fraudulently used my card number and I even suspected it came from him.
Then, I searched Tiny’s truck for weapons. I found none. So I made Jason help me load the still unconscious thug into his truck. Not an easy feat to lift six feet and three hundred pounds of flopping, dangling deadweight, but we managed.
Between stress and exertion, Jason looked like he might bust a capillary. Hopefully not before our business wrapped up, anyway.
I sent him to the bank with a second set of warnings. Then I waited. I kept an eye on Tiny’s pulse. I’d propped his head back to keep his airways open, but I didn’t want surprises. I didn’t want an off-the-books brawl to turn into a potential homicide investigation.
Ten minutes passed, then fifteen. Tiny started to stir.
Jason didn’t check in. I was starting to worry. Had I made a terrible mistake giving him access to my savings account?
Twenty minutes went by: more than enough time to reach the bank and the ATM.
Tiny was murmuring to himself. Not awake yet, but it wouldn’t be long.
Then my phone rang. About damned time. “Owen here.”
“Hey, Owen? It’s me, Jason.”
“What’s the hold up?”
“This stupid machine is telling me I can only take out two thousand.”
“Are you taking it out of checking or savings?”
Silence.
“Jason?”
“Ope. Okay, yeah, that was it. Let me try…there we go. Ah, perfect. Okay. Okay, we’re good.”
“You have the full five thousand?”
“Dispensing now.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you at the shop then.”
“Right. See you there.”
I fired up the Ram. It roared to life, its aftermarket pipes rumbling. Tiny started in his delirium but drifted off again.
I pulled out of the drive and headed into town. I caught a glimpse of Edith’s pale face watching through her kitchen window. Watching, and scowling.
I headed into town. The sun was starting to glow a reddish orange in the west. People were getting out of work and heading home, or to dinner, or to meet friends for drinks: impatient, eager, fed up.
Which was alright. There’d be a thousand eyes all around me, but none of them would be looking at me. Or the unconscious guy with a busted nose in the seat beside me. They’d all be lost in their own plans.
I crawled through town, crossing Main Street and making my way to Hemlock. I saw the shop in the distance. Or, more accurately, a gaudy sign with a stylized bright red sports car and a scantily clad cartoonish woman with huge hair and bigger breasts. It read, “Hotrods on Hemlock.”
I spotted the lot a second later, and the building after that. It was set back from the road, hidden by other Hemlock Avenue establishments. The lot had about a dozen vehicles of various makes and models, all of them classic muscle cars, and most of them in seemingly pristine condition.
To the side of the building was another lot, bigger and with a hodgepodge mix of everything from economy to luxury vehicles.
I spotted my SUV parked down the road and opposite the shop, with Jason in the driver’s seat, looking anxious but no worse than earlier. Maybe a little better.
I rolled forward and buzzed down the window. He stayed where he was, but buzzed his down too. “Got it,” he said, and handed over two wads of cash.
I took them and nodded. “Wait for me. If you hear gunshots, get the hell out of here. And call the damned cops.”
“I will, I will. But – you don’t think they’re going to kill you, do you?”
“I wouldn’t be going in there if I did. But it doesn’t hurt to have an insurance plan.”
He stared at me. “Is that…a professional joke?”
“No. Life advice.”
“Okay…”
“I’ll see you in a minute. Hopefully.”
He nodded and buzzed the window up again. I did the same on my end, and rolled past, into the lot. I parked in front of the shop, wiped the key, wheel and window controls, and stepped out. I wiped the handle too. My DNA would be in the truck, if it came to that, but at least my prints wouldn’t.
I walked toward the shop. Not too fast, and not too slow. Confident, but not like I’d come looking for trouble. Because I hadn’t. I wouldn’t have bothered with the money if I meant to go that route.
I stepped into the lobby at the same time a guy in coveralls came out of the back. “Can I help you?” he asked, glancing through the window at the truck behind me.
“It is Tiny’s truck,” I said, answering the question I knew was running through his mind. “Tiny’s in it. He hurt himself and needed a ride back. You’re probably going to need to take him to the doctor. He hurt himself pretty badly.”
The guy – his nametag read Mike – stared at me. “Who the hell are you?”
“We don’t need to be on a first name basis. I’m just here to pay a debt.” I gestured toward the cash. “A friend of mine owes Travis five grand. I’ve got the money.”
The guy’s eyes flickered between me and the vehicle. “Trav ain’t here.”
There was a possibility that was true. It was late, after all. On the other hand, Jason seemed to think Travis lived over the shop. “Look, this is a onetime offer. Your boss wanted his money today. I’m here to pay. Today only.”
“I can take the money and get it to him.”
I laughed. “I don’t think so.”
Mike glanced out at the truck. Then he looked at the cash. Then, he nodded, and picked up the phone. A moment later, he said, “Trav? There’s some guy who says he’s here to pay you five grand. Came in Tiny’s truck. Said Tiny hurt himself.
“Yeah, he’s right up front. Yeah, I’ll tell him. Okay.”
He placed the phone back in its receiver. “Trav says he’ll be right up.”
Chapter Thirteen
I had thought Tiny’s moniker had been some kind of irony about his own size. I reconsidered when I saw the guy who stepped through the back door. Now, I figured it was a comparison, between him and the boss.
Travis was six-four and three-hundred and fifty pounds easily. His arms were huge. His neck was huge. His chest was huge. He looked like a pitbull, that some witch had cursed and turned into the ugliest human she could.
And right now, he didn’t look like a friendly pitbull. He glanced at Mike, who took a step back and gestured toward me.
“Travis?” I asked.
“Who are you?”
“I’m here on behalf of Jason. To pay what he owes.”
Travis shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I know a Jason.”
I dropped the five grand on the counter. “Well, he knows you. He seems to think he owes you five grand. He’s very sorry that it took so long, but he appreciates your patience.”
Travis eyed me and the money. “Who the hell are you?” he said again.
“A friend of Jason’s.”
“There’s nothing illegal about a loan,” he said, still eyeing the money.
“No,” I said. “Sending goons to beat the payment out of him, though? I’m sure there’s a law against that. But you can relax: I’m not a cop, and I’m not trying to catch you on anything. I’m just here to square away Jason’s debt.”
He eyed me over once, then picked up the money and leafed through it. “I didn’t send no one to beat up anyone. That’d be illegal. My guys check in with clients who miss their payments, to see if we can’t work something out. But that’s it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well, your guy Tiny missed that memo.”
“Tiny can be – excitable, sometimes. He’s a joker like that.”
“Yeah. Funny man.”
He went on counting, his expression brightening as he neared the end of the stack.
“Well, it looks like we’re all good. Tell Jason I appreciate doing business with him. And tell him I hope Tiny wasn’t too excitable.”
“I will. Oh, and one other thing.”
Travis eyed me suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Tiny had an accident. He got – too excited. Tripped and fell. Broke his jaw, I think, and his nose too. He’s breathing alright for now. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. But I wouldn’t leave him too long. I’d get him to a hospital.”
Travis scowled. “You did that?”
“No. Like you said, Tiny was just talking. He made a joke about upping the price, presumably to line his own pockets. But he got so excited about the joke, he lost his balance.”
“Bad things happen to people who hurt my crew.”
“And bad things happen to people who hurt my friends. You got your money, Travis, and you got your man back. This doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.”
He considered for a long moment. He glanced me over, head to toe. He was doing the same calculus Tiny had done earlier. Only he wasn’t a stupid guy.
He nodded. “Alright.” Then, he glanced between Mike and me. “But you tell Jason, it’s over. I ever see him – or you, for that matter – around here again, they’re going to find you floating face down in the river.
“You get me?”
I got him, alright. So I got out, careful not to walk too fast. I didn’t want to trigger some kind of primitive chase mechanism in his brain. But I didn’t want to go so slow he started thinking about the guys he had there, and how it would be two or thr
ee or maybe even four or five to one.
Because I wasn’t Ichabod Crane, but I also wasn’t an absolute idiot. Every fight carried a risk of injury or death, no matter how good a fighter you were or even how bad the other guy was. The risk would be more or less, depending on those factors; but it would always be there.
Some fights had to happen anyway. Like the one back at the house. Tiny needed to know Megan and the kids were off limits.
But some fights didn’t. Sometimes the satisfaction of winning wasn’t worth the risk of losing. And a pissing match against Travis and his goons? Not worth it. Not if they’d let me walk away.
They did. I walked past the still running truck. I crossed the street and walked down the sidewalk. I reached the passenger door and tried the handle.
It was locked. Jason heard me lift it, and he spun around, an expression of abject terror on his face. Then, comprehension chased away fear, and he searched the interior in a flustered fashion. A moment later, I heard the door locks click.
I tried the handle again and the door opened.
“Holy shit. How’d it go?” he asked as I climbed in.
I fastened my buckle and said, “Go.”
He nodded, putting the vehicle into drive. We lurched forward as he stomped on the gas.
“Try not to get us pulled over.”
“Right. Sorry. So…what happened?”
I told him, and he seemed equal parts relieved and disappointed. I’d saved his ass, but cut him off from his supplier. I got the impression he couldn’t decide which one mattered more to him.
Then I said, “I need to make a phone call. So I need you to shut up.”
He nodded. “You got it, chief.”
I shook my head and plugged my phone back into the port. “Call Detective Clark.”
“Calling Detective Clark,” the phone replied.
Jason’s eyes flew to me. “Detective? You’re not –”
“Shut up and watch the road. It’s nothing to do with you.”
A loud, electronic ringing trilled through the car. It rang six times. Then a chipper female voice said, “You have reached Detective Andrea Clark. I’m unable to come to the phone right now. If this is an emergency, please dial 9-1-1. If not, please leave a message after the tone.”
