by Lee Stone
The subway was flooded out. The steel barrier had been padlocked into place. There were no busses, so he walked through the near-deserted streets, bent into the wind and stooped under the weight of the hold-all on his back. After a few blocks he flagged down a straggling cab. The driver looked gnarled enough not to care what the storm threw at him. The cab smelled of whiskey and tobacco and the cabbie looked stale enough to have been driving all night.
‘Gotta earn a living,’ he told Lockhart when he asked. ‘Besides, I’ve driven through worse than this.’
Lockhart couldn’t imagine anyone had driven through a worse storm, but he admired the guy’s cavalier attitude. In fact, the journey was uneventful except for a part of Park Avenue which had been washed away by the water. The destruction seemed to lift the mood of the cab driver, who chuckled when he saw the blacktop and hardcore crumbling onto the flooded train tracks below.
‘Mother nature,’ he said. ‘Mother fucker.’
‘I’m looking for a building number,’ Lockhart said when they got close. ‘It’s 1215, but I don’t know the road. Any ideas?’
The cabbie shrugged as if the question itself was somehow insulting, but after a minute he brightened and pulled the taxi back out into the empty road.
‘There’s a café,’ he said as they drove along the Williamsbridge Road. ‘It’s in Siberia, but the place is okay. I’ve been there before.’
Lockhart wasn’t convinced that the boozy cab driver’s patronage was necessarily a great recommendation, but he thought better of saying anything. The cabbie dropped him outside two minutes later, and he moved quickly across the sidewalk to get out of the rain. Inside, the place was dead.
‘What can I get you, honey?’ a voice called from behind the counter before he was even halfway through the door. It belonged to a wholesome woman with a warm smile and sharp eyes. Lockhart smiled and ran a hand through his wet hair.
‘A warm towel and a Caribbean beach?’
The barista laughed.
‘We’re fresh out of beaches,’ she said. ‘But I got hot chocolate that will warm your bones? And I just baked some muffins.’
‘Perfect.’
Lockhart looked around, and for a moment he was unsure what he had been expecting. Who had Glinka met here? And where had he gone after? For a moment he wondered whether this place was one of the Cambodians’ haunts. Had Glinka met them here? Had Matilda come this way too, looking for Jimmy Penh? Searching for her daughter? It struck Lockhart that he should have grabbed a photograph to hawk around from Kate Braganza’s apartment. One of those tragic crumpled photographs that hopeless families carry around with them when they’re looking for missing relatives. As for finding Glinka, Lockhart didn’t even know what he looked like. But the café felt right. There was a park opposite, and the place was dark and anonymous. It’s the kind of place Lockhart himself would have met a contributor. He wondered what kind of reporter Glinka was-and how much trouble he might have talked himself into.
‘Here you go sweetheart, warm your bones.’
Lockhart looked at her and sighed. They were getting on so well…
‘I’m a reporter,’ he said. ‘I’m looking for a friend.’
The crockery rattled as she put it down.
‘Well, I know nothing about nothing,’ she said, in a way that told Lockhart she probably knew something about everything. ‘That’s a good policy around here. I don’t see nothing and I don’t hear nothing. You understand?’
‘I understand,’ Lockhart said. ‘He was here yesterday, looking for an Albanian guy?’
The barista shook her head and turned away from him, busying herself by wiping down an already clean table next to Lockhart’s.
‘You keep asking questions like him,’ she said, ‘and you will end up just like him.’
‘He’s been here then?’ Lockhart asked, glimpsing her face in the mirrored wall.
When she didn’t answer he said, ‘His name is Glinka. He’s new in town and probably came in here like a freight train.’
He saw something register in the reflection.
‘But you know he’s got two kids though,’ Lockhart continued. ‘He doesn’t see them much, but I don’t want to be the one who has to tell them he’s in trouble.’
The barista turned back to Lockhart’s table, the cloth still in her hand.
‘I see nothing,’ she repeated. ‘And I hear nothing. Your friend came in full of questions and far too loud. I watched them drag his sorry ass away from here yesterday, and I watched them march your friend off into the projects. They’ll be back. They’ll be racketing. Demanding a cut from my cash register. Ain’t nobody to stop them now. You want to find your friend, just stick about. But I told you nothing. I ain’t seen no evil, I ain’t heard no evil. I’m just your regular wise old monkey.’
Lockhart stayed in the dark corner of the café, watching the door and wondering what had happened to Glinka. He got nothing else from the barista as she buzzed around the place, waiting on the few other stragglers who had risked the storm. He killed time by unfolding his notes from the previous night, reading through what Glinka had learned about Jimmy Penh. Glinka had been focused on the Albanian, but he mentioned Jimmy Penh. He was Cambodian, rich and ruthless. He’d been in New York four years and his network had spread through the City selling Khmer Ice, glassine-bagged ecstasy pills with a reputation for being purer and cheaper than anything else on the street.
Lockhart nodded as he read through Glinka’s briefing. Jimmy’s pills were the best. He was getting them direct from the source. No middlemen. Ancient empires must have tumbled across New York City when Jimmy started selling. Lockhart was sure that his rise to prominence had nothing to do with dark ancient magic and much more to do with market forces. If you’ve got the best supply and the lowest price, you ought to kill the opposition, Smoke Child or not.
At around eleven o’clock, the Atlantic wind blew two guys in through the door. They were all beef, solid men who lacked the discipline to turn their bulk into muscle. They had the easy air of animals at the top of the food chain, and they moved with a swagger that belied a belief that they could do whatever they liked. Lockhart folded away Glinka’s notes and left a bill on the table to cover the drinks. He watched the men lean over the counter, opening the cash register for themselves. The barista did nothing to stop them.
‘Normal service resumed,’ the broader of the two men said, thrusting a handful of bills into his pocket. ‘Every Friday, just like the old times.’
Lockhart gave them a head start and then pulled the sports bag from under his chair and followed them out of the door. He gave the barista half a wink on his way past.
‘Good luck, honey,’ the barista said behind him. ‘You’re going to need it.’
Lockhart smiled and headed out into the rain. The wind had picked up again and was blowing rainwater along the sidewalk in pulses. He beat on through it, scowling into the gloom until his eyes locked onto the two men a little way ahead. He followed them into the projects, a rundown block of concrete and steel that sucked at his soul as he walked through. The wind howled through its broken windows and chain-link fences. The distance closed between them as Lockhart picked up the pace, and by the time they arrived at the derelict basketball court between two of the high-rise buildings he was right on their backs.
‘Hey,’ he called, and both men turned at once. They looked startled, the wind and rain having cocooned them away from their surroundings. Lockhart pressed the advantage. ‘You dealing?’
When they stopped, Lockhart kept walking, closing the gap until they were all huddled together against the storm. Up close, they were brutish men, and probably used to people giving them a wider birth. Lockhart’s easy approach unnerved them. The taller of the two scanned the periphery of the court, his eyes changing quickly from startled to shrewd and calculating.
‘Nobody deals on the street,’ he said.
His voice was light for a man of his size, and there was a spark of i
ntelligence behind his stare. The second guy was a different story. He was a standard issue Rottweiler on a leash.
‘And not to strangers,’ he growled. ‘Strangers don’t get nothing.’
He stepped forward menacingly, until the taller guy stepped in, intrigued. At least Lockhart knew which one of them he was dealing with.
‘Those rules are non-negotiable, I’m afraid.’
‘No problem,’ Lockhart said. ‘No strangers on the streets. So let's go somewhere and get acquainted.’
He spoke directly to the first guy which seemed to put the Rottweiler’s back up. Not that the Rottweiler was a major concern. The taller guy took a moment to think, staring hard at Lockhart as he weighed him up.
‘If we were to get acquainted,’ he said eventually, ‘what exactly are you looking for?’
Lockhart didn’t blink.
‘Everything you’ve got, and more.’
They arrived five minutes later in a dank hallway halfway up one of the grey towers, in front of a wooden door reinforced with a metal swing-gate bolted in front of it. The first guy knocked hard on the door, four slow thumps and two quick taps. A moment later the door cracked open and a pair of wide white eyes peered out from inside. The eyes belonged to a scrawny, girlish looking woman with a brown Hustler top and a pair of clinging purple shorts. She was skin and bone, vacant as a ghost. She was chewing on a pop tart and peeking around the door like a kid.
‘Well, at least you didn’t burn the place down,’ the guy at the door said, observing her hopeless state.
‘Hey Luis,’ the girl drawled. ‘Very fucking nice to see you too.’
‘Open the gate baby,’ Louis said.
She looked at him coyly and twisted one ankle around the doorframe.
‘What’s the magic word?’
‘It’s me. You can see it’s me. So stop fucking about.’
She smiled without moving.
‘Abra ca-fucking-dabra,’ he growled. ‘Open the fucking door.’
She opened up, grinning like a puppy.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ Luis said, turning to Lockhart with a saccharine smile. He cuffed the girl once with the back of his hand as he pushed past her into the apartment. ‘Just open the fucking door next time, skank.’
‘Nothing wrong with this girl a bullet between the eyes wouldn’t fix,’ the Rottweiler said as he shoved past her and followed Luis down the hallway into a small kitchen.
‘I heard that,’ the girl said, and her eyes sparked into life for a moment, but then the vacancy returned and flushed everything else from her face. She brought her fingers to her skin and smudged blood from the corner of her mouth, but her lips returned to the familiar smile as her eyes glazed back to their former condition.
‘You were fucking supposed to hear it,’ the Rottweiler called back over his shoulder. Lockhart resisted the urge to ask her if she was all right and instead followed the men through into the kitchen. The Rottweiler sat and pushed out a chair with his foot for Lockhart. Luis was already digging through a high cupboard for a bottle, which he pulled out and placed in the middle of the table, along with three grimy tumblers. Then he sat down opposite Lockhart and pulled a stainless steel revolver from under his jacket, placing it with a thud on the table in front of him.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Let’s find out if we’re going to be friends.’
Lockhart tried not to fixate on the revolver. Back on the Times, he had followed many stories to many places. He’d spent time in the company of tin pot dictators and psychopathic warlords, and he had learned from experience that having a weapon is not the same as having the inclination to use it. Even so, it was an impressive thing. It was a gleaming Hollywood piece. It was close enough for Lockhart to read the 44 Magnum engraving in the nickel plate, but not close enough for him to snatch it if he needed. The Rottweiler had found gum from somewhere and chewed noisily as he lazily weighed Lockhart up.
‘Yeah, let’s find out if we’re going to be friends,’ he repeated. ‘Or let’s find out if we’re not.’
He emphasized the last part of the sentence making sure Lockhart understood that he was rooting for a less friendly outcome.
‘Take it easy Rocky,’ Luis said and turned to Lockhart as he poured liquor into the three glasses. ‘That took some balls, coming up behind us like that in the courtyard.’
Lockhart took his drink, raised it towards Luis in a salute, and took a taste. Pretty bad. Then he turned to the other guy and said ‘Rocky? Seriously?’
Rocky snarled, but before he had time to spit his gum and raise hell, Luis leaned in and cut across him.
‘I don’t know who you are,’ he said. ‘But I’m wondering if you’re brave or stupid.’
‘Me too,’ Lockhart said evenly. His heart was in his throat, but over the years he had become experienced at hiding his emotions. ‘But if we’re going to do business, I wouldn’t start by insulting me.’
If Jimmy Penh owned Siberia, then nobody else could shake down the local stores. Nobody else would put their hand in the barista’s cash register. So these guys worked for him. They could lead him to Matilda. If he played it right.
‘What kind of business are you proposing?’ Luis asked. ‘Let’s cut the bullshit.’
Lockhart wet his lips with the liquor. Just for the pause. Just to make Luis lean in a little.
‘There’s no bullshit here,’ he said, putting the tumbler down. ‘You tell me what you’ve got, and how much you’ve got, and I’ll tell you if I want it.’
The girl who had opened the door strolled into the kitchen and ran her hand across Luis’s shoulders as she made her way to the refrigerator. He ignored her, and she carried on past like a ghost. Lockhart watched the two men around the table with him. He could see behind Luis’s eyes he was mentally auditing his stash. The Rottweiler was stealing naïve glances at the liquor cupboard, presumably the place where they hid whatever they were selling.
‘You can’t afford everything we’ve got,’ Luis said. ‘I guarantee it.’
Lockhart looked around the grim kitchen and smiled.
‘You guys act like the real deal, flashing your magnum like you’re extras in Sin City, but I could buy you out ten times over.’
‘Really?’ Rocky growled. ‘How do you figure that?’
Lockhart took a breath and then reached down slowly for his hold-all and pulled it up to the table. Luis kept his gun trained on him the whole time.
‘I figure that because I’m smarter than you, and better connected than you, and I’m richer than you.’
He unzipped the hold-all on the table in front of Luis and flashed him a glimpse of the bundled cash inside. Rocky stared from the hold-all to Luis, who sat for a moment chewing at the side of his lip. When his eyes came back up to Lockhart, he moved the gun a little further forward until it touched Lockhart’s chest.
‘If you’re so smart,’ he asked, ‘What’s stopping me from shooting you and taking this cash right now?’
The answer was nothing. There was something near a million dollars in the hold-all, and if Luis took a chance, there was nothing to stop him taking it all. If they were playing poker, which they kind of were, then this was Lockhart’s bluff hand, and everything hung on his ability to pull it off. He left a pause before he answered. He tried hard to sound bored, like he had answered the same question a hundred times before, with a hundred other small time gangsters.
‘Come on, Luis,’ Lockhart said. ‘You know why. I might have to explain this stuff to Rocky, but you’re supposed to be the brains of the operation.’
Luis said nothing. Did nothing. Kept the Magnum exactly where it was, pointing at Lockhart’s chest.
‘Okay, I’ll explain,’ Lockhart sighed. ‘Do you have a million dollars to put on the table, Luis? No. Why not? Because a million dollars is hard to come by. You have to be smart to earn yourself a million dollars. Cunning. Ruthless. So if I’m here with a million dollars, you can take it as read I’m all of those things. And if I’m sma
rt, I’ll have thought about everything you might do when I walk in here with a hold-all stuffed with used bills. And if I’m cunning, I will have a plan in place to ensure that I will walk out of here with exactly what I walked in with. And if I’m ruthless, I will have my mind focused on the deal I want to do with your boss, and I will have thought of a way to ensure you’ll hurt a lot before you die if you even come close to screwing it up for me. Understand?’
It was a fiction. All of it. But like all good actors, Lockhart forced himself to believe what he was saying, so it showed in his eyes. He forced the darkness to emanate from his pupils and the malice to ooze from his pores. And he waited, cold as ice and nervous as hell, until eventually Luis seemed to accept his argument and lowered his revolver.
‘What do you want?’
Lockhart watched the girl in the Hustler t-shirt ghosting back out of the room.
‘You trust her?’ he asked.
Luis gave a non-committal nod.
‘She looks like a liability to me.’ Lockhart said. ‘Anyway, I want a meeting with your boss. I want to place an order.’
‘He’s very particular about who he meets.’
Lockhart frowned. ‘Me too.’
The Hustler girl was thin as a rake but what curves she had she used well, and Lockhart suddenly realized his eye had been drawn involuntarily to the tight purple shorts she was wearing below the tee-shirt as she disappeared down the corridor. Which is why he was watching when she was thrown back against the wall like a rag doll as a naked man came barreling past her. He spun to get his bearings and then bowled hard down the hallway towards the exit.
Glinka, Lockhart thought.
He made it as far as the doorway, flinging open the wooden door and finding his path blocked by the steel lattice security gate behind it. Rocky was first to reach him, slamming his head against the steel cage and dragging him back inside where Luis met them and smashed his foot into Glinka’s ribs. He was about to kick him again when he heard a click behind him and froze.
