The Vanishing Track

by Stephen Legault

  “If they get in the elevator, I’m hooped,” muttered Cole. He felt his pulse quickening, felt the surge of adrenaline course though his veins. Suddenly Denman was beside him. They said nothing. They walked slowly, keeping the men in sight, who were now heading toward an escalator at the opposite end of the mall. The men took the escalator to the main floor again.

  “They’re hitting the street,” said Denman.

  “Hope they don’t have a car waiting.”

  The two men exited onto Abbott Street and walked south.

  “I can see the Lucky Strike from here,” said Cole, looking east as he and Denman left the mall. The hotel’s darkened bulk loomed above the city around it.

  “What are they doing?” asked Denman. One of the men gave the other a brown bag of Golden Dragon food to carry.

  “Don’t know.”

  “We’re made.”

  “Come on . . .”

  “Just watch,” said Denman. When the two men reached the corner of Abbott and Taylor, one of them dashed across the road toward the Foodmart and the SkyTrain stop at Stadium. The other headed east toward the Lucky Strike.

  Denman stopped and grabbed Cole by the shoulder. “They’re onto us, Cole.”

  “So what!” Cole said angrily.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “This is the only shot we get. Maybe they are onto us, maybe not. But this is it. There won’t be another chance to find out who is dining at the Lucky Strike Supper Club.”

  One of the men reached the corner by the grocery store.

  “I’ll go east,” said Cole, and slipping from Denman’s grasp, moved toward the Lucky Strike.

  “Don’t do anything stupid. And keep in touch,” Denman said, and ran across the street toward the Foodmart.

  Cole clutched his cell phone in his hand and followed the other two-hundred-pound delivery boy from a couple hundred feet back. Here the sidewalk was nearly empty, so his prey was easy to watch, just as Cole’s presence was easy to detect. Any farther back and he ran the risk of losing his man.

  The bag carrier turned north again, passing behind the darkened behemoth of the Lucky Strike. On the corner two uniformed officers sat reading in the lighted cab of a squad car, part of the effort to keep the protesters starved.

  Instead of stopping, the man slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and put it to his ear. Distance and the rain, now driving in sheets, eliminated any chance Cole might overhear the conversation. He watched the meatball snap the phone shut and put it back in his pocket.

  The delivery man reached the end of the block, then stood motionless at the corner. Cole quickly slipped into a doorwell, but the man never looked back.

  “What are you doing?” Cole grumbled. “Your fried wontons are getting very, very cold.”

  After a couple of minutes, Cole saw the man reach for his phone again, and this time Cole doubted he said a word before he snapped the phone shut and dashed across the street, a few horns blaring.

  “Here we go,” said Cole, quickly following. There was a greengrocer fronting the street. The man swung open an unmarked door next to it and vanished up a set of stairs. Cole quickly texted the address to Denman. He was less than a block from the Carnegie Centre, and within sight of the Lucky Strike.

  He scanned the building. It was a dreary, four-story building put up in the 1940s with tan brick and white trim. A discount shoe store and the grocer occupied the street level. Cole guessed that the inside housed offices, maybe fronts for organized crime.

  Cole stood in the doorway across the street a moment. He knew damn well that he couldn’t just run up the stairs after the delivery man. The likelihood of being caught there and questioned about his presence was much too high. What could he say? Instead, he stepped back into the shadow of the doorway and assumed the panhandler position, tucking his knees to his chest and folding his arms across them, watching the door. He waited.

  Where was Denman?

  Sitting with his face to his knees, his eyes peeled for any action at the door, Cole felt a growing restlessness and sense of urgency. He sat motionless for another minute, then two, feeling the cold from the concrete penetrate his butt and move into his spine. Across the street the door flew open. Cole pressed his face closer to his knees, his eyes mere slits, and watched as the big man he had been tailing made his way down the street toward Tinseltown, then across the street and around the corner without looking back.

  Once the man was out of sight Cole jumped to his feet and crossed Pender. He grabbed the metal door handle and the door swung open. He was surprised to find the door unlocked. He quickly took his cell phone from his pocket and texted Denman, “Gng in.”

  The stairs rose up from street level in darkness. He took a deep breath to quiet his heart and listened. Nothing. Just the drone of traffic on Pender, the hiss of tires on wet pavement. He mounted the steps. Halfway to the top he stopped and listened. Another step and he kicked a can in the blackness. It clanked down the steps. Cole froze, but he heard nothing else. He took three more steps into the blackness. He still faced an eerie silence, but now a familiar scent came to him: Korean barbecue.

  Cole reached the top of the stairs. He now stood at one end of a long hallway that disappeared into the darkness. Many doors lined the hall, but none seemed to emit any light. He smelled the odor of stale cigarettes, takeout food, and something else, something strangely out of place.

  He started down the hall, looking at the doors, some of which had small signs announcing the businesses that occupied them: Double A Accounting. Frank’s Home Heating. Dominion Music. In the darkness it was hard to make out the names on some of the offices. Cole took out his cell phone and flipped it open to read the signs by the dim blue light of its display screen. The silence was broken when his cell phone buzzed with an incoming message. He dropped it to the floor where it snapped shut.

  “Mother—” Cole muttered under his breath, cutting off his curse. He dropped to his knees and patted the greasy carpet, feeling for the phone. He grabbed it and read the message from Denman.

  “Cming.”

  He snapped it shut and made his way farther into the silent darkness.

  He almost tripped over the package. Sitting on the floor next to a door without a sign was the parcel of takeout food. He bent down and touched it. It was cool and the paper bag was damp. He looked both ways down the hall. He was alone. There was no light coming from under the door. He tested the doorknob. It was locked.

  “What is going on here?” he asked himself. He tried the knob again. “If this isn’t an invitation, I don’t know what is.”

  He stepped back and quickly kicked the door. The frame splintered and the door wobbled open. Cole put his shoulder to it and pushed it the rest of the way open. He flinched with the pain that burned in his chest.

  Cole stopped and listened. The room he had entered was dark and quiet. He felt for the light switch and flicked it on.

  DENMAN FOLLOWED HIS quarry up the steps to the SkyTrain station at Stadium. The man quickly turned and headed down to the platform. Denman paused at the ticket dispenser. Even though he had a pass, he needed a moment to think. It was quiet on the SkyTrain at this time of night. He would be conspicuous. His only other option was to give up on this tail and rejoin Cole.

  He decided to stick with his man for the time being, just to play this out. He pretended to buy a ticket and walked down the steps to the platform. The man with the delivery was waiting for an eastbound train. Half a dozen others stood around on the platform, reading newspapers or listening to iPods.

  Eastbound: the next stop was Main Street, just a few blocks from where this whole charade had started. And then Commercial Drive, a good half-hour walk from where Denman had left Cole.

  He heard the whistling of the train approaching from the underground tunnel. A gust of air preceded the train’s arrival. The squeal of brakes grew louder and the train appeared. Four or five people got off, and those waiting, including the delivery man and Den
man, boarded the train. The delivery man took a seat, setting his package down next to him and making himself comfortable as if for a long ride. Denman stood by the doors, holding onto one of the overhead bars. The train pulled out of the station and a moment later he could see the Lucky Strike Hotel whiz past.

  Denman hazarded a glance at his quarry. The man was looking straight at him. Denman let his gaze scan past the man and to the other passengers. Denman’s cell buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket and flipped it open. The message from Cole read, “82 Pender.”

  Denman looked back up and was certain the delivery man was grinning at him.

  He felt the train slow as it took the sharp corner at Quebec Street, then speed up again as it raced toward the Main Street stop.

  Grinning at him.

  Cole was about six blocks away now.

  Grinning. When the train stopped Denman swung through the rear doors onto the platform. From the corner of his eye he saw the delivery man rise, leaving the food on the seat, and make for the train’s front doors. About to dash for the stairs, Denman knew that the delivery man would step in front of him in a split second. As he drew adjacent to the front doors, Denman jumped high above the brick platform and with his right leg kicked sideways, connecting with the big man’s chest. The delivery man’s face froze in shock as the blow knocked the wind out of him and he stumbled backward into the train car.

  Denman came down on both feet, upright, and directly in front of the open door; the delivery man crashed into the front doors on the opposite side of the car. He caught his breath and charged. Denman stood his ground, and when his attacker was just about to collide with him, quickly stepped to the side and drove his forearm up into the man’s chin, his arm bent and his open hand reaching skyward. He then quickly reversed direction and drove his hand down toward the train station platform. The man crumpled to the ground.

  Denman heard the sound signaling the doors about to close and quickly pulled the man back on board. Then he deftly stepped backward and escaped the closing doors. In another second the SkyTrain was speeding to the next stop. The whole confrontation had lasted less than thirty seconds.

  Denman raced down the stairs out of the station and ran toward Cole’s address.

  The man on the train had been a decoy.

  But a decoy for what?

  COLE STOOD UNDER the glare of the fluorescent tube lights, the smell of Korean food heavy in the air. Two folding tables, pushed together in the middle of the room, were surrounded by six chairs. The tattered venetian blinds on the windows were closed. Cole quickly pulled the tangled cord to hoist them open. They raised no dust. He looked out toward the Dr. Sun Yat-Sen Classical Chinese Garden, then west at the darkened outline of the Lucky Strike. He turned back to the room, and noted a chalkboard mounted on one wall, nothing written on it, and no chalk. A small garbage pail sat by the door. As Cole surveyed the empty space, he smelled expensive cologne and the delicate scent of roses over the oily fragrance of the food. He studied the floor, and in addition to his own wet prints he could see the outline of other wet shoes and boots. Based on their shape, he guessed that they had been made by both men and women.

  People had been in this room. And had just left.

  DENMAN HAD HIS phone in his hand, managing to key in a message as he ran. He hit send and then put the phone back in his pocket.

  He could see the Lucky Strike Hotel to his left. Suddenly the darkened shape of the building was illuminated from outside. Spotlights around the base of the building blazed brightly. Two dozen police cars and vans roared to a near simultaneous stop in front of the building. Christ, he thought, the shit is going down right now. He slowed a moment, but then decided it wasn’t his concern. His concern was Cole Blackwater.

  COLE HESITATED, THINKING about the man he had followed. He had used his cell phone twice, once when Cole and Denman split up, and again when he turned onto Taylor Street.

  He had tipped off the Lucky Strike Supper Club, hadn’t he? Dinner is not being served, Cole imagined him saying. I’ve been made.

  What was the second call? Coast is clear. But Cole had been out front by then. Back door.

  Suddenly the night outside the window lit up like day, and Cole could see the Lucky Strike pop out of the darkness into sudden clarity. Now what? he thought. But he didn’t stop to look. Instead, he bolted from the room and ran down the darkened hall toward the far end. There must be a second exit. He found the stairs and started down, as if into a darkened pool. He reached the bottom and felt for a crash bar. He pushed his way through and found himself in the alley that ran parallel to Pender, forty feet from its exit onto Columbia Street.

  He had time to draw one quick breath of the damp night air.

  The blow caught him behind the ear. He felt a hollow ring and then pain shot through his skull and down his neck. He fell to his hands and knees in a slick puddle of water.

  He heard a man laugh.

  Not the ribs, he thought, not the ribs.

  ADRENALINE POURED INTO Denman’s system, but he channeled it, making it work for him, giving his feet wings. He found a break in the traffic and dashed across the street, horns blaring, a car skidding to a halt in front of him, an angry voice. More sirens. Popping. Shouts.

  He reached 82 Pender. Denman wrenched the door open, the stairwell inside lit by a faint light at the top. He took the stairs three at a time, then ran down the hall, where an open door spilled light into the corridor and illuminated a takeout package on the floor. Denman slowed and skidded through the doorway. The room was empty.

  COLE CRAWLED FORWARD, his mouth open. He spat. From his position he could see two sets of feet behind him. Not the ribs, he thought. He felt the heat of blood on his temple, leaking toward his eyes.

  He tried to crawl across the alley to where a garbage dumpster loomed. One set of legs moved behind him, closing the distance in a few strides. Cole ducked his head to protect himself from the anticipated blow, and a heavy object caught him on the shoulder, knocking him into the trash surrounding the dumpster. Cole struck out with his left leg and felt it connect with his attacker’s shin. He had been aiming for the knee, hoping to break it. The blow turned the man sideways and gave Cole a second to grab the dumpster and pull himself up.

  His vision was blurred, but at least he could see his assailants now. One man had a piece of lead pipe in his hand. He wore a balaclava over his face. The second man had on a dark hooded sweatshirt under a tattered raincoat. He wore a bandana over his mouth. He had a knife in his hands, the short blade pointing down, the way you would hold it if you wanted to stab a man.

  Cole straightened up and tried to clear his vision, but the forms of his assailants moved in and out of focus. The man with the pipe swung for Cole’s head, but Cole blocked the swing. The pipe missed his face by two inches. Stepping forward, Cole drove his right fist into the man’s nose, breaking it. A jet of blood hit Cole in the face. The attacker staggered back into the wall, his left hand holding his nose, his right still clinging to the pipe.

  The second man came forward with the knife held low and deadly, and flashed it back and forth toward Cole’s gut. Cole wore layers of clothing that would protect him from some of the force of the knife, but not all. He kept his back to the wall. The man lunged when Cole feigned a slump. Cole side-stepped and drove his fist into the man’s temple, momentarily disorienting the attacker. Cole tripped backward and found himself against the dumpster again, a telephone pole between him and the distant street.

  His attackers both pressed forward.

  Sirens sounded in the distance. The man with the broken nose swung his pipe at Cole’s head, but Cole let his legs go out from under him and the pipe grazed his cap, knocking it off his head and leaving a spray of rainwater hanging in the air. The pipe clanged angrily against the garbage bin. Leaning forward on his knees, Cole drove his right fist into the man’s groin. The man’s legs buckled, and suddenly he was kneeling in front of Cole in the rain-soaked alley. Cole drove his fo
rehead into the man’s face, colliding with the man’s broken nose. The man let out a blood-curdling scream. Then Cole felt a boot connect with his back and he went numb from the pain. He felt himself sink into the bloody embrace of the man holding the pipe, only just aware of the knife-wielding man behind him. Cole closed his eyes; all of his will to fight seeped into the bloody alley. The knifeman grabbed him by the hair. Cole’s only thought was of Sarah.

  WHERE THE FUCK was Cole?

  As Denman scanned the room, the sound of a scream reached him from somewhere outside. He ran to the other end of the hall and down the stairs. The momentum of his body carried him through the door and into the alley. Cole was slumped over a man’s body, blood on his shadowed face, and another man held him by the hair, a knife to Cole’s throat. Denman was on him in a second. He grabbed the hand holding Cole and flipped the man over his hip and face down onto the ground, catching the man’s blade safely in his other hand. Denman pressed his knee on the man’s back below the arm he had twisted tight, keeping the attacker down in the puddle on the alley floor.

  “Cole, you okay?” he shouted. “You’re bleeding.”

  “Yeah, but it’s mostly his.” Cole said, struggling to his feet. He pushed the man with the pipe to the ground and met no resistance.

  “Give me your belt,” Denman said. The man beneath him struggled, and Denman applied a little more pressure to the twisted arm. Cole handed Denman his belt. Denman looped it through the man’s own pants and then buckled it around his wrists, pulling it tight. He slowly released the pressure from the man’s arm and got to his feet.

  He took Cole’s head in his own hands and looked him over. “You’re bleeding behind your right ear. You’re going to need stitches. There’s blood on your face but I don’t see a wound.”

  “It’s his,” Cole said, wiping the blood from his eyes and from around his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

  “What did you do, bite his nose off?”

  “No, but it’s broken. At least twice.”