Ride the Lightning

by Dietrich Kalteis

  Taking the Taser X3 out of the closet for the first time that morning since sneaking it into town taped to the inside back of Chip’s cat cage, Karl had checked the lithium battery and tucked it in his glovebox. Canadian law flagged the Taser as a restricted weapon, a lesser offense than a restricted firearm, but still likely to fetch some jail time. Back in the Emerald City, ten-year-olds would laugh at a Taser, but Canada was a place where people settled arguments with their middle fingers. He considered bringing it upstairs but decided the glovebox was close enough.

  He tipped his FedEx cap and held the door for a gray-hair taking her Boston terrier for its constitutional. Not a cloud in the sky, but the old dear stood in the doorway holding an umbrella, telling Karl not to let the sky fool him. When her joints said rain, you could bank on it. Karl caught a whiff of gin, listening to the old dear tell him the Canucks were going to whip the Ducks tonight, in case he knew a good bookie. Thanking her for the tip (hockey season off by a few months), he patted the friendly dog jumping on his leg. She waved him in—no need to ring up—just asked him to say hello to Margaret when he set up her oxygen. One uniform looking the same as the next to her.

  Stepping off on four into a hallway reeking of Scotchgard masking mold and filth, Karl took the metal bar and slipped it in the elevator’s track. It kept the door from closing. Half the bulbs in the hall were burned out, the carpet dotted with burn holes. A shopping cart and a kid’s bike blocked the fire exit.

  He slipped on his shades and put his ear against the door of 416, listening before he knocked. It was a man’s voice shouting about the cops being tipped off, bitching about being out fifty grand. It had to be Miro Knotts.

  The voice turned to a whisper when he knocked. Giving the peephole his full-on FedEx smile, Karl bet Miro wouldn’t recognize his fish-eye image. Sure enough, the knob turned; the door opened as far as the chain allowed, one eye looking at him.

  Taking off the chain, Miro pulled back the door. Hair sticking up, he looked more like a bone-rack than the last time Karl saw him, his Stones tongue T-shirt hanging off him. Not big, but neither was a wolverine. The cigarette in his mouth made him squint, bloodshot eyes darting to Karl’s clipboard, saying to whoever was on the phone, he’d call back. He clicked off, keeping his hand on the door, asking, “Aren’t you guys supposed to buzz first?”

  “The thing’s on the fritz. Nice lady let me in, but you know, you haven’t changed, not a bit.” The smell of pot was strong coming from the apartment.

  “I know you?” The eyebrows bunched, the door opening narrowed.

  “See, I wasn’t asking who you are,” Karl said, enjoying the moment.

  “Don’t know any Miro,” Miro said, starting to close the door. “Got the wrong guy.”

  Karl stuck his shoe in the door and held up his cell phone. “Now, I haven’t said your name yet, right?” Snapping a photo of Miro, he punched in a number.

  “What the fuck . . .” was all Miro got out before the phone in his hand rang. Karl shrugged like it was cute, clicking off and dropping his phone in his pocket. He pictured Marty at his desk, getting the email with the pic of Miro opening the door.

  “So, what’s that make you, a smartass delivery boy?” Miro snapped his fingers for whatever Karl had, tired of this guy’s game.

  Karl took off the shades, hooked them on his collar, looking at Miro. “Makes me the guy that grabbed you by the hair and dragged your sorry ass off that sofa in Belltown, you screaming like a girl all the way to the cop shop, remember?” Karl held up his palm. “Should have seen all the hair came off in my hand.”

  Miro blinked like he’d been hit, ash dropping from his smoke, everything going too fast. This was the guy, the guy he was setting up: Karl Morgen, the fucking bounty hunter. The Vaquero hung in its holster on the coat rack, one in the chamber, just out of reach. The aluminum Combat bat was closer, just inside the door.

  “The family of the fifteen-year-old you molested wants to meet your ass in a Seattle court,” Karl said, his voice loud in the hallway. “Coming after you for psychological and emotional trauma to their little girl, but that’s not why I’m here.” Karl slid the envelope from the clipboard, the copy of the U.S. warrant. “Lucky for you, I don’t have a license anymore, otherwise I’d do you for free, drag your sorry ass all the way back, snatch another handful of hair.”

  Miro’s hand was moving for the bat.

  “I’m serving paper these days, thanks to you.” Karl smiled as he slapped the envelope against Miro’s chest, catching a glimpse of the Hefty bag with bud sticking out the top. The envelope landed in Miro’s hands.

  Karl hustled for the elevator, saying, “They’re going to deport your ass, Miro, get you registered as a sex offender—I don’t know, I’m just guessing. Anyway, you’ve been served, big guy.” He was halfway to the elevator, its doors banging against the metal bar, its chimes going off. “Oh, and you might want to stash that shit somewhere other than by the door when the Mounties come with the real warrant.”

  “Goddamn it.” Miro threw up his hands like the envelope had leprosy, like if he didn’t touch it, it didn’t count. He jerked the door all the way open, screaming, “You fucking fuck, get back here.” Miro spat out the Newport, grabbing the bat, wielding it shoulder high like he was taking the plate. “Hey, hold on, delivery boy, forgot your fucking tip.” He came at a run, winding up. “You get out of emergency, you’ll want to find a new line of work.”

  Karl was fast enough, ducked and twisted away, his glasses flying off, the bat taking out a wall sconce and a foot of drywall, Miro ripping it from the wall, winding up again.

  Karl was diving for the elevator, hitting the floor hard, grabbing the steel bar out of the door, Frisbeeing the clipboard at Miro, gaining that extra second. Miro swung again, smashing the clipboard out of the air. Bruna, came running out of 416, powder around her nostrils, the Thermos in her hand.

  The shoeshine chick. Karl caught a glimpse of her as he rolled, swinging the bar, cracking it like a tomahawk against Miro’s knee. The crazy bastard shrieked, dropping the bat.

  Bruna was yelling for them to stop, waving the Thermos, Miro pushing her back. Karl jabbed Morse code against the panel’s G button—faces poking from apartment doors—Miro grabbing for the Thermos, throwing it against the closing elevator doors.

  she’s got the Spiegelantenne

  Bypassing the lobby, taking the side door out onto Princess, thinking that went better than expected, Karl poked at the ragged tear through the first E in FedEx. His elbow was scraped, knee throbbing. His cap was gone, clipboard and sunglasses gone, but he made the serve and snapped a pic.

  Reaching for his phone, he started punching in Marty’s number, spotting a guy by his car looking all wrong. The guy was bending with the do-rag on his head, giving the Roadster that this-is-my-kind-of-ride look, fingers testing the passenger door handle. Karl angled and came up behind him, spotting the second guy looking all wrong on the corner. “Help you, bud?”

  “This your ride?” Wally straightened, smiling like a kid caught with his fingers in the candy jar, favoring his injured foot as he turned.

  The second guy was in jeans, redneck rube written all over him. Karl kept him in view, dangling the Porsche fob to answer Wally’s question. Angling by him, he unlocked the passenger door and sat on the seat, still catching his breath, his back hurting, eyes on the building’s door in case Miro wanted to go another round. The second guy was limping, coming his way, slipping a hand in his jacket, the pocket looking heavy.

  “Looks like FedEx’s improving the fleet,” Wally said, admiring the car, running a hand along her quarter panel. “You guys doing the thirty minutes or it’s free deal?” Wally talking like he had all day.

  “Yeah, copying you pizza guys,” Karl said, pointing to the do-rag.

  Not sure what he meant, Wally took a glance, Mitch shaking off the crackhead with the sandwich board. T
urning back to Karl, he said, “Fifty-nine replica in sand grey lacquer,” showing what he knew.

  Karl nodded like he was impressed. “You know your bathtubs, only this one’s ivory.”

  “So she is.” Wally tipped the tinted shades, saying, “Super 90 with the Solex carbs. Zero to sixty in what—about nine flat.”

  “Something like that, yeah.”

  “Not a rocket, but still, you got yourself a head-turner.”

  “For me it’s more about the handling. That zero-to-sixty thing’s kind of high school, don’t you think?” He looked past Wally, Mitch’s hand still in his pocket, still coming this way.

  Wally leaned close, thinking why not have a bit of fun with this delivery boy before going upstairs. “Yeah, this is class. Full leather, removable hardtop—got the Blaupunkt, fully loaded.”

  “And she’s got the Spiegelantenne built right in,” Karl said, tapping the rearview.

  “Read about that in Road & Track one time, but never seen one,” Wally said, bending, checking it out, saying, “Now that’s some rare shit.”

  “You bet. Set me back a fair bit, too, but you want to see my favorite?” Karl clicked open the glove compartment and laid his Taser across his lap. “Anti-theft device. Taser X3; it’s fully loaded, too.”

  Wally backed up a step. “Light your fags with that?”

  “Just fry assholes with it. Fifty-thousand watts’ worth, bites like a bitch.”

  Mitch stood next to Wally now, saying, “Think you got the wrong idea, amigo. My friend here’s just a car nut. Anything on wheels, you know the type, always got grease on his hands, been that way since Hot Wheels.”

  “An enthusiast, huh?”

  “Right. First guy on the block to get his driver’s license.” It wasn’t just the Taser, it was in the guy’s eyes; he’d been in this kind of situation before. Mitch tugged Wally by the sleeve.

  “Yeah, no need to pull the bug zapper on me, friend,” Wally said, holding up his palms. “Auto aficionado’s no kind of crime where I come from.”

  Mitch and Wally kept stepping back.

  “Have a nice day, boys.” Karl waited till they turned before tucking the Taser back in the glovebox. It wasn’t like his .40 caliber Smith, but it got the job done. Climbing over the stick shift, he knocked against the horn with his knee, pain shooting through him like a current.

  mudmen of asaro

  “‘Have a nice day,’ the smug cocksucker says to me,” Wally said. “Sitting there with his fucking ray gun. Should have shown him what a real man packs.”

  “Nothing like the asshole I just ran into.” Miro took the facecloth off his forehead, looking at Wally at the far end of the sofa, Mitch in the armchair. The bleeding had stopped, but his knee hurt like hell. Still rattled by Morgen showing up, still not believing Stax let fifty grand of his oil sink to the bottom of the inlet, he said to Wally, “Just so you know, pretty much every smackhead down here packs a piece, in case you’re new in town.”

  “Yeah, nice digs, by the way,” Wally said.

  Miro throwing it back, “Got to say, the guy practically catches you breaking into his car. Man, my grandmother jacks cars better than that.”

  “Told you, I wasn’t jacking it, just having fun. One call to FedEx HQ and that prick’s out a job,” Wally said, looking at the Hefty bag with buds poking out the top.

  Miro stiffened like he’d been poleaxed. “What the fuck you say?”

  “What?”

  “Said FedEx guy.”

  “Yeah, fucker comes out the side door,” Wally said, surprised by the way Miro was looking at him. “But the way he did it, he—”

  “That’s the fucking guy,” Miro yelled, jumping up and kicking at the envelope on the floor, then wincing, grabbing his knee. “Fucker who laid this shit on me.” He got in Wally’s face, pressing the ice pack against his swollen knuckles, the hand that would look like an eggplant by tomorrow.

  Wally looked at Mitch, wondering what the fuck. “Hey, I see a knockoff Porsche out front of a place like this, and it doesn’t fit. Then this FedEx guy comes up behind me, giving me lip for looking at his ride, and that doesn’t fit. Like how many deliveries he got to make to afford a ride like that?”

  “You’re a fucking idiot, you know that?” Miro was seeing floaters in his eyes, sucking air, three inches from Wally’s face. “The fucker’s not FedEx,” Miro said, spit flying from his lip.

  “Take it easy, man.” Wally leaning back.

  “Guy’s the bounty-hunting asshole that dragged me off the sofa in Belltown.” Miro had to sit again.

  “And I’m supposed to know that?”

  “Snuck up on me making it with this babe. What kind of asshole does that, comes up on a man like that, slapping those nylon things on my wrists?

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “When I got out of the Ridge I went after him, him and his fucking partner. Got them shit-canned from their jobs.”

  “Shit-canned, how?”

  “Got their licenses revoked. Can’t bounty hunt unless you got one.”

  “What did they bag you for?”

  “For bullshit.”

  “That where you got the tat, the Ridge?”

  Miro looked at it, the clock with no hands, saying yeah.

  “How long you in for?”

  “Three months.”

  “You got a tat just for three months?” Wally looked over at Mitch.

  “You got any idea what they do to a man up there? I’m taking that fuckhead down.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Laying this shit on me.” Miro’s face was red as a radish; he got up again and ground the envelope underfoot, crying from the pain. “Guy’s got hell coming, I tell you that.”

  Wally was laughing, looking at the envelope. “So, you got served by some guy used to be a bounty hunter, busted you for something you don’t want to say, like what—mail-order bride want a divorce?”

  Wally was pushing his buttons; Miro was clutching the ice pack, veins popping at his temples, blinking to clear the floaters.

  Bruna came in with two bottles, one of Tylenol, one of Dead Frog. Wally leaned into the cushion, away from Miro and checked her out—a bit old, but still . . . the woman had the kind of headlights that talked to a man, Wally guessing they were the real deal, no tit-plants.

  Setting the bottles down, she wheeled around barefoot, Wally thinking she liked being checked out.

  “Still got the wrong shoes,” she said, looking at his high-tops, giving him a smile.

  Miro popped the childproof lid, shaking out a palmful, clapping them into his mouth, chewing them, twisting open the beer and knocking the bitter taste down in a swallow.

  “Only supposed to take two,” Bruna said.

  “I got more pain than you can believe.”

  “Like the shirt by the way,” Wally told her.

  “Let me guess, Karl Lagerfeld, right?” she said.

  “Name’s Wally,” he said, reaching for Miro’s pack of Newports, watching Bruna disappear into the kitchen. “Nice girl,” he said to Miro.

  “Think you get a rise out of me with that shit?” Miro said, getting himself in check.

  “What do you call what you did at the cafe?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Talking about the way you were playing Sunny.”

  “Who, the hooker?”

  “That’s my girl, Merle.” Wally considered adding to Miro’s cuts and bruises. “Throwing your money on the table, acting cute with the three-egg omelette bullshit. See why people line up to beat the shit out of you.”

  “Yeah, Sunny, right, your rent-a-girl. Sunny side up. Okay, whatever.” Miro looked at the envelope, calmer now. “For the record, I’m far from done with that asshole.” Miro threw back his beer and let go a corner-of-the-
mouth belch, thinking about facing Morgen with his Vaquero strapped down, the hand-tooled holster, doing his Kirk Douglas from Last Train From Gun Hill, see the fear in the guy’s eyes as Miro put one in the crotch, one in the heart, and one in the head.

  Wally settled into the cushions and nodded toward the Hefty bag. “Got any of that ready to twist up?”

  Miro reached the baggie off the bookcase and tossed it on the table, swallowing, feeling bits of lodged Tylenol in his throat. “This bud’s for you.” Grinning, thinking this was from the same batch of pot these two idiots were supposed to mule the day Jeffery Potts took a shotgun blast to the chest.

  “Now you’re talking.” Wally forked a pack of ZigZags from his shirt pocket and set to work. “Sorry, I didn’t bring the flavored kind,” nodding at Miro’s pack of Newports. “Blue JuJu or Purple Thunder.”

  Miro drank some beer, watching Wally roll; odds were he’d end up shooting him too before Stax got around to it. He flicked his lighter, Wally leaning in with the joint in his mouth, Miro guessing the do-rag was flammable.

  Wally drew in a lungful, that staircase feeling creeping in right away. Offering it to Mitch who waved his hand, Wally passed it to Miro, saying, “Good shit,” on the exhale, adding Mitch was into booze because he liked waking up next to ugly chicks.

  Feeling it ease him, Miro took another hit before passing it back and getting down to business, bringing the conversation around to Bowen Island. The weed at Artie’s second grow house would make up for the oil that sank in the inlet. “When we do Bowen, we go in like the Mudmen of Asaro.”