The pangs of hunger pulled against his thoughts. You’ve done your work for today, Bucko. Let’s go celebrate this happy occasion. Noodles, that was the ticket, a big bowl of noodles with pork belly. And maybe a banh mi as well. The vision of a delicious Vietnamese sandwich, dripping with hot chili sauce, floated in his mind’s eye. Quinn checked the time. Screw the lunch crowd, I need to eat. He closed the laptop and launched himself out of the chair.
Quinn rounded the corner, leaving the bustle of 21st Avenue behind him. He was well-fed and content. That was a damn fine lunch. He felt the warm glow in his belly. Nothing like a hot bowl of noodles to set a brother right with the day, even a gloomy day like this. Strolling down the quiet street, Quinn saw the autumn leaves hanging from the trees, dank and forlorn. He looked up at the leaden sky. The clouds seeming to press down almost to the tops of the buildings. Just as Quinn brought his gaze back down, everything changed.
A disheveled figure blocked his path, seeming to appear from nowhere. Way too close, a claw of a hand reaching towards him. “Hey Man, can you spare some…”
Quinn’s left arm shot out of its own accord, the hand knotted into a hard fist. The balled fist smashed into the underside of the man’s dirty jaw. The impact of the blow snapped the man’s head back. The outstretched claw swung away from Quinn as the dark figure reeled. Rolling his weight forward, Quinn’s right fist cracked across the bridge of the attacker’s nose. Blood spurted across the man’s face as he fell to the sidewalk. Hunching over the pavement on his hands and knees, his dirty back to the sky, the beaten man swung his bloodied face up to look at Quinn.
“Fucking asshole!” The growled words were flung up at Quinn through a froth of blood.
Quinn shifted to his left foot and launched a vicious kick with his right. He felt his foot slam into the man’s ribcage, lofting the man upwards and knocking him sideways onto the wet pavement of the sidewalk. A crusty beanie flew off the man’s head. Quinn saw the blood-stained face contort in pain. Fists poised in front of his chest, Quinn watched the man writhing on the pavement, arms clutched across his midsection. Wincing, the man rolled over and pushed himself up. He held out a red-stained hand in supplication. Wavering, he righted himself, one hand still held palm outward towards Quinn, the other hand plastered across his broken nose. Blood spilled between his fingers and trickled into the frayed cuff of his jacket.
Without another word, the wild-eyed and bleeding figure rose and turned, breaking into a stumbling run. Quinn watched him bounce off of a dumpster, right himself, and careen up the sidewalk. The sound of muffled cursing followed the back of the hunched figure as the man disappeared. Run you bastard, run! What did you think was going to happen to you, springing out at someone like that? Goddamn tweaker, you got exactly what you deserved! Quinn let his eyes fall to the pavement in front of him.
He stared down at the hat, a crumpled pile of yarn against the pebbled concrete. A few drops of bright red blood flecked the surface of the sidewalk, wet and obscene. He tasted the coppery tang of adrenaline beginning at the back of his mouth. He looked up at the grey sky pressing down. Quinn felt this single moment stretch out as time slowed to a crawl. There was nothing else save for the hat on the sidewalk and himself standing over it. It was as if he were hovering above the scene, observing it from above. Every sensation was vivid and focused, from the wetness of the breeze against his cheek, to the throbbing of his bruised knuckles. His eyes took in the empty street, seeing detail in sharp relief. It felt beautiful and powerful and real.
Then it was gone. Without warning, the spell was broken and time resumed its course. He sensed that he was being watched. Quinn turned, peering back up the sidewalk he had just walked down.
At the end of the block, in the middle of the sidewalk, was a man. The man stood as if turned to stone, hands clasped behind his back. A tweed snap-brim newsboy cap was pulled low over the man’s brow. Quinn could only see a shadow where the man’s eyes should be, but there was no doubt that those shadowed eyes were looking directly at him. The distance separating them was not enough to shield Quinn from a sense of quiet menace. In the face of that menace, any trace of euphoria, of power, fled from Quinn.
The man continued to stand where he was, work jacket pulled open, canvas pants falling to heavy boots. In the grey light the figure looked like an apparition, some working man’s ghost haunting the rusted gate of a long-dead factory yard.
Quinn raised his arms from his side, palms outward. What, you want some of this? There was no reaction from the stranger. He occupied the space he was in without moving or flinching. Was it a trick of the light, or did Quinn see the weird bastard smile? Quinn felt the inner space that had emptied of power begin to fill with fear. Whoever this creepy guy was, Quinn wanted no part of him. Of their own accord, his arms dropped back down. He spun on his heel, walking up the sidewalk in the same direction the beaten man had fled. Despite the pounding in his heart, Quinn willed himself to not break into a run.
He did not need to look back to know that he was not being followed. But he did look back. As he turned another corner, he saw his apartment building come into view in the next block. Quinn slowed his steps, forcing himself to control his ragged breathing. His first coherent thought was of the cops. No, Bucko, that was no cop. Not a cop, okay, but why did he seem familiar then? Passing a low slung cinder block building, Quinn realized who had been standing on the sidewalk, calm and very much unafraid, watching him beat the shit out of some street punk. It was the same man who owned the shop across the street from where he was standing. That man was Mo Evans.
Quinn hurried to his apartment building, his key already in hand. As he bolted inside, his heart pounded an alarm in counterpoint to the echoing sound of the door locking itself.
“Yeah, nothing serious, I just feel like I’m coming down with something. I’ll catch up with you later in the week, okay? Sorry for the short notice. And I’ll drive the next two weeks. Yeah, yeah. No, it’s cool, I’ll be fine. Okay Paul. See ya.”
Quinn thumbed off the phone and let his hand rest in his lap. The throbbing of his knuckles seemed to pulse through his jeans into the meat of his thigh. His eyes strayed across the dim room, watching the shadows creeping longer on the balcony.
As he sat on the couch in the growing gloom, dark thoughts bounced around his head. Each of the thoughts had names attached to them. James Watson. Detective Barnes. Mo Evans. Lewis. He could hear Lewis’ warning as if he were in the room. “You keep far and away from Mo Evans, you hear me?” A little late for that, Lewis. Too late for a lot of things. Too late to take back the lie about being sick, about blowing off his own home group meeting. Too late for a beaten tweaker. And way too late for his dead neighbor.
This thing wasn’t done, not by a damn sight. The sense of power he had felt as he closed the door in the faces of those two detectives was long gone. And what did he have after all of this crazy shit? A stupid car with a message etched into it, a dead neighbor, and cops at his door. All of this somehow came back to Mo Evans. But how? Someone was fucking with Quinn’s life and he wasn’t happy about it. So why not call the cops, or maybe call Perkins? And tell him what? That I was beating the shit out of a tweaker while my scary neighbor Mo Evans watched me? Sure, that would be a smart play. No, no more cops, remember? You’re on your own with this Bucko. Alone, really? What about Sonya? You’re going to have a lot of explaining to do around this. Yeah, but I could be explaining the whole thing after the fact, instead of continuing to live in this damned nightmare. Quinn tried to settle the thoughts careening through his brain.
So you have a chain of weird events, right? What do you do with that? I find the common thread, that’s what the hero of any mystery does. Right, and that’s what you need to do. The clever sleuth, he looks at all of the separate events and finds the links. The cops came because your neighbor accused you of vandalizing his car. That’s where it starts, right? Then James ends up dead. You didn’t kill him, but somebody did, otherwise why would the cops be banging o
n your door. Okay, first link in the chain. The cops come to your door, not once, but twice. So they think you did it. Why? Because James accused you of messing with his Saab. The chain leads back to the car, right? You didn’t kill him, and you didn’t hurt his stupid car, but somebody did. So it comes to that. Whoever carefully etched those words in the hood of the Saab was more than likely the same person who killed James Watson. See, that was easy. So who was it? Quinn thought about that night in the parking lot, standing in front of James Watson’s car. He remembered Perkins’ words. Someone took their time doing this and that someone knew exactly what they were doing, that’s what the huge cop had said. Not tweakers, not random car prowl guys, no. It was someone who was prepared, and knew exactly what they were doing. A neat and tidy job, done by a craftsman, an artisan, even in vandalism.
An artisan and a craftsman, a wizard with metal. It was as clear as a light that blinds. Of course, it had to be Mo Evans. He must have been author of the message etched in the hood of James’ car. But why? Well, Bucko, that’s one of the questions that we need answers to. There was one person who knew all the answers and that person was just up the street. Yeah, and he’s the scariest guy in the neighborhood. Quinn let out a slow whistle.
The jumble of thoughts became a single notion, gnawing at Quinn. He had to get his life back. No one had any right to treat him like this, no one! Hadn’t he faced down the detectives? That was serious business, but he had stood his ground. And you stood your ground against that tweaker, didn’t you? Yeah, but that tweaker and those cops, they’re not going to kill you and chop you into pieces. Quinn wrestled with the thing, but it was taking on a power of its own, becoming a force, pulling at him. You want your life back? You know what you have to do. Quinn, you have one chance to resolve this, and that chance is tonight. Don’t mess it up. You have to go talk to Mo Evans.
He remembered the figure standing on the street, remembered that flash of a crooked smile. You think this is funny? This is my life you’re messing with, you bastard. Quinn felt the gnawing anger pushing against his will and he was glad for the push of it. It was a simple force, clear and sharp, the thing that would put an end to this crazy shit. Quinn knew where the answers lay, and he knew what he would have to do to get those answers.
The Devil may be calling the tune, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to keep dancing to it. Quinn made up his mind to what he had to do. He was going to meet the devil.
Chapter 19
Mo
Under the wash of the street lights, colors disappeared. The pale light illuminated a dark metal sign affixed to the wall over a steel roll-up door. The green background of the sign was a faded black, the copper letters only barely visible. Quinn stood beneath the sign, feeling his fiery resolve dissolving into uncertainty. He peered up at the ornate lettering. Evans Machine Works. Above the sign, two windows glowed like eyes in the cinder block wall. Quinn started at the sound of a squeaking window hinge. A voice floated down from the darkness.
“Good Evening.” The voice was soft, but not soothing.
Quinn stumbled back at the sound of the voice. He righted himself and turned his face upwards.
“Um, Good Evening.” He was at a loss for anything more to say. This was a far cry from his plan of rapping on the door and demanding answers to his burning questions.
“Were you stopping for a purpose or just pausing in front of my door?” Deliberate, without rancor or humor, the disembodied voice rolled down over the sidewalk.
In the uncertain light, Quinn could just make out a shadow in the window, the interior lights reduced behind the larger darkness. “I was wondering if I could talk with you.”
The only answer was the sound of the window closing. The shadow above him faded away. If you’re going to beat it, now is the time Bucko. But Quinn remained standing where he was, feet rooted to the concrete. As he stood his ground, a small square of brightness appeared in front of him, illuminating his face. Through the reinforced glass of a steel security door, Quinn watched a shadow approach, erasing the glow. He heard dead bolts being turned with efficient metallic clacking sounds. As the door opened inwards, light from the interior of the building spilled out onto the sidewalk at his feet.
A man stood backlit in the open doorway, one hand on the door handle. The figure stepped to one side, beckoning with the other hand. “Come in.” Quinn felt himself move forward in spite of the voice in his head, a voice telling him to turn and walk away. Or run.
As he stepped inside, Quinn kept as much distance as possible between himself and the man holding the door. He took three steps into the room and turned to face his host. What he saw was the man’s back as the door closed and the two dead bolts were locked. The man at the door turned to face Quinn.
Quinn was surprised by what he saw. He had expected a giant, some sort of fearsome ogre with the hammer of Vulcan in his hand, gleaming eyes burning out of a grime-streaked face. The calm figure of the man returning his stare was none of those things.
The same tweed newsboy was pulled low over his forehead, shadowing his clean shaven face. Acne scars ran down the man’s cheeks. An aquiline nose split his face, giving the impression of a bird of prey. He was shorter than Quinn by several inches, but the denim work shirt across his chest could not hide the arms and shoulders of a man who had worked hard for many years. The hands that protruded from the button cuffs of the shirt were strong and scarred.
“Welcome to my shop.” The voice did not strike Quinn as welcoming any more than it was threatening. There was that note of quiet again, a quiet certainty.
Quinn struggled to regain his good manners. “Thank you. I’m Quinn Boyd. I live just down the street.” He made a vague gesture with one hand, then dropped the hand to his side.
“I know who you are. I am Mo Evans.” The man’s face was expressionless. “Would you care to sit?” With an open hand he motioned to a tall work stool placed next to a massive steel table in the center of the room.
Quinn moved across the room, grateful for a destination. He slipped his messenger bag over the back of the stool and perched on the wooden seat. Mo moved across the room away from Quinn. “Mind the assembly table, there may be a grease spot or two.” Quinn looked down at the table, a thick plate of solid steel welded to square steel legs. At random intervals, non-skid mats lay on the steel surface. Paced on the mats, with careful alignment, were gleaming pieces of metal. Some were simple blocks of steel or aluminum. Others were formed into intricate curves and facets. There was not a spot of disorder or grease to be seen. At Quinn’s elbow was a steel ashtray created from a short section of steel pipe. The thing was at least a foot across and had to weigh fifty pounds. In the wide bottom of the ashtray lay the remains of a partially smoked cigar. The butt of the stogie was encircled by a gold-embossed band.
“Water?” Mo Evans was leaning down into a small refrigerator tucked against a large workbench. Without waiting for an answer, he straightened and turned, two plastic water bottles dangling from one hard hand. Without a word, he walked to where Quinn sat and placed one bottle on the steel table. Turning away, he walked back to the workbench and took a seat at an identical stool.
The man sat just outside the pool of light flooding down from the ceiling of the shop. He slid his brown romeos onto the rung at the bottom of the stool and leaned back. “So Quinn Boyd. Here we find ourselves.” Quinn felt the man’s eyes on him, even if he could not see them clearly. Patient eyes, as if Mo Evans had all the time in the world.
“I’m sorry to intrude on you, but…”
The voice cut him off. “Don’t apologize. It’s a waste of time. I was expecting you.”
Quinn cocked his head in surprise. This was not how he had envisioned this conversation. “Why would you be expecting me? And how do you know who I am?”
Instead of answering, Mo reached out over the surface of the work bench, his hand finding a small lacquered box. From the box he took a polished burl pipe and a leather pouch. “I prefer to smoke
this time of evening.” He turned his attention to packing his pipe, a deliberate and careful attention. “And you, Quinn Boyd, would you care to join me?”
Struggling with an eerie sense of deja vu, Quinn reached for his messenger bag, pulling it to his lap. What is this crazy shit? Was he playing the part of the condemned man enjoying a final smoke? He found his cigar case and eased a stick out of the leather tube.
The scratch and flash of a match pulled his attention back to Mo Evans. The wooden match flared and flared again as the man held the flame over the bowl of the pipe. The craggy face was illuminated and just as quickly cast back into shadow. Quinn watched a cloud of white smoke wreathe the man’s head.
“When you’re ready Quinn.” As Quinn clipped his cigar, he saw Mo reach for the wall next to him. A switch was thrown and Quinn heard the quiet hum of a fan whirring to life overhead.
Grateful for something to do with his hands, Quinn lit the cigar and looked up to face his host.
“To your questions, then. I know who you are because I know you. I also know you, and was expecting you, because we have a mutual acquaintance.”
The cigar in the ashtray. Of course. “Lewis.”
“Yes, Lewis Penn. He stopped by yesterday for a chat.” A silence hung in the room, broken only by the hum of the fan. No further information was forthcoming.
This was not right. Things were not becoming clearer, they were only getting more confusing. Where did Lewis fit into this? Quinn pulled at his cigar and released a long stream of smoke towards the ceiling. First things first, Bucko. He summoned his waning courage and spoke.
“Look, I’m sorry for interrupting your evening, but I need to get some answers and I thought that you might be the only person who could help me do that. My life seems to be out of my control right now and I don’t know why.” Right, cards on the table, let’s get this done.
Blood Rust Chains Page 16
