Trust Me

by Paul Slatter

  Accessory to attempted murder prison sentences

  He stopped and read in amongst it all one line that sent a shiver through his body and caused his stomach to hit his mouth. It read:

  25 years to life.

  He carried on into the back room and thought for a moment that he was going to vomit. As the words, Oh God—oh God, please no, please no, flowed through his mind.

  He opened his phone and typed in the same search. Seconds later it was all there for him to see. Half sentences—full sentences—joint principal—conspiracy—life imprisonment—words in Latin, others he didn’t understand. One thing he did understand though was that there were no doubts about it—at the end of the day if he did not get out of town, he was going away for a very long time and where they would send him he couldn’t bring his tow truck.

  **************

  The first thing Chendrill did after he picked up his car was to go back to his apartment to charge his phone, and the next thing he did was call the tow truck office on McGill Street.

  He said, “Please could you make an announcement to all your drivers that a Chuck Chendrill’s on the line and wants to talk to one of them.”

  But there was little point in Chendrill waiting for someone to come to the phone because moments after the dispatcher had happily said exactly that over the tannoy for all to hear and gossip about after, Big Carl was out the door with his fat neck bouncing up under his chin, heading for home.

  He was about halfway there when the realization set in. How can I go home? Carl thought, as he sat there covered in sweat with his heart pounding, gunning the tow truck with the rattling chains back towards Surrey. He couldn’t run—look at the Italian they were looking for him all over. If he kept heading east, he’d be picked up. He could hide but where and who with? He could take the missus, but she liked her TV and why would he? She hated him anyway.

  He pulled off the highway and sat for a moment as if he was working, considering his options. Go west, hang out on the Island? No good—they’d be onto him. Same for the North and East. South... it was an option. He could hit the border now and go through and disappear. But they could have a picture of him there if Chendrill was already on to him. It was a possibility. And if not and he got through, they’d still be looking for him because eventually they’d know he was there. Fuck, he was an idiot, a fucking idiot. He should have just punched the guy in the face like he used to at school—given him a slap and been done. But no, he wanted to be one of the big boys, wanted to be a gangster, and right now it was painfully obvious he didn’t have the guts. An Angel? Not a chance. How the fuck did those guys operate and not seem to give a shit?—the way they walked about like they owned the place and could care less.

  Because they were in and he wasn’t—that was the difference. And to be in you needed to be strong and he was almost crying and all he’d done was tow a car and send a text to a killer.

  Yeah, that’s all he’d done, he thought, as he sat there trying to stay calm and watched as the traffic filed past. Yeah, but if he thought like that, pretty soon he’d be thinking that in court when the judge put the hammer down on the best years of his life—and then someone else would be coming in his wife’s face, in the same way she liked him to.

  Fuck, he told himself, act now, do something now and get ahead of the game—sneak out, get to the States, do it so no one knows you’re there, change your name. He could go to LA or New York and tow real cars for a living. Big celebs’ cars, then just send back a postcard of Dustin Hoffman’s Rolls on the back of his rig and let them work it out up there in the coffee room on McGill who’d sent it.

  He pulled out his phone—he knew someone he’d met a few years ago when they’d chatted in a bar and both got drunk together. The guy knew someone who had a tunnel and it was operated by associates; it took you under the border. No questions asked, with a one-way one charge. All he needed to do was call. Chances were if he did, he wouldn’t need to pay as the guy had said he could slip him through for free because he was a good guy and was connected. He remembered the man, sitting there with a double Jack and Coke and saying, “Anytime—anytime, call me and you’re through.”

  Flipping through the contacts, he found what he was looking for—it said ‘Tunnel guy,’ no name.

  He dialed and seconds later it answered. The voice on the end sounded the same as the man he’d spoken to years earlier, even if he was eating. Carl said, “Hey, it’s Carl, we met in Lefty’s a couple of years ago. How you doing?”

  No Answer. Carl carried on, he said, “We had a competition, we were seeing if we could drink a beer whilst we had a full one balancing on top of our heads.”

  Then the guy said, “You the guy with the neck?”

  Unconsciously, Carl felt his neck and rubbed his forefinger through the fold, pulling out a lump of wet dead skin on the end of his nail as he did.

  “Yeah, that’s me.”

  Then the guy said, “What do you want?”

  Carl got straight to it. He said, “Your travel business, I was wondering if I could call in the favor and grab a ticket?”

  The man on the end of the phone saying straight back, “Yeah sure—five grand cash—one way—there’s a bus going tonight—have the money in an hour and once it’s picked up, I’ll call you with where we meet half an hour before it leaves.”

  Fuck! Carl thought, five grand was a lot. And if he paid it that would leave him half the savings he had in his bank. Taking a chance, he said, “When we spoke, you said it was free because the top of my head was flat.”

  Carl listened as he heard the guy on the end of the phone laugh, then heard him say, “Yeah you’re right. I did. I remember. It’s $5000—if it’s too steep, grab your passport and you can cross for free at Peace Arch. Call back in thirty minutes if you’ve got the money, if you haven’t don’t.”

  And with that the phone went dead.

  Carl sat there and looked back out towards the traffic again. Five grand, but there was light at the end of the tunnel—quite literally. It was a move and it was a slick one. Fuck you Charles Chuck Chendrill and your big fucking car and shirt. He thought, fuck you. Big Carl was back and he had a plan.

  ************

  Dan sat on his new leather sofa and ignored another text from ‘Marshaa’; then straight after, a long, long one that had taken almost two hours to write, which came all the way from a mansion in Beverly Hills where Adalia had been sitting by her pool.

  He said to the girls, who were all in a line standing at the other side of the room, “Try it again and this time instead of doing the little hop all together one way, try to do two to the left and then the other two of you go to the right.”

  They looked at him—he was great at choreography, but the English was getting in the way.

  Myuki said, “You show!”

  Dan got up, still holding the button to the remote control for the music. Lining up, he hit the button, did the move, skipped to the left, paused the remote, rewound it a bit, and did it again on the other side. They all watched, then got it.

  He sat back down and hit the button again, watching as they all did their little bit and moved perfectly. It was great, and fuck these girls were so sexy. He said, “Want me to order in another pizza?”

  The girls looked around and smiled. They’d seen him get through five already and it wasn’t even four in the afternoon. But what the hell? Then he said instead, “Or should we go out?”

  Ten minutes later, they were all squashed into the Ferrari and heading towards Micky D’s. Dan looking at the new ‘Trust Me’ posters all over town depicting Clive Sonic as the man to have as mayor—glad to see the back of his own campaign. The girls loving the attention as they played the music on the stereo as loud as it could be. The Ferrari cruising along through traffic with Dan smug at the wheel and not giving a shit about the noise.

  He pulled off the road and dipped the car under the Golden Arches and parked up diagonally outside the window as he liked to do. There
was a chance that Melissa was working; and if she was, Dan was hoping to drag her back and get her dancing with the girls—then, if he was lucky, into his room for some fun, along with the rest of them, if they were willing. So far, though, they hadn’t given any sign that they were interested in anything other than dance routines. But how long would that last? They were young though. And being young himself, there was every chance it could all come together for him if he waited. Long gone were the days of shoving his dick in a girl’s face as he had with Daltrey and the blind chick with the dog which bit him.

  Adalia Seychan had taught him that, and taught him well.

  They all sat down at the table, Dan sending Myuki up to put the order in with a stack of bills he did not count. The girl coming back with a tray full of food and the change.

  He asked, “You happy?”

  They all nodded, how could they not be? They had free accommodation in a penthouse where they could dance 24/7 if they wished—not only this, but their landlord was a superstar who paid for all the food, even if it was junk food at the moment.

  “Maybe we should get some to go as well, for later?” suggested Dan.

  The girls looked at each other, then at the car, then at the fat guy at the counter with a pillow for a neck and big gold rings on his fingers.

  Big Carl the tow truck driver picked his order off the counter and walked towards a table with his tray as he watched the girls and the punk kid who couldn’t park his Ferrari properly and wondered if it was the same one he’d been towing and where he’d gone wrong in his life. How the hell could this dozy looking fuck have four chicks and a Ferrari and he had a fat assed wife? But that didn’t matter right now in the scheme of things, as he needed to get out of town. He’d been to the bank and pulled all his savings. The guy who he knew once and had gotten drunk with years back had told him to be near the window that looked out onto Main Street. He looked out the window, past the Ferrari, and saw the guy sitting there on the corner on his Harley, waiting.

  Fuck that was quick, he thought, the man on the phone telling him that when he saw the guy pull up, he had one minute or he would be off. Fuck, he thought, how long had he been there while he’d been sitting there staring at this loser and his skinny Asian girlfriends? Standing, Carl quickly took off towards the door, his fat legs rubbing against each other and his ass showing as he did.

  He hit the double door with the palm of his right hand and ran out into the carpark with his neck wobbling and his open jean jacket blowing in the wind. He reached the Harley. The guy in the small skullcap helmet sitting there looking at him as he came. Reaching him, Carl panted out of breath. Digging into his pocket he pulled out the envelope that read five on the front, handed it over and without a word the biker was off, thundering away at full throttle with his big cowboy boots positioned high on the foot pegs of his Harley, carrying what equated to almost one hundred tows from the downtown area.

  He walked back under the arches and entered the door and looked at Dan who was staring at him as he did. Unable to keep his mouth shut, Carl said to him as he passed, “You’re lucky I’m on my day off, parking like that.”

  Dan wondering why the fat fuck couldn’t mind his own business said straight back, “At least I can fit in it.”

  Big Carl, the tow truck driver who thought he was tough, was angry enough now to get into it with anyone, even this skinny big-mouthed idiot. But the kid was lucky he was on the run from the law—wanted for attempted murder. Maybe he should just go over there and tell the prick just that, then deck the fucker. What difference would it make? He could be out of there in a heartbeat before the cops came along and tried to revive him. Yeah, he’d do it—fuck it. He’d knock the cunt out, show him who’s boss in front of his girlfriends in their little shorts that didn’t fit, who were now taking turns to eat fries out of the idiot’s mouth.

  He stood, took a deep breath and began to walk over when he saw Charles Chuck Chendrill pull into the carpark in his Aston.

  Chendrill got out of the Aston and, with the briefest of glances at the tow truck, stepped inside. He looked at what Dan was doing and then to the girls and, feeling the pain in his shoulder, went and sat down at their table.

  “How you gonna find this cabby with the turban who’s stalking me if you keep getting yourself shot?” Dan said.

  "Maybe it’s a good thing this guy’s still chasing you and you’ll think about it next time you decide to do a runner on a cab?” Chendrill said back.

  “Maybe you’ll do a runner next time someone pulls out a gun?” It was a good point.

  Chendrill said, “Sometimes electricians get a zap, you know what I mean? Comes with the territory.”

  And in a way, it did, and Chendrill knew that. When he signed up, they’d been upfront and said the job can be dangerous but that they did try to train you and prepare you for an unfortunate situation or incident. Which was more than they did if you took a job working the night shift in a convenience store—not that he ever would have.

  Nonetheless, a gunshot wound was disturbing, especially for Dan, who surprisingly was getting used to having the big fucker around.

  Chendrill carried on saying, “Besides the guy missed. Just grazed me.” Which was an extension of the truth and they both knew it—Chendrill because it hurt badly still. And Dan because his mother had told him.

  “Who did it?” Dan said.

  Chendrill got straight to it, “Some Italian guy and a fat fuck who drives a tow truck.”

  Dan looked at the table where the guy he’d just been lippy to had sat and saw he was no longer there. He looked out into the carpark at the tow truck which wasn’t moving. Dan said, “Like that one?”

  And Chendrill answered straight back as he looked to the truck parked up by the road more closely. “No, not like that one—that one,” he said.

  Dan smiled. This guy, who he’d become friends with and who, according to his mum, he had nearly lost the night before, playing it cool. He said, “Really?”

  Chendrill looked back and nodded. Then said, “100%”

  “The same guy?”

  Chendrill shrugged. Then said, “Where was he sitting?”

  Dan showed him and said, “Right there.”

  Chendrill stood and looked at the table and the mountain of food the man had just ordered sitting there completely untouched. He walked over and looked at it. Picked up the tray and bought it over to Dan and the Korean girls’ table.

  “What if he comes back?” Dan said.

  “Oh, there’s no chance he’s coming back. Not while I’m sitting here at least.”

  Dan stared at the back of the tow truck, the vehicle looked dirty and menacing with all its chains and hooks hanging free. Turning back to the table, he looked at the girls who had no idea what they were talking about and said to Chendrill, “What are you going to do, stake it out and wait for him to come back?”

  Chendrill smiled, it was the logical thing to do. But where was the fun in that? He said, “No, why would I want to do that to the man when I can sit here and let him watch me eat his food?”

  *************

  Carl stood behind a bus shelter on the other side of the road and peeked through at Chendrill, Dan, and the girls in their tight shorts who he’d love to fuck. All of them smiling and joking as Chendrill ate the tow truck driver’s meal. He thought back to when he’d last eaten. It was first thing this morning, long before reality had set in that he was now an accessory to attempted murder—back then when he still had some sort of semblance of a life.

  Then he saw it coming along the road, the big commercial wrecker tow truck he used to drive and cause havoc with whenever he had the opportunity to switch lanes for no reason. The big beast in all its grandeur cruising along Main Street with some schmuck he hated from the depot at the wheel. Long gone were the days of such glory when there was nothing he could not tow. Then it slowed, took a noisy right with its engine blasting smoke up and out of the dual stacks on either side of the cab. The tow t
ruck crossed the road, stopping traffic as it did and pulled up into the Micky D’s carpark at exactly the same time as the police car he had yet to see arrived.

  In one practiced move, the tow truck was in front of Carl’s truck and the driver was dropping down to the ground from the cab. Walking over, he talked to the cop in the car and then walked back over to the cab of Carl’s tow truck. Pulling out a slim jim, he quickly opened the driver’s door. Seconds later he was inside, then at the back of his own truck, noisily dropping the crane. The driver then hooked onto the front of the tow truck and hit a lever, pulling its front tires off the ground. With one more trip inside the cab of Carl’s truck, the guy released the hand brake and was back in his own vehicle, revving the fuck out of its huge Detroit Diesel engine and dragging Big Carl’s pride and joy out onto Main Street straight past where Carl was hiding behind the bus stop and off to the police compound followed by one of Williams’ friend’s in his patrol car.

  ************

  The Italian didn’t know what time of night it was later that evening when he was woken by the sirens blasting outside his window. His head ached and he was sweating badly. He sat up and looked at his leg, which was swelling and still hurt. Then he looked at the bed and to the bed bugs crawling on the sheets and across his stomach.

  Quickly he batted them off and stood on his good leg and stared at the triangular shaped bite formations on the fleshy part of his gut.

  Fuck me, that’s disgusting, he thought as he swiped the remaining bugs off the sheet and onto the linoleum floor and smashed them to death with his shoe.

  Fucking things. Checking himself in the mirror for more, he put on his trousers and hopped himself barefoot and shirtless downstairs to the reception. Calling out to the guy on the reception as soon as he hit the last step, he said, “Hey, fuck me, the room’s full of bed bugs!”