by Simon Wood
“If you want to come up for something before you go, that’s fine. I think I’ve got coffee somewhere. Not my poison, if you know what I mean.”
They laughed.
“No, I’m good. But thanks.”
“Okay.” He patted the dashboard. “Thanks, and you have a good night.”
Jude watched Meadows amble across the road. His advice had put a different spin on what she was trying to achieve. He’d made her understand. She knew how to move on, how to live her life without Kirsten.
Fabian offered closure, a chance to slip a noose around a surrogate’s neck, but it couldn’t be done.
“We provide closure in cases where there can be no closure,” Jude said to herself, quoting Fabian’s literature.
It had taken her until tonight to truly understand the meaning of that phrase. She would never have closure when it came to Kirsten. Offing Meadows wouldn’t bring her closure, but it was a start toward justice. Meadows hadn’t done anything to her, but he would to someone else. The laws of probability dictated it. One day, Meadows would kill someone else’s sister, or wife or daughter, and inflict the kind of misery she’d endured these past four years on someone else’s family. She couldn’t let that happen. If she let Meadows carry on and he took a life, her guilt would know no end.
Jude called out to Meadows to wait up, that she’d take that coffee after all. She pocketed the gun and followed him up the stairs.
FENDER BENDER
Racing back to his car, Todd cursed the ATM. Why was there always a line when he was in a hurry? He didn’t love his job packing boxes, but he didn’t want to lose it by being late again. He hopped back into his car and crunched it into reverse. The Honda Accord was way overdue for an overhaul, although even that wouldn’t do much for its ancient transmission. It was toast. Half the time, he didn’t know what gear he was selecting. The Accord stuttered in the parking stall.
“Get in there, damn it.”
Gears snarled as Todd struggled to find first. He jumped off the clutch, and the car leaped backward, slamming into a Porsche Boxster’s headlight.
“Shit!” he muttered.
His antics had drawn quite a crowd, and they’d all witnessed his screwup. Nowhere to run, he thought. He found first gear without effort this time and eased the Accord forward to assess the extent of the damage.
Everyone had an opinion and no one had a problem telling him where he’d gone wrong and how much it was going to cost him. He crouched in front of the Porsche and picked at the broken headlight and buckled bumper. There was a couple hundred dollars of damage to the average car, but on the German exotic, he was looking at thousands. His car, the piece of shit that it was, didn’t exhibit any signs of damage—just like Todd, who didn’t exhibit any signs of insurance.
“Does anyone know who the owner is?” Todd asked.
No one did.
“You’ll have to wait,” someone suggested.
“I can’t. I’m late for work.”
“I don’t think you have much choice,” someone else said.
“I can’t. I’ve been late twice this week already.” Todd delved inside his car for a scrap of paper and a pen. “I’ll leave a note.”
He wrote: People think I’m leaving you my contact and insurance details. I’m not. Sorry.
Todd folded up his note, wrote “sorry” on the outside, and stuck it under the windshield wiper. He shrugged, hopped inside the Accord, and raced off.
He felt guilty for shafting the Porsche driver, but at the same time, he was buzzing with the thrill of his lawlessness, and his speedometer showed it. He was accelerating past forty-five on Telegraph Avenue. He took a deep breath and eased off on the gas.
In the scheme of things, what he’d done wasn’t so bad. It was an accident, after all, and it was more likely the Porsche driver’s insurance company could afford the repairs than he could. Anyway, with a car like that, he thought, you’re asking for trouble. Todd pulled into his employer’s parking lot safe in the knowledge that the matter was over.
***
Todd liked to take Sunday mornings easy. He lounged in bed until ten, then took a walk to the newsstand to pick up the Sunday paper. He wandered back through the apartment complex, pulling out the color supplement and flicking through the magazine, ignoring the front-page splash about some big drug bust. He took a different route back to his apartment and strolled by his assigned parking space. He slowed as he approached his car. At first, he thought his windows had steamed up overnight, but the weather had been too warm for that. As he got close, he realized he’d been way off. Every one of the Accord’s windows had been smashed in. All four tires had been slashed. He ran a hand over the scarred paintwork. A crowbar was buried up to its hilt in the front windshield, and a note was sticking out from under a wiper. He pulled it out and read it. Guess who? it said.
Todd didn’t need to guess. He knew who had done the damage. It was the Porsche owner. Todd hadn’t forgotten about the fender bender, but it had been days since it had happened, and he’d thought it was over, a stunt that would dissolve in his memory over time.
He’d screwed it up this time. Someone must have taken down his license plate before he’d driven away. He was going to pay big for this one. He tugged out the crowbar and tossed it on the backseat through a glassless window.
Returning to his apartment, a thought dogged him. Someone may have taken down his license plate and reported him to the police or the Porsche owner, but how did the Porsche owner know where he lived? He opened the door to his apartment.
“Mr. Todd Collins, I presume,” the small man said, getting up from Todd’s couch.
Two linebacker types, one black, the other Hispanic, flanked the small man. The small man seemed genial, but the linebackers looked ready to tear Todd’s head off. He could have bolted, but judging by the bulges under the three men’s jackets, he didn’t expect to get far. He guessed he’d just met the owner of the Porsche.
“I’m Todd Collins.” Todd stepped inside the apartment and closed the door.
“Do you know who I am?” the small man asked.
Todd just shook his head, finding that his vocal chords had failed him.
“Good. That makes things simpler. It’s probably not a good idea that you do. It’s only important that I know who you are. Understand?”
Todd nodded.
“I bet you’re wishing you’d left your insurance details now, aren’t you?” the small man said.
“I can make up for it. I can pay.”
The small man held up a hand and shook his head. “It’s far too late for that.” He looked Todd up and down. “Besides, I doubt you could afford to pay. The damage is incidental. However, the consequences of your misdemeanor have been severe. Put the newspaper down.”
Todd, confused at first, hesitated before doing as instructed. He placed the Sunday newspaper on the chipped coffee table. The small man separated the newspaper from the supplements and opened it out. He tapped the front page with the back of his hand.
“See what you’ve done.”
Todd glanced at the headline. DRUG DEALER BUSTED DURING ROUTINE TRAFFIC STOP, it read.
“The car you hit belongs to an employee of mine. Driving home the other night, he was pulled over for a busted headlight. The cops discovered two kilos of coke in his possession. He’s in a lot of trouble, and I’m minus an employee. Do you see now? Do you see what you’ve done and why it has led us to your door?”
“I’m sorry.”
“That’s immaterial.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to know. But I’ve lost a valuable employee who had a job to do. Now he can’t do it. Which is where you come in.” The small man stabbed a finger in Todd’s direction.
Todd’s stomach twitched. He didn’t like what was coming. Points on his license and a fine he could accept. But the small man’s kind of retribution filled Todd with dread. He wasn’t a criminal.
“Me?” Tod
d stammered.
“Yes. You’ll have to fill in.”
The linebackers wrinkled their noses. They knew Todd wasn’t the right man for the job and he agreed with them.
“What do you want me to do?”
The small man beamed. “That’s the attitude. These two said I was making a mistake.”
The linebackers frowned.
The small man dug in his pocket and threw a set of keys to Todd. He caught them and examined them.
“Those fit a black Jag. You’ll find it outside Denko’s restaurant in the city. Bring it to me in Oakland.”
“When?”
“Oh, I like you. I debated just beating the crap out of you, but I wanted to give you a chance to make up for your error. You’ve assessed the situation and decided to stand by your mistake. I admire that.” The small man stood and dropped a note on Todd’s newspaper. “Bring the Jag to me tonight. Addresses are on the paper. See you at midnight.”
The black linebacker brushed Todd aside to open the door, just to remind him who was in charge. Todd grabbed the small man’s arm on his way out. The small man stared at Todd, his look piercing. Todd knew enough not touch him, but he didn’t care. He knew what was being asked of him was illegal. He just needed to know how illegal.
“Will I find drugs in that car?” Todd demanded.
The linebackers stiffened. The small man nodded at his arm. Todd released his grasp.
“Unfortunately, you don’t have a choice, Todd,” the small man said, his tone barbed. “Be at the Oakland address at midnight.”
***
Todd had to resort to public transportation to get him into San Francisco, seeing as the linebackers had finished off the Accord. He was looking at least at a few thousand to replace the tires and windshield. It would be cheaper to get another car.
A combination of BART, MUNI, and good old-fashioned walking brought him out on the corner of Bush and Powell. Midblock on Bush, Todd found Denko’s, which seemed classy and unique for the city in that it had its own parking lot. Strictly, it wasn’t a parking lot. To the right of the restaurant was a dead-end alley, which had been cordoned off with gates to make a parking lot watched over by two valets. They looked as if they were relations of the small man’s linebackers. Obviously, the small man was making Todd work hard to make up for his screwup. It wasn’t going to be easy, but it was doable.
He breezed on by the restaurant, counting his steps, then turned right at the next block onto Powell. He turned right at the next cross street and counted his steps again. When he counted eighty-seven, he stopped in front of a narrow apartment block, which looked squeezed by its neighbors. The door was locked, but there was a buzzer entry system. Todd pressed the first one his finger fell on.
“Yes,” a woman answered.
“Pizza delivery,” Todd said.
“We didn’t order any pizza,” she barked.
“Sorry, is this seven A?”
“No, eight A, moron.”
“Sorry. Can you buzz me in?”
She growled but the door clicked.
Todd let himself in and bounded up the first flight of stairs. The good news, as he had hoped, was that the landing window opened out onto the restaurant’s alley parking lot. The bad news was that there were no fire escapes. They were all on the front of the building. He flicked the safety latches and slid the window open. Surprisingly, it opened with ease.
One of the valets trotted up the alley to collect a Range Rover. Todd waited until the SUV and owner were reunited, then he climbed onto the ledge and jumped out. He connected hard with the ground. Electricity crackled through his legs, intensifying in his groin. He bit back a scream and crumpled onto his knees. Too busy hustling for a tip, the valets didn’t notice him. Todd crawled behind the nearest car to survey the lot.
Todd had a new problem. There were two black Jags in the parking lot, one an XK8, the other an S-Type. The small man had told him to pick up a black Jag, but he hadn’t told him the model or license number. He fumbled in his pocket for the keys. He aimed the remote in the direction of both cars and pressed the unlock button. The S-Type chirped and blinked its lights. The valets whipped around at the noise. Todd burst out of the shadows, charging for the Jag. The valets did likewise. Todd was lucky on two counts. The valets were big, but not fast, and he was closer.
He reached the car first, dived in front of the wheel, and gunned the engine, all before the valets were halfway to him. He cranked the steering and hit the gas. The Jag leaped forward, smearing its fender across the back of a Lincoln Navigator, setting off its alarm. The Jag bounced off another car before he gained control.
One of the valets raced back to the gates while the other blocked the alley with his body. He made himself wide by crouching and splaying out his arms. If they were playing chicken, Todd knew he had the upper hand and floored the gas.
“Time to jump, buddy,” Todd said, grinning.
Todd’s grin slipped when he realized the second before he hit the guy that the guy wasn’t going anywhere. He smashed into the windshield and disappeared over the roof.
The remaining valet had closed the gates but hadn’t locked them, and Todd blasted them open. They slammed back against the side of the restaurant, busting its neon sign. Todd jumped on the brakes to prevent the Jag from slamming into the apartment block opposite. Traffic slithered to a screaming halt and he floored the gas pedal, fishtailing down the street and jumping the first red light he hit.
His heart out-revved the Jag. Adrenaline raced through his veins, and sweat poured off his face. Heading toward the Bay Bridge, his pipe-wrench grip on the steering wheel softened and his foot eased off the gas.
He laughed. His panic and fear changed into exhilaration and excitement. The crime-fueled buzz was hard to deny. He liked being a bad guy. It beat stacking boxes.
***
The drop-off point was in Oakland’s warehouse district, near the rejuvenated Jack London Square, but in the run-down part of the neighborhood. Todd pulled up in front of a whitewashed building that was in desperate need of a fresh coat. The building had an address, but no sign.
Todd got out of the Jag and banged on the roll-up door. While he was still banging, the door retracted. He hopped back into the Jag and drove the car in.
The warehouse’s interior was in marginally better condition than the exterior, but was well lit. The place was barren, except for a scattered collection of Snap-On tool chests and half a dozen car lifts. Cars Todd couldn’t dream of owning occupied the lifts. Ignoring the others, the Maserati and Lamborghini alone cost more than he’d earn in the next decade. The small man stood in the middle of the warehouse floor with the familiar linebackers and a few new friends. Todd parked and got out.
“Christ! What the hell have you been up to?” The small man examined the busted headlight and scarred paintwork. “Do you do this to all the cars around you, or just mine?”
The roll-up door closed with a bang. The noise echoed off the walls.
“It wasn’t easy getting the car out. You didn’t say anything about stealing it.”
“I didn’t say anything about smashing it up either. Or were you just trying to impress me?”
“Sorry.” Todd didn’t know what else to say.
The small man waved the issue aside. “Don’t worry, I just wanted the car back. The condition is unimportant.”
“Are we even now? Can I go?” Todd sounded tired, more tired than he felt.
“Not yet.” The small man patted Todd on the shoulder. “You’re close. There’s just one more thing before we’re squared away. Reuben, give him the keys.”
The Hispanic linebacker tossed a set of keys to Todd, and he caught them.
“Those fit that Lexus over there. Which I want you to drive to Dallas.”
“Texas?”
“The one and only. Don’t look so worried. This job is a lot easier than the last one. All you have to do is drop it off at Ruskin’s, a dealership. Then you’re done and our busin
ess is concluded.”
“That’s a good two-day drive. I can’t just drop everything. I have a job.”
The small man’s irritation evaporated his grin. He yanked out a gun and jammed it in Todd’s face. “You drive or you die. Your choice. You’ve cost me a lot of money and aggravation, and I think I’ve been damn charitable giving you this chance to redeem yourself. So what’s it going to be?” He snapped the safety off the pistol.
“Drive,” Todd managed.
A minute later, he was on the road, Texas bound. The small man had really screwed him this time, telling him he had to leave immediately—no time to pack any clothes or leave a message for his boss. He couldn’t blame the small man too much. If he’d done the right thing in the first place, he wouldn’t be on I-580 now.
“You’re a dumb, dumb man, Todd,” he said to himself and turned the radio up.
At the Arizona state line, he pulled over and slept in the car. Deep into New Mexico, as evening descended, his funk finally got to him. He could taste his stale breath, and his BO was ripe. He’d washed up as best he could in a gas station restroom, but his clothes were rancid with dried sweat. He pulled off at the next town and raided the first Walmart for a change of undershorts and a couple of T-shirts. He changed into his fresh clothes in a restroom, dumping the dirty ones in the trash. He crossed the Texas state line in good spirits and smelling fresh, although his stink seemed to have impregnated the Lexus’s interior.
“Damn it,” he groaned.
He hadn’t seen them, not that he’d been keeping an eye out. He thought he’d been playing it safe, keeping to the speed limit and using his turn signals. But the red and blue light bathing the Lexus’s interior said otherwise. He eased the sedan off I-40 and onto the shoulder.
The state troopers wandered up behind him, but only one came up to Todd. The other lagged at the rear of the Lexus, examining the car’s rear with some well-practiced flashlight work. Todd powered down the window.
“Is this your vehicle, sir?”
“No, I’m just delivering it.”
“Where to?”
“Ruskin’s in Dallas. It’s a dealership.”
