Run With Me

by Shorter, L. A.

  “All right,” I say, amused by how convinced she is. “What about him.”

  She casts her eyes in the direction of my finger and immediately starts nodding.

  “Easy. Personal trainer. You see the shorts and training top. He's out here training and waiting for a client.”

  “So he's not just working out on his own?”

  “Nah, he's waiting on someone. Look – check him out looking at his watch and gazing around. Time is money for this guy, you can tell.”

  She begins looking around the park again, searching for someone more interesting.

  “All right, we've got one here. Look at him – Jesus, if this guy's not a criminal of some kind then I'm not sleeping on your damn sofa longer than I should be!” She throws me a cheeky look, knowing it's a bigger deal to her than it is to me.

  My eyes are guided to the man sitting on the far side of the park. He's under a tree, dressed in black, sitting in the shadows. He seems to be looking in our direction, but it's hard to know exactly where from this distance.

  “Is he the sort you get down at your bar?” Tara asks.

  I'm still looking at him when I talk, and he hasn't changed the angle of his head. “He looks too smart for my bar Tar. Seriously, you wouldn't believe the guys you get down there.”

  “He's kinda creepy, isn't he. Is he looking at us?” she asks.

  I'm about to answer when he stands from the bench and begins moving off out of the park. He walks slowly and doesn't look back, his black clothing looking so out of place under the warm sunshine and vibrant colors all around him.

  We both watch as he casually walks off, before Tara loses interest and turns her gaze back to someone else and starts spouting another made up story. My mind is still stuck on the guy, though, watching us. I get the feeling he's still lingering in the background somewhere, although I can't see him any more. It's just the way I think, I've got a suspicious mind. You might call me paranoid, but after last night anyone would be...

  The day continues to drag on and Tara soon brings out her books and laptop to start working on her next interview. She's got another one coming up on Monday and is keen on studying all through the weekend. I help her out by asking her test questions: you know, competency questions like 'when have you worked in a team' and 'when have you been put in a position of leadership'.

  She answers them with the precision of an actress spouting lines from a play and I advise her to tone things down a bit, to make them more natural. It sounds better when she starts doing that, and I start to get a feel as to why she's failed so many interviews in recent weeks. I guess she's just been trying too hard and needs to relax. I can already see the stress beginning to build inside her as she fumbles her lines and gets a bit lost when I ask her a question she hasn't had time to prepare for.

  “Babe, you've gotta chill....and smile more. Interviewers love it when you smile and make eye contact,” I say. “So, keep your eyes on me, OK, don't look at your notes, and smile....but do it naturally.”

  “Thanks honey, good advice.”

  She tries again and again as I come at her with several more questions. After a couple of hours she's getting better at it, and I can see her confidence growing. It makes me smile seeing the quick improvement in her, it's so much more gratifying than serving alcohol to drunks, bikers, and criminals. Maybe I could do with a change of career?

  The clock on my phone keeps on ticking by as the sun silently glides across the sky. By early evening it's threatening to dip down below the horizon, its warm orange glow beginning to spill over the green fields.

  Strangely, it's almost busier now than it was earlier on, despite the fact that the light is quickly fading. Office workers are rushing out from work to catch the last rays of the sun, sitting in groups in their suits, drinking wine and beer from plastic cups, and nibbling on chips and olives.

  I notice Tara's eyes drifting over a relatively loud gathering that's appeared quite close to us. They flash with envy as the group laugh and drink, another week of paid work complete. “That'll be you soon,” I say to her.

  She smiles and nods, before setting her eyes back down to her work.

  We stay out on the grass until it gets too difficult for Tara to read her notes, then stand and walk back towards my apartment. When we get in Tara sets down on the sofa and dives immediately back into her work. The girl certainly isn't failing to get a job through lack of effort.

  I make the decision to go out and leave her to it for the next few hours. She says I don't need to leave, that this is my apartment and all that, but I insist.

  “I'll bring back a bottle of wine and some food in a few hours babe,” I tell her. “You get your head down and then we can relax and watch a film or something later.”

  Her smile and hug tells me all I need to know. She's thanked me enough already, and I don't need to hear it again.

  It's about 8 PM when I head out, not quite knowing what I'll do. It's not that I don't have friends in the city - it's more that I don't like to drop in on people at the last minute. It's never been my way. I'm more of a 'set a date and stick to it' sort of girl.

  The streets are busy as I stroll around, considering my options. It's still warm, the smog hovering above the city still carrying a bit of color. Groups of young people are already getting drunk, walking down the street passing bottles of spirit from one to the other. Bars are beginning to fill up, lines already starting to form outside as the more popular ones reach capacity.

  I get looks as I walk. Mostly from men, sometimes from women. They stand outside bars smoking and watching as I pass by. I hear the odd word from some of them, the sound of invitations reaching my ears. I get it almost every night when I work, so am used to it. I guess it's flattering, but it's also annoying.

  I keep going, somewhat aimlessly, before coming across a movie theater. I glance over the different films on show, my eyes settling on a new action film staring Bruce Willis. I've always quite liked him – that rugged, 'don't take no shit from anyone' type – so walk straight in and buy a ticket from the self service machine.

  The theater is pretty busy, but this film's been around for a while, so no one's watching it. It looks like everyone's lining up for some rom-com instead. Anne Hathaway and Ryan Gosling. Now there's a pair.

  The place is full of couples, and for the briefest moment I feel a bit stupid for being there alone on a Friday night. But I quickly move past it. I've got a thick skin like that, something I've developed over the years. Some people would think sitting alone in the movie theater is the worst thing in the world, and frankly those people need to wise up and get a slap in the face. If that's the toughest thing they have to face in life then they need to step out of their comfort zone a bit more.

  I skip the popcorn and go straight into the auditorium to take my seat. Like I thought – this place is dead. There are one or two groups of guys sitting towards the back, no doubt Willis fans themselves, and a few other couples dotted here and there. I take a seat at the side and sit back as the film swings into full flow.

  I'm starting to feel tired now, my lack of sleep the previous night nagging on my brain. I'm semi comatose in there as Bruce does his usual thing – saving his family, taking out the bad guys, firing enough shots to satisfy an army.

  The flashing of gunshots and the sight of blood brings me back to the previous night. It's different now, seeing that stuff played on the big screen when you've seen it for real. I see flashes of Michael Carmine in my mind, his gun pointing straight at the guy on the floor. I see the blood spurting from his chest, his body hitting the deck and going limp.

  I turn my eyes down as the action unfolds on screen, squeezing them tight as lights flash and gunshots boom. I can't get the vision out of my head, it's like these images are plastered on the inside of my eyelids. The noise and lights begin to make me feel nauseous, my stomach churning. I can't tell if I'm hungry or about to be sick, but know I've gotta get out of there.

  I stand up quickly and
rush down to the exit, taking a few deep breaths as I enter back into the main lobby and search for the bathroom. I'm there in a flash, splashing cool water over my face and staring at my reflection in the mirror. I look pale, my hands are shaking, my brain spinning.

  I breathe deep again and my mind begins to clear, the quiet of the bathroom calming me.

  Jesus Christ, what the hell was that?! It felt like a damn panic attack.

  I stand for a few minutes before the door bursts open and a couple of girls walk in, talking and laughing. That's my cue to leave as I step forward and grab the door as it's closing, walking briskly towards the exit of the theater and back out into the night air.

  It's cooler now as I check my phone to see the time. Several hours have passed since I left the apartment and I tell myself that Tara's had plenty of time to study by now. I try to call her to confirm but she doesn't pick up. I call again and still there's no answer.

  My head is still spinning slightly, the lights and sounds of the busy streets around me disorientating. I step off the main street and into a quieter alley and lean up against the wall, once more breathing deep and shutting my eyes tight. A sound snaps me out of it and I see a tramp emerging from a pile of rubbish on the floor opposite me. Old newspapers fall off him as he struggles to stand before dropping back down to the ground, grunting.

  The sudden noise makes me jump slightly and I step back towards the main street and the pounding sounds of heavy bass pumping from around the corner. I'm there quickly once more, my head clearing now as I emerge straight into a group of revelers seeking a new venue. I bump into a girl who puts her hands up and shoves me off, telling me to 'watch it' as I spin off her shoulder and away in the opposite direction.

  I feel unusually rattled, my normal calm and poise deserting me. I'm close now, my apartment a block away. I detour to the corner shop and snatch up a bottle of wine and a couple of pizzas before my eyes veer up towards my apartment window. I can see a flashing glow from behind the curtain. Looks like Tara's finished working and is watching TV.

  My apartment building isn't fancy. There's graffiti coloring the inside as I push the door open. The stairs are worn in places, paint is cracking on the walls. A light flickers as I step up towards the third floor where I live, the sound of a booming bass shouting from inside one of my neighbor's apartments on the floor below. He's on the other side of the building, thankfully.

  I reach the third floor and walk down the hallway. My eyes drift towards my door, and narrow as my eyebrows crease down into a frown.

  The door is ajar, hanging slightly open as the light flickers inside.

  I walk forward and reach the door, pushing it open. It's momentarily dark as the light of the TV fades, my hand feeling for the light switch on the wall as I speak: “Tara?”

  I hear no answer, and I quickly know why.

  The TV flashes once more, bursting to life and revealing the form of Tara sitting back on the sofa. Her head is tilted unnaturally to one side, her eyes open. I hit the light switch and the room grows clear in front of me.

  I see red.

  It stains Tara's shirt, her pants. My shaking eyes drift to the floor, marked crimson with Tara's blood. My pulse doubles as I whisper her name again, my voice weak.

  Nothing.

  I move forward gingerly, my eyes set on my friend's body, on her lifeless face. My fingers tremble as they slowly creep forward to her neck. I feel no pulse. Her heart has stopped, her body is empty of blood.

  She's dead.

  Chapter 3 - Colt

  Colt

  I stand motionless in an office, a desk in front of me. The man behind it is sitting casually, his right leg crossed comfortably over his left. He holds a glass of whiskey in his hand, lightly shaking it as the ice cubes inside clink together.

  “So, Mr Tanner,” the man says, “do we have a deal?”

  He takes a sip of whiskey and his eyes meet mine. I consider for a moment before nodding.

  “She's just to be found and taken back here?” I ask. “I won't hurt her, Mr Carmine. I don't hurt women.”

  Michael Carmine nods his head and smiles. “Of course not,” he says. “Just bring her to me, that's all you're being paid for.”

  I stare at his cold eyes and know there's more to it than he's letting on. I know his reputation. But it's not for me to worry about. I follow orders. I don't question them.

  “OK Mr Carmine, we have a deal. When was she last seen?”

  Carmine turns his head to his left where his second in command stands. I know him too. Rugger – that's his name, or nickname. I doubt any parent would name their child that. I suppose it's meant to sound intimidating.

  He steps forward and hands me a folder. When he speaks his voice is gruff and raspy, the result of one too many cigarettes and late nights.

  “Her name is Kitty Munroe. Her address is inside. Last we saw of her was down here at the bar on Thursday night...”

  I slip the files from the folder as he speaks and flick through them. “Is this everything you have on her?” I ask.

  Rugger nods. “It should be plenty. There's next of kin in there. That's where you should start.”

  I glance from the files to his face and glare at him a moment. Don't tell me how to do my job.

  “So what's your beef with this girl?” I ask, my eyes flashing over a picture of her. She's young, early 20's, and attractive. Dark brown wavy hair, hazel eyes, soft features.

  “That doesn't concern you Mr Tanner.” It's Carmine again. He sits forward, his deep voice rumbling towards me. I look at him again. His eyes are icy cold, narrow and piercing. Most people would look away. But not me.

  Whatever it is, I know it's serious. He wouldn't have hired me otherwise.

  “Let's just say she didn't turn up to work and I need her back here, ASAP. Is that good enough for you?”

  “Plenty. I'll start at her apartment, see what else I can dig up.”

  I see Carmine glance at Rugger once more. “Forget the apartment. It's already been swept. As far as we know, she's left the city. This is very time sensitive Mr Tanner. I need the girl found, right now.”

  I can see a fire, a desperation, lit in his eyes. The eyes tell you so much about a person. He's got a calm exterior, a relaxed manner – but those eyes tell a different story. I can tell that inside he's in turmoil; inside he's raging.

  “Yes Mr Carmine. I'll find her for you.”

  He nods and leans back in his chair as Rugger walks past me towards the door. He opens it and the noise from the bar down the corridor immediately rushes into the room. I turn on the spot and walk slowly to the door, Rugger's eyes lingering on me the whole way. I don't like the way he's looking at me, and tell him so with my eyes as I pass him by.

  “Don't fuck this up boy,” he whispers as I pass. “Mr Carmine is counting on you.”

  I stop in the doorway and turn my head directly to his. He stands tall, his shoulders wide and imposing. His face is wrinkled and covered in lines, a scar visible under his chin and across his neck, like his throat was once slit open. He looks about 50, a sprinkling of gray stubble littered across his chin.

  I stare into his colorless eyes, my jaw clenching as I whisper back. “Don't call me boy.”

  My eyes stick to his for a few moments, his toxic breath filling my nose, heavy with the smell of smoke. Then I turn my head, slowly, down the corridor and step away, hearing the door shut quietly behind me.

  My clenched fists begin to unravel as I walk down the corridor towards the bar. I step through the door and my eyes glide around the room. It's dark and dank, not a place you'd want to stumble into uninvited. I see groups of burly men sitting round tables, their arms riddled with tattoos. Some are smoking as they drink. It's illegal, but they don't care. No cop is going to come down here.

  I walk through the bar and all eyes drift to the newcomer. It's nothing for me to be concerned about. They have no idea who I am. No one has any idea who I am. A place like this might have made me nervou
s once, a long time ago. But not now. I've seen a hundred similar dives, and a hundred more ten times worse. That's my life now, that's my path. It's not the one I chose, but it's the one I'm on. I guess most people end up the same, one way or another.

  I move through the bar and up the steps towards the exit. It's dark now, the streets quiet as light rain falls from the sky. I walk down the street and step into my car. It's a black sedan, nondescript and hard to trace. Fake number plates adorn the back and front. I've got plenty spare if I need them, too. Not that I've ever had any close run in's with the cops.

  The sound of the rain on the roof is soothing as little raindrops dance on the windshield. I slide the files from the folder once more and look through them, soaking the information up as I go.

  Kitty Munroe, 23 years old, been working as a waitress and barmaid for several years. Mother – deceased. Father – in prison, serving a 7 year stretch for GTA, 2 years left on his sentence. Aunt and uncle on father's side living near the city of Redding in Northern California. Aunt and uncle on mother's side in Bakersfield. One cousin in Santa Monica.

  I keep on reading, but find no other next of kin. I lift my eyes to the windshield as the rain begins to grow harder, the sound of thunder cracking through the heavens. I wonder what this girl might have done for Carmine to want her back so bad. She can't have just not turned up for work one day. No way a man like Michael Carmine would hire a guy like me to track a girl for that. No, this is much more.

  I halt my mind in its tracks as it surges forward. “It doesn't matter what she did, Colt,” I whisper to myself. “Just find her and bring her back. That's your job.”

  I put any theories and thoughts from my mind, but they remain lingering in the background like a bad smell that won't drift away.

  My eyes turn back down to the files and I keep reading, but there's little more for me in there. I know her name, I know her address, I know her next of kin. That's more than I need if the person doesn't know they're being tracked. All I need is a credit card transaction or a cell phone call and I'll know just where they are. This one will be a piece of cake.