by Mark Russell
Straight into Armstrong's midsection.
The powerful kick sent the gunman hurtling backwards onto a low, glass-top table that Goldman had set against the wall to complement another of Rachel's Chinese vases. A splintering sound filled the room as Armstrong's upper-body crashed through the glass tabletop. Blood pooled from his neck as he came to rest at an awkward angle inside the table's splintered wood frame.
Without pause, Goldman spun round and executed a piston-like thrust kick into Flip's chest (the sandy-haired gunman was back on his feet and readying to fire his automatic weapon). Armstrong's partner lost possession of his gun a second time and thudded haphazardly into the sound system he'd recently vandalized. Flip shook his head, cursed loudly, and launched himself at his attacker.
Goldman was too enraged to execute the disciplined moves of Wing Chun Do. He reverted to street-fighting techniques he'd learned in Australia from a student flatmate working part-time as a crowd controller. He jabbed his steel-like fingers into Flip's upper stomach, just below the sternum. Flip fell forward as air was violently expelled from his lungs. Goldman pulled him up by his salon-cropped hair and repeatedly punched him in the stomach. It suddenly looked as if handsome Flip should have chosen a more sedate profession – male modelling, perhaps – other than being a teammate for a hard man like Armstrong.
Goldman stabbed his kneecap into the gunman's testicles. With no air in his lungs and all but unconscious from blinding pain, Flip again fell forward. Goldman brought his knee up and spread Flip's bloodied nose at an unsightly angle. The gunman was out cold before he hit the floor, though his body spasmed in an effort to take in life-sustaining air. For good measure, Goldman tilted the stereo cabinet forward and the disfigured sound system landed on the squirming gunman's back.
Manuela had remained silent during this sudden disarming of the intruders, but cried in alarm as Armstrong loomed behind Goldman. The fuming gunman was cut and bleeding in several places and a lengthy sliver of glass jutted from his neck. He yanked the sliver out and looked desperately about the floor for his gun. Unable to find it, he held up the bloody piece of glass and charged. His flared nostrils and broad shoulders gave him the aspect of an enraged bull.
Unperturbed, Goldman slipped back into his ancient-Chinese fighting skills. He executed a roundhouse back-kick into the side of the gunman's head. The shocking blow lifted Armstrong off the floor and smashed him against a tall mahogany bookcase. He staggered and lurched forward. The well-stocked bookcase toppled after him and crashed across his back. Hardcover and paperback books skewed every which way; fanned, crumpled and crushed. A paperback copy of Little Birds by Anais Nin (one of Rachel's favorites) fluttered against the gunman's battered face, his salivated blood spilling across the book's cover.
Held as such, the cursing mercenary shifted underneath the weight pinning him down. His volcanic anger filled the room as he clawed his way out from under the bookcase. He drew himself up from the floor like an incensed WWE wrestler. Not down for the count at all. But then Goldman wasn't a spent force, either. Far from it. Armstrong's debasement of Manuela still burned avidly in Goldman's mind. Like a sizzling stick of dynamite, the chemist exploded.
He rushed forward and slammed the mercenary against the wall. He repeatedly punched him. His bony fists a blur of unmitigated fury. Manuela screamed again (which only irritated Goldman, for hadn't the tide miraculously turned?). Haslow was back on his feet, holding his pained midsection, and looking altogether dumbfounded.
Goldman's fists rained with brutal precision on Armstrong. The gunman's head jerked about from the damaging barrage of short punches. Goldman's left fist blistered with pain from the mini-bolt cutters in Armstrong's open trench coat. The chemist cursed aloud, grabbed the cutters, and tossed them aside. Before they hit the floor, he resumed his pummeling attack on his adversary's torso. His fists soon fractured the plastic walkie-talkie on the other side of Armstrong's coat. Fueled by inconsolable rage, the chemist kept punching.
Harder and harder ...
Until the battered gunman ceased all movement.
'You've killed him,' Manuela cried out tearfully.
Goldman stepped back and let gravity have its way with the brutish intruder. With fractured ribs, a dislocated jaw, a puffed and split face, and a nose in dire need of surgical reconstruction, Armstrong slid down the wall.
'If only,' Goldman said, massaging his chipped fists. Sweat clung to his brow as his chest rose and fell from exertion. Manuela stepped up to the crumpled gunman and spat on his face. Galloping sobs escaped her as she turned aside, her saliva fusing with the blood spilling from Armstrong's misshapen nose.
Goldman stared at the unconscious gunmen on the carpet, then at Belize as she comforted Manuela. She tidied her sister's hair, before cleaning away errant tears and patchy streaks of makeup. Sisterly concern had taken precedence over earlier differences. Still holding his midsection, Haslow looked at the Cuban sisters, who in turn looked back at him and Goldman. The chemist could see his guests were frightened and wanted desperately to leave. Who could blame them? Quite likely further danger was afoot. Other gunmen could be stationed nearby.
Again Belize took the initiative. 'Madre de Dios, I can't believe any of this! Well, I'm definitely leaving this time ... And I advice you all to do the same. Jesus Madonna, you've gotta go to the policia, Scott.' She hugged her sniffling sister. 'I have to ... I want to look after Manuela. It wouldn't be wise if you came with us because it would only scare her more. God knows you're in trouble, Scott, and I'm sure Manuela wants to ... what's the palabra? Well I'm sure she wants to get far away from you and this.' She gestured at the bloodied gunmen on the floor, then turned and straightened Manuela's yellow frock. Manuela nodded, signifying she was okay and that, yes indeed, she did want to distance herself from this accursed apartment.
Goldman was pleasantly surprised when Belize dashed over and kissed him on the mouth. 'Go to the policia, Scott, and call me from their station.'
'Belize, I – '
'Shh.' She put a slender brown finger to his lips. 'I love you ... my crazy hombre.' She hugged him fiercely, but briefly, then pulled back and eyed him with womanly admiration. 'My, my, I didn't know you were such a fighter, such an angry tiger!' She punched him good-naturedly on the arm and winked. He was taken by her innate sensuality, her brown eyes and smooth olive skin, and easily recalled the good times they’d shared. Warm intimacies belonging to them alone. Times not easily forgotten ...
Belize spun on her heel and went back to her sister. Goldman massaged his knuckles and gazed at her denim-clad behind. Even at this troubled moment desire simmered. He would always be attracted to Belize. It was a genetic preordainment he had little chance of negating, which was why he'd ended up in her arms most weekends. But was that all about to change? He had a strong feeling his life had taken one giant turn for the worse.
Goldman looked towards Haslow. The older chemist rubbed Manuela's arm in an effort to console her and alleviate the pain of her terrifying ordeal. Manuela cast him a teary glance and pitched a feeble smile. She liked him but wanted to escape this ill-fated room and its lingering menace. Most likely she wanted to see him again when things died down, but now she was willing to be led out the door by her sister.
Belize said a last goodbye to Goldman, her lips forming a kiss from across the room. Manuela grabbed her bag and coat and turned to Haslow. Her lingering look spoke of the night’s gain and loss. After a leaden moment the sisters were out the door. Haslow looked crestfallen, as if cheated of the intimacy he'd come close to sharing with Manuela had the night not taken an ugly turn.
'Rod.'
Haslow spun round. His panicked eyes darted from Goldman to the battered gunmen on the floor.
'Belize's right. You've got to get out of here.'
'Did General Turner send those goons?'
'It would certainly seem so. Especially as that piece of crap' – Goldman gestured contemptuously towards Armstrong – 'zeroed in on the cass
ette-tape on the dining table. The general's obviously playing his own dark and dangerous game, as he didn't send MPs to the door but these thugs instead.'
'Hmm, he certainly seems one sonofabitch.' Haslow had the blanched look of a man teetering on the edge of a precipice.
Goldman nodded towards Armstrong on the floor. 'That sicko implied he'd come for you and me ... in fact, to kill us.'
'Yes,' Haslow said through clenched teeth, 'I had the same impression.' He exhaled jaggedly, rubbed his jaw and stared at the wall. 'Jesus H. Christ, why me. Why the hell me?' His brow knotted with frustration.
Goldman tensed. He half-expected Haslow to complain bitterly that he was in this desperate fix because of Goldman's devil-may-care attitude at Silverwood Centre. But to Goldman's relief, Haslow remained quiet. Shock, fear and confusion had muted him to some degree.
'Listen, Rod, you've got to escape while it's still possible. Just go someplace where you can plan your next move. You're home can't be safe anymore. I'm sorry mate, but at the expense of sounding rude ... get the hell out of here!'
Haslow chewed his lip, his troubled aura an abrasive force in the room. Not that Goldman felt any better. He studied the downed gunmen, checking for signs they might revive. Fortunately they gave no indication of being on their feet any time soon.
'I'm probably to blame for all this, mate,' Goldman said in a rambling voice. 'I don't know, everything's happened so quickly. I'm just as confused as you ... Listen, I'm really sorry.' He looked down, his chest locked that tight he could barely breath. He wanted to punch the walls and holler at the unfairness of it all. But he was too physically spent, too waylaid from frayed nerves and anguished thoughts. He ground his teeth and a faint amalgam taste coated his tongue as he looked back up and did his best to stay on top of the moment. 'Just go, Rod. Please, before anymore guns burst in. We mightn't be so lucky next time.'
Again Haslow didn't say anything. Again Goldman was surprised and relieved. With a resigned air, the older chemist grabbed his bottle of scotch and took a hefty swig. Its liquid fire shuddered through him. 'I must say, Goldman, I didn't know you could fight like that. If I did I would've spared all the wisecracks at work. Jesus, you're a maniac. Is it an Australian thing or what?' He swallowed more scotch and exhaled sharply from the drink's bite.
Goldman stretched his neck and upper vertebrae popped in protest. 'No mate, it isn't...' He felt altogether broken inside, not wanting to think how he'd dragged Haslow and the sisters into this mess. Growing concern for his and Haslow's safety spurred him to speak in a solemn tone.
'Listen, I'm proud to have worked with you, Rod. I mean it ... I really do.' He offered his knuckle-busted hand, and Haslow slowly accepted it. Like many co-workers who have to say last goodbyes, there was a lack of the intimacy reserved for longstanding friendships outside the workplace. Busy at their craft, shoptalk and gamesmanship had claimed much of the chemists' time together. Still, facing each other at this awkward moment, they felt like friends who'd been through much. If nothing else this titanic night had forged a unique bond between them. For better or worse, it was time to go their separate ways.
'Well ... good luck, Rod.'
Haslow squeezed Goldman's hand and winced slightly, his midsection still sore from when Flip kicked him. He made to say something – something direct and scathing, born of the heated turmoil roiling inside him – but he didn't, and released the handshake. His eyes flickered about the room, betraying a matrix of anguished thoughts.
He grabbed his coat and swallowed more scotch. It seemed he’d discovered an on-hand remedy for being caught in the cross-hairs of an adversary who had all means (legal or otherwise) at his disposal.
He turned to Goldman, his eyes glazed yet direct, his precious bottle in hand. 'I should kill you, Scott, you sonofabitch. Jesus, what a goddamn night!' He kicked one of the dining chairs and it skidded on its side. He staggered as if from too much drink. 'Damn, you throw one helluva party, Goldman. I'll give you that.' A bitter groan escaped him. He stepped over Armstrong and marched out of the apartment, his heeled departure echoing on the concrete walkway outside.
NINETEEN
General Turner looked through the windshield as he sat on the stool in the back of the surveillance van. He heard the Impala's rattly approach, saw the intent features of the raven-haired woman behind the wheel, saw the front passenger hunched forward with her face in her hands. All much as the general expected.
He checked the controls of the grey plastic walkie-talkie and waited for Armstrong to make contact. A cautious smile touched his lips. It seemed his plan had got off to a good start. Guttierez's men were parked around the corner awaiting his cue. With a bit of luck the last-minute operation would soon be over.
Haslow stopped at the laneway leading from the courtyard of Goldman's apartment block. He looked about him then dashed down the semi-dark thoroughfare, half-expecting faceless gunmen to pop up from shadowy nooks or to drop down from overhanging boughs. Edgy as a hunted fox, he stopped at the end of the lane. From the cover of darkness he looked up and down the street. All was still save for his racy breaths ...
His BMW awaited him like an obedient steed. After summoning sufficient courage, he raced over to it and climbed in. He nervously twisted the ignition key and its faithful motor turned over. He glanced in the rear-view mirror, fearful of carloads of unsavoury men. None were to be seen. He peeled away from the curb. In no time headlights appeared in his mirrors. He panicked.
Without indicating he swerved into a side street. He drove two blocks and swerved into another street, and then another. For ensuing minutes he did more of the same until losing himself and his maybe pursuers in the green maze of suburbia stretching to the horizon in every direction.
He picked up speed along a ruler-straight backstreet. From the passing light of a street lamp, he saw his eyes in the rear-view mirror. Panicked orbs surely not his own. He looked back to the road. The tree-lined street with its houses and parked cars swooshed past him like the surreal imagery of a dream. A cat streaked across his path and heightened his unease as the car's yellowy lamps plowed through the darkness.
Goldman packed a suitcase in record time, filling it with clothes and personal items. He'd included a framed picture of Rachel, thirty-four Krugerrand gold coins, a Xeroxed copy of the MPA formula, as well as several grams of the classified drug.
Time to go. Suitcase in hand, he looked about the living room. The bloodied gunmen out cold on the carpet negated any memorable feelings of him having lived in the apartment. Still he'd felt at home here and ...
He jolted from the obtrusive ring of the telephone. Cars pull up outside. He tensed, and thought to go on the balcony to monitor the street outside. But his feet failed him. He looked at the phone and knew by some sixth sense it wasn't General Turner or any of his ilk on the line but rather someone who would help deliver him from the sharp spike of his predicament. The urge to pick up the receiver was as strong as a time before ...
Goldman and Rachel were in the middle of lovemaking when the bedside phone rang. Rachel had laid down the law it was verboten to answer the phone while in the act, as her mother seemed disposed to call at such times. That night, however, Goldman had been impelled to pick up. Forsaking Rachel's grinding need, as well as his own approaching orgasm, he reached for the receiver.
'Hello.'
'Scott. Oh God, I need you! Come straight away!' It was his mother. She was distraught. 'Come quickly, your father's been shot!'
'What.'
'He's been shot and might die!'
'Where are you?'
'At the Blessed Lady Hospital in Camden,' she sobbed. 'Oh please, Scott. Please, I really need you here ...'
Now, spurred by similar instinct, Goldman picked up the handset. 'Hello?'
'Is Scott Goldman there?'
His heart warmed as he recognized the silky voice on the other end of the line.
'Michelle?'
'I haven't, um, caught you at an awkward time,
have I?'
'No, no,' he said, in what he hoped was a casual tone. 'I was about to go out for a few Friday night drinks.'
'By yourself?' she teased.
'Er, yeah ... at this stage.'
'Look, why don't – '
'We meet tonight,' he finished. He pressed the receiver close to his ear, hardly believing what he'd said. His heart flip-flopped in his chest as he awaited her reply.
'Well, sure, why not? That'd be ... nice.' She paused, her pale breath filtering through the line and caressing his ear with impossible closeness. 'Listen,' she said, a keystone of familiarity already laid from their time together in his car, 'why don't you, um, come over to Carmen's? You know, where you dropped me off yesterday.'
'Sure, sure.' Goldman could barely conceal his excitement. He looked over at the unconscious gunmen. They were still out to it. Thank God he hadn't held back on them.
'Okay, it's apartment eighteen – '
'No, stop,' he said. 'I remember where it is.' He heard traffic in the background of her connection. A motorbike roared in and out of his ear like a ferocious mosquito. 'You're at a pay phone, right?'
'Yeah,' she said, with a tinge of embarrassment, 'Carmen forgot to pay her goddamn phone bill before she went off to the Caribbean.' A nervous chuckle slipped from Goldman's mouth. Undoubtedly his telephone was tapped; but whatever military agency was listening in on the conversation would only be able to trace the pay phone Michelle was using. Carmen's address would remain a secret – so long as it wasn't spoken aloud.
'Are you okay?' she asked, her voice seeded with suspicion. 'You sound tense.'
'No, no. I'm fine,' he said, even as drops of sweat broke out in the small of his back. 'I'm just a bit overtaxed from the week. Listen, I was about to leave in any case. So I'll see you shortly.'
