THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  'Okay.' Her tone lifted. 'Do you remember the building?'

  'Sure, sure. I should be there in about forty minutes.' He heard another car pull up outside. 'Traffic permitting.'

  'All right, Scott.' She paused, and he sensed her unfocused feelings from again talking with him. 'Bye.'

  Goldman was fearful of sounding too final. 'Yeah, bye.'

  'Oh,' she said, 'I almost forgot. Could you, like, bring more of that stuff you gave me yesterday. I, um, will pay for it, of course.' Then, in a breathy tone pregnant with possibility, 'I'd really appreciate it.'

  'Sure, no problem.'

  'Okay, thanks.'

  He dropped the receiver back in the cradle, excited by the prospect of seeing Michelle. Her telephone presence was no less seductive than his rosy memory of her in his car. However such pleasurable feelings were short-lived. There was simply no place for them as the gravity of the situation bore down on him. He had to escape while escape was still possible. Even so, he looked about the room, soaking up memories good and bad. Pleasurable weekends with Belize, cold weeknights without Rachel ...

  He pushed aside the emotion that threatened to crush him. He had to stay focused, had to escape from this apartment which only an hour ago he'd called home. A submachine gun was on the blood-spattered carpet. He grabbed the weapon to better familiarize himself with it. The last time he'd handled a gun was in South Australia in his early teens. He used to hunt with boys from Woomera Village. Kangaroos were the usual game, or if one was good enough a shot the red desert's many scrambling rabbits. In his time he'd shot several kangaroos with a semiautomatic .22 rifle, but eventually fell out with the other boys who used to kill wildlife for kicks.

  Now, after a quick study of the MP5 submachine gun, he pulled out the thirty-round arched magazine from the breech. He knew several bullets were missing from when Flip had shot up the record player. He refitted the magazine and put the 3-position fire mode into the S position. He pressed the trigger. Nothing. He then disengaged the safety catch and selected the red F for continuous fire.

  He pressed the trigger.

  A muffled burst of bullets struck where he'd aimed at the wall, creating an unsightly zigzag of jagged-edged holes. Good. He now had a basic knowledge of the sound-suppressed weapon (in the back of his mind he knew his rental deposit would cover the damage to the wall).

  He put the safety catch back on and pondered the whereabouts of the other gun. It could only be in one place. He got down on his knees and looked under the room's sofa. The gun was indeed there, having slid under the seat from the recent fracas. He grabbed the sister MP5 and extracted its magazine, knowing several bullets were missing from when Armstrong accidentally fired into the ceiling. He pocketed the spare magazine and shouldered what had been Flip's weapon, the gun sporting a nylon-mesh shoulder strap.

  Flip stirred and moaned from underneath the music cabinet pinning him down, as if protesting the loss of his weapon. Goldman remembered what the gunman had done to Haslow and summarily kicked him. Once, twice, three times. One of Flip's ribs fractured. The kicks were sufficient to return the gunman to his former state: blowing bubbles of blood and saliva while gently snoring like a babe in a crib.

  Goldman then unzipped the Lufthansa carry-on bag Armstrong had brought with him. Inside were packets of white powder and a taped-together package of what seemed to be compressed powder. The chemist brightened at the sight of wads of cash bound together with rubber bands, possibly four or five thousand dollars. He stuffed the bills in his jacket. He was about to leave when he remembered something vitally important. He put down the gun and bag and rolled Armstrong onto his back. The bloodied gunman mumbled incoherently. He struggled to regain consciousness and flapped an arm about. Goldman punched him hard in the side of the head. The mercenary made a gargling sound, then slumped back on the floor with the abandon of a semiconscious drunk.

  Goldman went through the gunman's pockets and found an unopened packet of chewing gum, a plastic vial of white pills, a cracked-apart walkie-talkie, as well as several high-denomination bills held together by a stylish silver money clip (which, of course, he pocketed). He then found what he was looking for.

  The cassette-tape.

  To leave it behind would make it only too easy for General Turner. Of course it might stop the maverick general from hunting Goldman down; but Goldman doubted it. He believed Turner wasn't the type to tolerate any potentially damaging loose ends. Everything pointed to the general being a hardened political strategist who wasn't averse to using lethal force. Goldman's dislike of Turner was incalculable and growing by the minute. It was all-out war. Nothing less. And Turner had drawn first blood by killing Goldman's father.

  Earlier on, while packing his belongings, Goldman had vowed not to lay down and die, not to slip quietly away and never be heard of again. No, he would find his feet and from a position of strength, fight back. With family, career and personal freedom stripped from him, he had little else to live for ... Well, so it seemed in the heady confines of his violated apartment.

  He pocketed the cassette-tape and stood up, noting that his belongings in the room were either broken or in disarray. He had a strong feeling no other walls would claim such familiarity for quite some time. It was all in front of him now. The night, the road, his tentative appointment with Michelle. What did it boil down to if not the yawning of an uncertain future?

  He shouldered the submachine gun, grabbed his suitcase, and left the apartment without shutting the door behind him.

  TWENTY

  Goldman stopped at the end of the walkway. The upper-level landing cloaked in shadow from an overhead dome light not working. He looked cautiously about him, his eyes narrowed, his ears straining against the night, but nothing seemed untoward. He sprinted down the concrete steps. After a nervy reconnaissance of the apartment block's front area, he pulled open the tilt-a-door of his garage, before dropping his suitcase into the trunk of his Saab.

  That done, he gripped the MP5 and crouch-dashed towards a cluster of holly bushes at the front of the property. He peered over the bushes at the cul-de-sac outside. Everything looked normal enough in the patchy light. However due to the curving lay of the cul-de-sac, he couldn't see the start of the short street. In any case, there weren't any lurking men or double-parked cars. Good. Drizzle dampened his hair and shoulders as he dashed back to the open garage. He climbed into his Saab and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The thick, still air of the garage seemed sepuchural as he gripped the wheel. He pushed back in his seat and willed appropriate nerve.

  'Okay,' he said at last. He twisted the key to pre-ignition and slipped the Saab into neutral. He opened the driver's door and pushed the car forward with his left leg, grunting and cursing and putting his back into it. The vehicle rolled grudgingly from out of its garaged spot, before gaining momentum on the angled driveway. In no time the car gathered speed on the sloping street outside.

  It didn't take long for Goldman (even with his headlights off) to make out an elderly man and three heavyset men standing beside a black van. He knew the men hadn't been there when he'd checked the street minutes before. The wiry, silver-haired man looked agitated, moving his arms about as the other men looked apprehensively in the direction of Goldman's apartment. They were probably concerned the two gunmen had failed to make contact. In any case, the men seemed unaware of the silent, dark car rolling towards them.

  As Goldman drew closer he locked eyes with the elderly man beside the van. A bolt of recognition. I'll be damned, it was General Turner at Silverwood Centre this afternoon! The chemist pounded the top of the steering wheel. A retributive part of him wanted to slam on the brakes there and then. To gun down Turner on the spot. So angry was he. But his attention was diverted to the end of the street.

  Sensing something was amiss, Turner had radioed for pickup cars to semi-block the quiet street's entrance. Parked as such the vehicles could swiftly aid Armstrong should he show, as well as hinder Goldman from making a getaway
in his car – as was now the case.

  The men at the newly stopped vehicles were caught off guard by the unlit car rolling towards them. It was only their colleagues' shouting from farther up the street that alerted them to the getaway. As Goldman closed on the startled men, he twisted the ignition key. His car's engine roared to life, and the Saab's high-beam headlamps exploded with blinding brilliance, temporarily disabling the men at the start of the street.

  Goldman's breath snagged in his throat as he accelerated toward a narrow opening that offered a chance of escape. He only hoped his car would fit between the rear-end of a red Buick sedan (parked at an awkward, blocking angle; its rear-end protruding onto the sidewalk) and a tall stucco wall lining a neighbour's property. A perilous feat at best. But he was too committed to back down. He stomped the gas pedal with dare-devil abandon. The Saab thudded into the concrete curb then bounced up and onto the sidewalk. Its side panels grated against the rear bumper of the red Buick, while the opposite panels scraped against the catching surface of the stucco wall. The tortuous sound made goose bumps break out on Goldman's neck. He gripped the shuddering steering wheel and cried out from a rush of adrenaline and panic. An elm sapling got caught in his front suspension and was uprooted as he tore along the grass-covered sidewalk.

  No sooner had he got through the bottleneck than his wheels left the curb and skidded on to the adjoining street. He wrenched the Saab sharply left, slewing on the slick-from-drizzle road top. His right-side wheels banged against the curb on the far side of the newly claimed street. His engine stalled. He frantically twisted the ignition key. The motor turned over but failed to start. Men with handguns assumed positions behind parked cars on the far side of the street.

  Goldman repeatedly tried the ignition, all the while looking desperately about him. Two Latino-looking men in leather jackets stole out from behind a parked car and levelled pistols at him. 'Get out of the car now!' one of the men ordered. He seemed unsure whether to kill Goldman outright or hand him over to the general.

  Goldman's situation was rapidly deteriorating. He had to do something, and fast. As if obeying the gunman, he opened the driver's door. Only to brandish the automatic weapon from the passenger seat.

  The two gunmen splintered and ran for cover, though not before letting off some rounds. A bullet thudded into the door post of Goldman's car, close to the chemist's exposed leg. He stiffened with fear, only too aware he hadn't been in a gunfight before. Even so, he disengaged the safety catch and squeezed the gun's trigger. Bullets sprayed in a sweeping arc, though many pounded uselessly into the road top. The gun's unexpected recoil made him tighten his grip on the weapon. He aimed in the direction of the running men and again squeezed the trigger, the gun's silencer muffling discharge noise and reducing muzzle flare. This time his aim was more true, and although he didn't strike down any of the men, they ran for cover into the shadowy folds of the cul-de-sac. He glanced up the street. General Turner and the men from the van were running cautiously towards the encounter, guns drawn except for Turner who looked unarmed.

  Goldman sprayed a fusillade of bullets at the two cars blocking his street. Silenced 9mm projectiles shattered windows, punctured tyres, exploded headlamps, ruptured radiators and perforated body panels. A part of him expected the vehicles to burst into flame as was often the case in many popular movies he'd seen.

  An icy chill swept through Goldman's veins as his weapon clicked dead. Gunmen from various positions fired back at him. The chemist threw aside the depleted magazine and nervously fitted the other magazine he'd brought with him. He resumed firing and swept the car-blocked entrance of his street with a fresh barrage of bullets. And like a scene from a blockbuster action movie, the red Buick exploded with a deafening roar. The sedan was transmogrified into a cauldron of twisting orange flame and choking black smoke. Its rear end lifting from the ground. A nearby section of the stucco wall blackened from the searing heat.

  The '75 Buick exploded from being fitted with a Liquid Petroleum Gas conversion kit. Pelayo Guttierez, the frugal leader of Cuban-exile group Commando C, had fitted his group's vehicles with LPG conversion kits in an effort to combat rising gasoline prices. Goldman's bullets had finally struck the LPG cylinder fitted in the forward section of the Buick's trunk. The resulting explosion then ignited the gasoline in the Buick's regular tank.

  The explosion caused dogs to bark alarmingly and local residents to press their startled faces against curtain-parted windows. Neighbours more brazen came out of their homes to stare in disbelief at what had erupted in their quiet suburban street. Other citizenry, duly alarmed by the mayhem and gunfire, had dialled the emergency number.

  Goldman fired at the Oldsmobile facing the burning red Buick. A fusillade of bullets eventually caused spark. The LPG-fitted Oldsmobile exploded with greater force than its predecessor, due to a recently filled petrol tank. Columns of flame and twisting tendrils of smoke lifted toward the cloud-laden heavens. An overhead street lamp exploded from searing heat. All about the burning vehicles was cast in wavering gold light. Meanwhile a growing network of barking dogs only added to the drama of the confrontation.

  Once again the Heckler and Koch submachine gun clicked empty. A fresh bout of fear surged through Goldman. Even so, he was spellbound by the fiery tableau, remindful of a Third World war zone on an international news broadcast. He snapped back from his reverie when a .45 calibre bullet spiralled noisily past him. Followed by another nearer still. The bullets' high-pitch whistles were a slap in the face reminder of how he could easily die.

  Goldman keyed the ignition and the Saab, battered and bruised, did not this time let him down. Its engine roared responsively to the anxious jolting of his foot. No sooner had he thrown his depleted gun onto the street than a bullet punctured the outer edge of his door. He cursed and slammed the door shut, pulling away from the curb with his back tyres spinning on the damp asphalt. He glanced in the rear-view mirror. From out of nowhere a bronze Ford skidded to a halt beside the burning cars. Men ran excitedly towards it.

  'Damn!' Goldman pounded the top of the steering wheel. So much for destroying the parked cars.

  General Turner had liberally organized three vehicles for the operation. Two of Guttierez's cars were ablaze while the third car, the bronze Ford, had stopped to pick up the men. In no time a Dodge Charger braked behind the Ford. The Charger belonged to a young gang of street toughs who'd bought a trunkload of marijuana from Guttierez (the green contraband still stashed in Guttirez's warehouse). The Philadelphia gang had heard some dudes were going to get whacked and had talked Guttierez (at first reluctant) into letting them in on the action, seeing it as a perfect opportunity to upgrade their street cred.

  Fired on weed and alcohol, the twenty-two year old driver of the Charger cut around the stopped Ford and sped off after Goldman. The Charger's back end drifted sideways on the damp blacktop. Its driver confident police wouldn't be out on full patrol because of the inclement weather. The irate owner of the burning Buick forced himself behind the wheel of the Ford. With a carload of armed men, he too sped off after Goldman, intent on killing the sonofabitch who'd torched his recently paid-for car.

  Goldman glanced at the looming headlights in his rear-view mirror. He was going too fast to turn into any side streets. The Dodge Charger was gaining ground. Goldman pushed his car to a reckless speed and approached a green-lit intersection. The lights turned amber and the chemist swerved left without indicating. He narrowly missed a Skyline sedan running the lights from the opposite direction. The Skyline’s startled driver braked hard and swerved to avoid a collision.

  Goldman regained control of his slewing vehicle, though not before clipping the rear end of a parked Pontiac with a FREE NELSON MANDELA sticker on its back window. Back in the saddle, he sped along a four-lane street whose wet surface reflected a montage of headlights, taillights and the prismatic colours of electric shop signs. Before long he reached the back end of the street's slow-moving traffic. He looked in the rear-view
mirror. The Charger slid recklessly through the intersection behind him.

  Jesus Christ! Goldman pounded the wheel again. He needn't have worried, though, for the red light-running Charger was hit side-on by no less than two cars. Glancing in the mirror again, Goldman saw the driver's side of the vehicle had been heavily impacted. He almost whooped with relief. A carload of gunmen had been taken off the board.

  Goldman's other pursuers were more deft in their approach, though no less determined. The Ford powered round the crashed Charger, which blocked two lanes of outbound traffic. With Goldman's receding red tail lights in front of him, the irate driver of the Ford hurtled down the empty stretch of street separating him from his quarry.

  While performing the aforementioned manoeuvre, the bronze Ford cut off a motorcyclist riding through the intersection. The motorcyclist braked and skidded on the rain-wet road, resulting in him and his Harley Davidson parting company in an undignified manner. The downed, tattooed biker (who went by the moniker of Spider) wasn't riding alone. The patch on the back of his leather jacket proclaimed him a member of The Devil's Jokers M.C., Baltimore Chapter. His fellow riders swerved sharply to avoid hitting him and his sliding cycle. All up it could have been a lot worse for the compact group of bikers.

  Let it be said the bikers weren't in a good mood, now Spider especially.

  They'd recently discovered their amphetamine lab had been trashed, with ten kilos of product stolen. Moreover, the young chemist they’d recruited from San Francisco had had his throat cut. Dirty Dave, the club's bearded and tattooed president, looked on with growing hostility at Spider and his cycle sliding along the wet street. One goddamn lousy thing after another. It was shaping up to be one helluva night. The president's legendary anger was close to boiling point. He was ready to fly off the handle, like he had with three Commanderos in an Atlanta barroom brawl a week ago. Now some low-dog competitor had done the Devil's Jokers out of serious paper. Dirty Dave couldn't forget the embossed calling card that had been left on the dead chemist's chest: