Switch

by Grant McKenzie

  Back in the corridor, Sam readjusted the gun and moved quickly through the staff doors to rejoin the noisy stream of busy shoppers.

  As soon as Sam exited the mall, Zack pulled the Mercedes to the kerb and picked him up.

  ‘Any problem?’ Zack asked.

  ‘Nothing I couldn’t handle.’

  The two men travelled in silence as Zack negotiated the traffic to take them downtown. Sam watched, his curiosity engaged, as Zack expertly switched out of congested lanes to swing down side roads and merge back with traffic in places where the lights weren’t so stubborn.

  ‘You know the roads well,’ Sam said. ‘I thought you lived in San Diego.’

  ‘I’ve spent the last twenty years down south, but I grew up here. I used to cruise these streets at all hours in my teens. My first car was a beauty, too. ’73 Mustang rag-top in mustard yellow with black trim, loaded with a gas-guzzlin’ V8 pushing 266 horses.’

  ‘Get out.’

  ‘My father gave it to me when I passed my driver’s test, but I think he was disappointed.’

  ‘Disappointed?’

  ‘He really liked the idea of a chick magnet in his driveway. But when I came home with my gang of Science Club nerds rather than the cheerleading squad, I had the feeling he felt he had wasted his money.’

  ‘He wanted to recapture his youth through you,’ Sam suggested.

  ‘He was as big a nerd as I was and always had been. I think he wanted me to be different.’ Zack paused. ‘To be the cool kid he never got a chance to be.’

  ‘Wasn’t in the genes,’ Sam added.

  ‘You got that right.’

  32

  One block from the liquor store, Zack pulled in to the kerb. ‘You want to walk or drive from here?’

  ‘Think he knows about you?’ Sam asked. ‘That you’re helping me?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. He knows more than he should, but I’ve never caught anyone tailing us.’

  Sam looked around reflexively, scanning the light traffic. He licked his lips. ‘If he wants to make sure I don’t pay, he would need to be watching from inside the store, right?’

  ‘Makes sense.’

  ‘At the mall,’ Sam continued, ‘we can watch each store from the security booth on close-circuit cameras. If this liquor store has them, and he’s somehow tapped in from the outside, then he could watch everything without exposing himself.’

  ‘Shit!’ Zack rubbed his face with his hands. ‘If that’s the case, he won’t be lurking around for me to spot.’

  Sam sighed. ‘May as well drop me at the front door, then. Until we know more, this fucker holds all the cards.’

  Sam approached the reinforced steel door of the liquor store with his stomach in knots. It was like stepping on stage, a feeling that you were going to forget all your lines and vomit on your shoes.

  As he walked, he went over the preparations he had made in the car. He’d used a small key to unlock the Smith & Wesson’s internal safety mechanism and loaded it with five, 200-grain, copper-jacketed .45 Colts. He left the sixth-chamber empty, as he had been trained to do, to prevent an accidental discharge.

  After just a few steps, he had to discreetly move the revolver to the pocket of his vest as its steel had grown inexplicably hot against his skin. The loaded weight of it, instead of bringing comfort, made him feel noticeably lopsided.

  A single window broke the store’s solid brick façade, but even that source of light was heavily barred in black steel. The store looked so uninviting, Sam wondered if the owner wasn’t selling drugs and under-the-counter Thai porn rather than booze.

  When he entered through the heavy door, a buzzer sounded, its tone a startlingly rude burp.

  Sam scanned the interior, noticing several cameras in the corners of the ceiling. The store was packed with solid wooden shelves crammed with spirits. Large, glass-fronted coolers along the rear walls also carried a generous selection of beer, wine and sugary alco-pops.

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a gruff voice.

  Sam turned to see a balding man with tumbleweed salt-and-ginger eyebrows and a colour-coordinated, walrus-style moustache. Standing at barely five foot four, and just about as wide, the man looked like a solid square of muscle and fat.

  ‘Just orienting myself,’ Sam said. ‘Need to pick up a couple forties.’

  ‘Fishing trip?’ the walrus asked with a slight grin.

  ‘Block party,’ Sam replied.

  The irony of his improvised answer struck him. Sam barely knew his neighbours because he worked nights and slept days, but also because he selfishly hadn’t wanted people to know him as just a security guard. When he was an actor, even a struggling one, people looked at him differently than they did when he said he worked nights in a deserted mall, drinking coffee and dreaming of things he couldn’t afford.

  ‘The larger bottles are on the bottom rows,’ the walrus explained. ‘Help yourself.’

  Sam nodded his thanks and walked up the aisles, picking a large bottle of vodka and one of rum. He reminded himself that whatever happened, he was doing this for his family. His palms were sweating when he returned to the front of the store and laid them on the counter beside the cash register.

  As the owner rang them in, Sam cleared his throat and tensed his muscles.

  ‘I need to tell you a story,’ he said carefully.

  The walrus looked at him, one eye cocked warily.

  ‘My family has been kidnapped,’ Sam explained. ‘In order to free them I need to take these bottles from you without payment.’

  The walrus snorted and cocked the other eye. ‘That’s the stupidest ruse I ever heard.’

  Sam nodded. ‘I know, but it’s the truth.’ Sam reached down to the pocket of his vest. ‘I need to take these.’

  The walrus puckered his lips in an unfriendly grin. ‘Tell you what, pal,’ he growled, ‘fuck you and whatever horse you rode in on. You either pay or get the fuck out. You think because I own a liquor store, I’m made of money. It’s a business, like any other, and I can’t give booze away to hard-up losers like it’s Scrooge’s fuckin’ Christmas.’

  Sam stepped back and pulled his gun in one fluid motion, levelling it at the man’s face. The hole of the barrel was positioned directly between his eyes.

  ‘Put the bottles in a bag,’ he ordered.

  The walrus tensed, the stringy muscles in his neck bulging.

  ‘You think a gun scares me?’ His face turned an angry shade of red. ‘You don’t think I’ve had more steel pushed in my face than fuckin’ Jaws?’

  Sam grit his teeth. ‘Put the bottles in a bag or, I swear, I’ll do damage. My wife and child—’

  ‘Don’t give me some bullshit story.’ The walrus leaned forward, his weight balanced on heavy knuckles. ‘You’re just another fuckin’ booze hound who can’t keep a steady job.’

  Sam cocked the hammer, the sound louder than he ever remembered from the shooting range.

  The walrus didn’t even blink; his eyes remained locked on Sam’s face.

  ‘You look familiar,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  ‘Who cares? Just do what I ask.’

  The walrus flicked his gaze to a camera above the door. ‘You know I have all this on tape.’

  Sam stepped forward and waved the gun in the owner’s face.

  ‘Pack the bottles now!’

  ‘Sure, sure,’ the walrus said, his voice sliding into an unnatural calm. As he talked, he dropped both hands below the counter and returned with a white, plastic bag clutched in his left.

  Sam began to relax until he saw the walrus’s right hand twitch below the counter and the butt of a pistol-grip shotgun appeared. With a snarl, Sam lunged forward and whipped the barrel of his gun across the man’s face. The barrel caught the man’s bulbous nose, splitting it open in a gush of blood.

  The walrus reeled backwards and struck the opposite counter, but it didn’t slow him down. He cont
inued to lift the shotgun. Panicking, Sam swung his revolver back, cracking the butt hard against the man’s temple. The walrus staggered again, his knees seeming to buckle as his left eye filled with blood. But then he straightened and brought the shotgun level with the counter.

  With a primal scream, Sam swept up the large bottle of rum and brought it crashing on to the side of the man’s head. The bottle shattered and the sickening crack of bone was like a thunderclap in the middle of a rainstorm of glass.

  The walrus’s eyes rolled white and he sank back to his knees. Not wanting him to rise again, Sam grabbed the other bottle, but the walrus had endured enough. The shotgun fell from his grasp and he collapsed to the floor in a heap. A thick river of blood flowed from his wounded scalp.

  Gasping for breath, Sam grabbed a second bottle of booze and rushed out of the store.

  Zack had only driven two blocks before Sam told him to pull over.

  At the kerb, Sam opened the door, leaned out and vomited into the gutter.

  ‘You OK?’ Zack asked.

  Sam shook his head. ‘You should have seen him. Christ, he could be dead.’

  ‘You did what you had to.’

  ‘Did I?’ Sam asked. ‘How do I even know my family is alive? I could be doing this for no reason at all.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll give you some proof, now that you’ve completed the assignment.’

  Sam wiped drool from his lips on to the back of his hand. ‘Did you ever get any?’

  Zack flinched. ‘Not till it was too late.’

  Sam swallowed hard. ‘That’s what I’m afraid of.’

  33

  MaryAnn lifted her head and listened. Through the thick walls separating their cells, she could hear the third prisoner sobbing. It felt like she was miles away.

  ‘It sounds like a ghost, doesn’t it?’ said MaryAnn’s cellmate. ‘Like it’s not really human.’

  ‘But it’s not a ghost,’ MaryAnn said sharply. ‘I was right by her cell. She’s another prisoner. I think it’s my mom, but she hardly ever cries. Not like this, anyhow.’

  ‘That woman is in pain, all right.’

  ‘If it’s my mom, maybe she thinks I’m dead.’

  ‘No deeper hurt than the loss of a child,’ the woman agreed, the smoke in her voice turning heavier, as if each new word weighed more than the last.

  MaryAnn stood up on the cot, cupped her hands over her mouth to form a megaphone and pressed against the dirt wall.

  ‘Mom!’ she yelled loudly. ‘Mom! It’s me, MaryAnn. Can you hear me?’

  MaryAnn paused and listened. The woman’s sobs sounded louder now and, if possible, even more distraught.

  ‘I don’t think she can hear me,’ MaryAnn said quietly.

  ‘These walls are thick, too thick for words to pass through maybe. Could be all she hears is her own despair.’

  MaryAnn spun. ‘My mom’s not like that,’ she snapped. ‘She would do anything for me.’

  ‘I’m not saying she wouldn’t, baby,’ the woman said. ‘It’s just what I was saying before about her sounding like a ghost. If she believes you’re dead, she might not trust that the sound of your voice is real.’

  ‘Oh?’ MaryAnn dropped back on to the cot. After a moment of silence, she asked, ‘Do you think they’ll feed us? I’m getting real thirsty again.’

  The woman reached out and stroked the girl’s hair.

  ‘The big one usually brings food and water once a day, but I’ve been losing track of time in the dark. Not sure when he came last.’

  MaryAnn sniffled and leaned back until her weight pressed against the woman’s legs.

  ‘Are we going to die down here?’

  The woman sat up, opened her arms and pulled the child against her chest.

  ‘I’m not going to lie to you, baby. There is a chance we’ll die here, but I don’t plan to go without one hell of a fight. You gonna stand with me?’

  MaryAnn burrowed deeper into the woman’s embrace. She nodded.

  34

  ‘He recognized you?’ Zack asked, breaking a heavy silence.

  ‘He said he did, but that could be from anywhere.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’ve been on TV some,’ Sam explained. ‘A few commercials here locally; a couple crime drama walk-ons; played a corpse twice on C.S.I. My biggest break was a spot on Magnum P.I. back in ’eighty-six.’

  ‘No shit?’

  ‘They flew me to Hawaii for two episodes. Speaking part, name in the credits, the whole deal.’

  ‘Who did you play?’

  Sam relaxed a little as he remembered happier days. ‘I was Magnum’s punk nephew who just happens to drop by without mentioning a nasty cocaine habit and some debt problems with one of the local drug lords.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Zack said.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sam sighed. ‘Thought it was my ticket to a regular gig, but . . .’ He let the thought trail off into the past where it belonged.

  ‘It’s crazy where we end up sometimes,’ Zack said to fill the silence. ‘Just no planning for it.’

  35

  Detective Preston was irritated with his partner.

  ‘Why are we here? It’s past eight and I’m supposed to be home watching Jeopardy with the wife. She promised to make popcorn with melted butter and just a sprinkle of cracked sea salt.’

  He kissed the tips of his fingers.

  ‘And what have you got on offer?’ He raised his hands to encompass the store. ‘Shoplifting.’

  ‘I wanted to get you a gift,’ Hogan said drily. ‘But I couldn’t remember: do you prefer your vodka with or without bloodstains?’

  ‘Hell.’ Preston grinned, tucking both thumbs into his belt loops and sticking out his belly in mock salute to his good-ol’-boy heritage. ‘Booze is booze. I’ll take it in any shade you like.’

  Still grinning, Preston turned to look at the floor behind the cash register. The spilled rum had diluted the victim’s blood and formed a crimson pool. It was dotted with lethal shards of glass that reflected the store’s fluorescent lights.

  Preston turned serious. ‘You expecting him to die?’

  Hogan shook his head. ‘This guy’s got a skull like a bull moose. They took him to Martha’s for an X-ray, but he was already bitching about lost trade in the ambulance.’

  ‘So I ask again. Why are we here?’

  Hogan grinned. ‘Follow me.’

  Hogan led his partner into a back room piled with crates of wines and spirits. The room led off into a small office stuffed with overflowing boxes of paper receipts, a toilet that could inspire a Trainspotting sequel, and an even smaller closet that housed three VCRs and three thirteen-inch, black and white monitors.

  With his partner leaning over his shoulder, Hogan hit the Play buttons on all three VCRs. As the robbery and assault progressed from different angles, Hogan hit the Pause and Zoom button on the middle machine. Sam’s face filled the screen. His eyes, narrowed in anger, stared directly into the camera.

  ‘Well, dip me in clover and invite the cattle over for tea,’ Preston muttered. ‘What the heck is he doing robbing a liquor store? Didn’t I tell you there was something flaky about him?’

  ‘It gets flakier. According to the vic, White claimed his family had been kidnapped and he had to steal the booze to get them back.’

  ‘Bleepin’ actors,’ Preston grumbled. ‘They all go off the deep end sometime.’

  ‘Maybe so,’ Hogan agreed. ‘But that could offer an explanation for his erratic behaviour.’

  ‘It’s bull,’ Preston said gruffly. ‘Kidnappers don’t blow the crap out of your house, and they sure as shit don’t leave extra bodies behind when they leave.’

  ‘So what’s your theory?’ Hogan asked.

  ‘He’s a whack job. Plain and simple. He decided to kill his wife and take off with his daughter back to L.A. To cover his tracks, he switched his daughter for some other kid before blowing up the house.’

  ‘So we should be looking into missing black kids?’


  ‘Or disturbed graves,’ Preston said. ‘No reason to use a live one when you’re planning to burn ’em.’

  ‘Christ! You’ve got some warped imagination.’

  Preston shrugged. ‘Show me a cop who doesn’t and I’ll show you his lobotomy scars.’

  36

  In the motel room, Sam sat on the bed and stared at the two liquor bottles perched on the table. Twin sentinels of oblivion and they sang out his name.

  A similar song called from his vest pocket where a tiny Ziploc bag still contained a half-dozen blue pills. He knew the combination could send him to a place where problems didn’t exist, but, for the sake of his family, he fought the urge.

  Alone with his thoughts, Zack having walked to a deli around the corner, Sam wondered just what he had started and if he would ever be able to justify his actions to his family and to himself when it was over.

  Zack stood outside the deli with the cellphone pressed to his ear.

  ‘The guy in the liquor store recognized him. Why?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said the altered voice. ‘Maybe he saw his commercial on TV.’

  ‘Bullshit. I want to know what game—’

  ‘Careful, Dr Parker. You don’t want me angry. Jasmine wouldn’t like it. Now, the important question is, does Sam remember you?’

  ‘No. And there’s no reason he should. We never spoke back then.’

  ‘Keep it that way.’

  The cellphone rang and Sam snatched it up.

  ‘A job well done, Mr White,’ said the digitally altered voice. ‘A touch messier than I expected from an upstanding citizen, but you’ve always had that dark side, haven’t you? It shows your potential.’

  ‘Potential for what?’ Sam asked carefully.

  ‘Have you thought about the money?’

  ‘Can I talk to my family?’ Sam interjected. ‘How do I know they’re alive?’

  ‘If they were dead, you would know,’ said the voice. ‘I don’t want to disturb them, but if you choose, I could make them scream.’