by Jon Mills
“Bullshit.”
Tyson didn’t think for a second about the consequences of what he was saying. He was too fired up and full of adrenaline to care. Pope dropped to a crouch and placed a hand on his chest. “Nicky took the fall.”
Tyson’s brow furrowed as he tried to grasp what he was saying. He was insinuating that it was all planned? That Nicky was in on the loss? No way. That was a lie.
“He would never do that,” Tyson replied.
“You don’t get it, do you? Nicky only had a few more fights left in him. This was the big one. One last fight that would set him up for life.”
“Set him up?” he yelled. “Oh you set him up, all right. You fed him to lions!”
Pope studied him, his eyes narrowing. How he managed to remain calm was a mystery. Tyson had seen him flip out on guys for much less. “Go home, Tyson. Get cleaned up. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Fuck you.”
Pope went to backhand him but stopped. Instead he stabbed his finger against Tyson’s forehead and told him that he got one free pass because of Nicky but if he spoke out of turn again he would suffer for it. And suffer he would. Rumors had it that enemies of Pope’s were buried in shallow graves. Pope rose, gave him one final scowl and gestured for his guys to leave him. Carla hurried to his side as Tyson sat up, wiping his bleeding lip. “Tyson, are you okay?”
Through gritted teeth he replied, “I’m fine.”
“Did he offer you a fight?”
“What?”
“A fight,” she repeated.
He couldn’t believe her. “Carla, shut the hell up, and get the hell off me.”
With that said he retreated to his girlfriends banged-up Honda Accord while the crowd thinned out. Many had lost large sums of money that night but it paled in comparison to Nicky’s loss. But no one cared about him. It was all about money. All about winning. And the only one who had truly won was Pope.
Chapter 6
Santa Fe was considered the fourth-largest city in the state of New Mexico, and yet if the population sign was accurate, even with 86,000 people, it was more like a large town compared to New York or Denver. Those were cities. The six and a half hour journey south on US-550 had been uneventful. Colorado flashed by with heavily forested areas soon giving way to the flat dusty plains of New Mexico. An arid land full of shrubs and worn telephone lines. The warmth of the day faded as the sun drained into the horizon and darkness enveloped leaving only the glow of homes and businesses. The Greyhound reached its destination at Colina Drive, twenty minutes from the heart of downtown Santa Fe. Jack was the last to disembark as he’d drifted off and the driver had to come wake him. He felt a strong shake on his shoulder.
“Hey mister. Time to get off. We’re here.”
Jack glanced out the window. Besides a deserted gas station, the depot, a closed café, and a small pizza restaurant, he couldn’t see much of anything else. Just the blackness of night. “Where’s the town?”
“North of here, twenty minutes by cab.”
“You don’t stop there?”
The driver chuckled and shook his head strolling back down the aisle. Jack grabbed his bag and stepped off. He had one last question but before he had a chance to ask the driver, the lever was pulled and the door sucked shut with a hiss. The smell of diesel fumes lingered as he walked towards a faulty neon sign for Upper Crust Pizzeria, hoping to catch a cab.
Half an hour later, as the cab brought him into the heart of the city, Jack surveyed the silhouette of the mountains in the distance. He could feel the age of the place with its small streets, old adobe buildings and nineteenth century cathedrals. Unlike the depot on the outskirts, the main stretch of downtown was alive with color, vibrant with paper-bag lanterns glowing in the night and shaped by a host of Native American and Spanish culture. It was bursting at the seams with advertisements for opera and seasonal events, and filled with pink temples, mom-and-pop stores, mansions, art galleries, bookshops, restaurants, and signs for local markets.
Under any other circumstances he might have appreciated it all but his mind was distracted by loss and confusion. The driver dropped him outside La Fonda on the San Francisco Street stretch; a few minutes’ walk from the historic plaza Dana had filmed in.
He leaned forward before getting out. “Keep the change.”
The cabbie clenched the extra dollars with a smile. “Thanks.”
Jack looked up at the two-story hotel with its smooth lines, stylish balconies and valet parking. The humid air clung to him as he adjusted the duffel bag over his shoulder and entered through wooden double doors. Inside he was greeted by cool air-conditioning, warm southwestern architecture and a spacious lobby packed with tourists. At the far end, the sound of music seeped from a bar and lounge. After waiting in line for close to ten minutes he dropped his bag and leaned across the counter.
“I need a room for the night.”
“Sorry, sir, we’re booked up at the moment.”
Jack groaned.
“Do you know when room 14 will be available? A friend of mine said it has a good view.”
The front desk clerk eyed him skeptically and tapped a few keys in front of him. “It’s occupied until the end of the week.”
“And you don’t have any rooms available tomorrow?”
“Sorry, with the wine festival this week things are real busy.”
“Do you recommend any other hotels in the area?”
“Depends what you’re after but again with the festival you’ll be hard-pressed to find a decent room.”
Jack nodded and thumbed over to the bar. “Okay to get a drink?”
“Certainly, sir, it’s open to the public but you should know it closes at eleven.”
Jack scooped up his bag and headed in. The aged wooden bar was like the kind found in any airport, horseshoe shaped, pushed into one corner with a mosaic stone floor, and a dozen metal stools butted up against it. The room had a restroom off to the left, a door into a kitchen to the right, and a fire exit slightly out of view. Diners lingered over tiny square tables dotted around the room. There was a small dance floor near the back where a few old-timers wearing cowboy hats plucked out a western tune on worn guitars. It was a slow night, as no one seemed in the mood for dancing. Jack took a stool at the end of the bar and ordered two fingers of whiskey on the rocks. He downed it and felt it burn his throat. Turning on the stool he eyed the room and glanced into the lobby contemplating how he was going to get into room 14. In his younger days he would have muscled his way in with a gun to the head but that was in Jersey, on his turf, in areas where he knew the cops wouldn’t go. This was different. Or was it? He ordered another drink and downed that just as fast to take the edge off. Observing the comings and goings of the hotel staff gave him an idea. Tourists were blissfully unaware. Caught up in the magic of the moment, they didn’t have a clue about who worked there and who didn’t. He set his third drink down, grabbed up his bag and headed out, slipping into the main hallway on the ground floor and ducking into a cramped room that had two vending machines and an icemaker. He removed his jacket and shoulder holster and stuffed them in the duffel bag and tucked it down behind the machine. Next he rolled up his sleeves and went in search of the room.
It didn’t take long.
He knocked twice.
“Who is it?” a muffled voice called out.
“Maintenance,” Jack replied.
“Can you come back?”
“Unfortunately not.”
Jack glanced both ways down the hallway as he heard the occupant shuffle around. The door cracked open and he saw a white guy in his mid-fifties peer around. “What is it? I’m kind of busy.”
“The new guy made a mistake updating the plumbing in the rooms. Just have to make sure yours was done correctly as we’ve had a few issues. Won’t take two minutes.”
“Yeah, well you’re going to have to come back as this is not a good time.”
“I wish I could. The last family who said that woke
up to find the carpets soaking wet and their entire luggage damaged. Like I said, two minutes could save you a lot of trouble.”
He scanned him. “You don’t look like maintenance.”
Jack laughed. “I know. I was called in after my shift. You know how it is, work never ends.” He shook his head.
Still hesitant, the guy grimaced. “Yeah, well let me just call through to the front desk and confirm.”
Jack rolled his lower lip under his teeth. “That’s gonna be a problem.”
“Why?”
Jack glanced sideways and then forced his way into the room, grabbing the guy by the throat while simultaneously pulling his handgun out from the small of his back and kicking the door closed. Clamping a hand over his mouth he forced him up against the wall. “Shut up!” The guy’s muffled whine caught the attention of his companion, another guy, African American, who came out stark naked.
“Huh, so it is true what they say,” Jack muttered.
“What the hell?” the black guy replied.
Jack pointed the gun at him and told him to get on his knees. He didn’t hesitate. The awkwardness of the situation couldn’t have been worse. Jack cocked his head and stared at the overweight white guy. It didn’t matter how many times he came across those batting for the other team, it still caught him off guard. “Take a seat over there with him.”
He backed up, hands raised. “What do you want? Drug money?”
“I’d like to erase the last few seconds of my memory,” Jack replied.
“What?”
“Just shut up.”
The black guy chimed in, his voice high-pitched. “Bob, just do as he says.”
“That’s right, Bob, listen to him.” Jack jabbed the barrel of the gun at him. “Don’t move. Okay?”
Bob nodded then cupped a hand over his pencil dick.
Jack ducked into the washroom and over to the sink, he reached underneath and felt around. He got down and took a hard look but there was nothing, not even masking tape left behind. The flash drive was gone. What the hell?
Before he could process another thought, he heard Bob’s voice.
“Yeah, this is room 14—”
Jack dashed into the room, pistol-whipped him across the face and took the phone out of his hand.
“Hello, sir. Are you okay?” the clerk asked on the other end.
Bob groaned gripping his head.
Jack handed it back to him and mouthed the words wakeup call.
Bob clutched his bleeding forehead and got back on the phone. “Sorry, I… dropped the phone. Can I get a wakeup call for seven?” The clerk replied, Bob nodded and then hung up.
Jack narrowed his gaze. “You really don’t listen, do you, Bob?” Jack turned to the black guy. “I imagine that’s a problem.”
The black guy pursed his lips, folded his arms and nodded.
Bob sneered at him. “The police will hear about this.”
Jack chuckled and glanced at his hand and noticed a wedding band on his finger. He looked at the black guy who wasn’t wearing one. It didn’t take much to figure out what was going on. “Give me your phone,” Jack said.
“What?”
Jack tapped the gun against his temple causing him to cower back. “Your phone.”
“It’s in my jacket.” He gestured to a heap of clothes on a chair. Jack crossed the room and fished around in his pockets for his wallet and took a look at his ID. His driver’s license had his name as Bob Sullivan, based out of Montana. There was also a nice little photo of the family inside — an aging brunette and two teen boys. Jack flashed it and Bob went a deep shade of red. Jack tutted. “The games we play. What’s her name?”
Hesitant but fearful of reprisal he replied, “Susan.”
“Now let me guess, Susan doesn’t know about your love of all things African, does she, Bob?”
Bob stared at the floor, and Jack tossed the photo on the bed. He retrieved his phone and had him unlock it and then brought up the contacts until he found the one for his wife. He took out his phone and took the number down. Then he used his own phone to take a snapshot of them both in the nude. “Now, Bob, if I even catch a whiff of you having spoken to the police, Susan here is going to get this memorable snapshot. Do I make myself clear?”
He nodded fast.
“Good.” Jack surveyed the room. “How long have you been here?”
“A day.”
“So you wouldn’t have by any chance come across a flash drive in the bathroom or this room?”
They looked at each other and shook their heads. “Nope.”
Jack spent a couple of minutes searching the room, checking all the various places Dana might have hid it. It was clean. Then he took a seat on the edge of the bed and tapped his gun against his leg. It was possible that housekeeping or maintenance could have come across it. Then again whoever was after Dana might have taken it. He exhaled hard and ran a hand over his head.
“Hard day?” the black guy asked before winking at him.
“More than you know,” Jack said rising and heading for the door. “Sorry to interrupt.” He stuck the gun in the back of his jeans, and covered it with his shirt before heading out into the hallway and retrieving his bag from the vending area. Jack returned to the bar for another drink and to browse his phone for one of the hotels in the area. He hadn’t been there longer than a couple of minutes when he noticed a young black guy with a lean physique and a confident swagger stroll in and take a seat just down from him. His hair was cropped short, and he was dressed in black with a gold chain around his neck.
He tossed a few bills on the bar. “Rob, give me a beer.”
The bartender shook his head as the kid brought out a pack of cigarettes and lit one. The bartender snatched it out of his hand at the protest of the guy.
“Hey, c’mon now!”
He stomped on it.
“First, you can’t smoke in here.”
“Give me a break.”
“Second, you’re under age.”
“Didn’t stop you before.”
“And third, you smell like you’ve already had enough.”
“Stop busting my chops, Rob, and just give me a drink.”
“Tyson, get out of here before I call security.”
“No you won’t. C’mon, just one drink.”
“Tyson.”
“For Nicky.”
The bartender stared around the room and off towards the clerk at the front desk. He sighed and reached under the bar and pulled out a Budweiser. He popped the cap off and put it in front of him. He jabbed his finger at him. “One, and then you’re outta here.”
“Good man. But aren’t you having one with me?”
“Gotta work.” He slung a towel over his shoulder and slid down to serve someone else. The kid cut Jack a glance and scowled before staring into his bottle, and then taking a hard chug on it. Jack might not have given the kid a second thought had it not been for the mixed crew of Hispanics and Caucasians in their early twenties who streamed in ten minutes later. The six of them swarmed him. None of them looked particularly threatening except for one who kept pulling at his weighted pant leg. It was a clear sign he was carrying a piece.
At first the conversation was quiet then one of them put a hand on his arm and gestured for him to step out. The black kid pulled his arm away and stepped off the stool full of liquid courage.
The bartender walked down.
“Tyson, everything okay here?” Rob asked.
“Yeah, just a small disagreement.”
“Look, take it outside, okay?”
Tyson nodded, thanked Rob for the drink and staggered out. It was clear he’d already had a few too many and the nature of the argument wasn’t going to be resolved with words. Jack turned on the stool away from it. He didn’t want to get involved. That was the last thing he needed. He had to stay level headed. He couldn’t get distracted or caught up in someone else’s problem. He had his own, and right now he was no closer to figuring out
what Dana was involved in. In the reflection of the bar’s mirror he eyed the crew walk out the main doors. Just stay put, Jack. Don’t get involved.
He took another sip of his beer and stared at his phone for a second then said, “Ah fuck it.”
Chapter 7
They were gone. Jack stepped onto Cathedral Street and looked both ways. He stepped off the sidewalk to cross the road when he heard loud voices come from behind a wall. Adjacent to La Fonda was a parking lot for Loretto Chapel and Luminaria Restaurant. He darted between traffic, and launched himself up onto the wall. At the top he spotted them. Like a pack of wild wolves they formed a circle around Tyson and six thugs were taking turns shoving him back and forth. Jack studied them, aware that the short guy was carrying a piece. He could have pulled his and scared the shit out of them but he’d seen how fear made people erratic. The last thing he needed was to dodge bullets.
“Not exactly fair, now is it, guys?” Jack asked.
Two of them glanced his way and one jabbed his finger at him. “Fuck off or else.”
“Or else what?” Jack hopped off the wall and approached. There were a few vehicles in the lot, one high-end white BMW, a black 4 x 4 truck and a silver cube van. Only one streetlight cast minimal light on the darkened corner.
A couple of them started chuckling unable to believe his nerve. He heard one say, “This guy is loco.”
The one packing hung back with Tyson, keeping a firm grip on him. The other five guys fanned out in a semicircle and Jack sized them up. Their clothes were loose, jeans baggy and sneakers the kind worn by those trying too hard to impress. They were soft, sloppy and slow. These weren’t hired hands, the kind of men that handled business for anyone of repute. They were cheap, bottom of the rung opportunists. The kind of men that took offense if you looked at their girlfriend too long. Time wasters, bums who made their living off the scraps of society. The kind of lowlifes who puffed up in numbers but shrank back when singled out.
Jack kept moving to prevent them circling him. It was easier to gauge an attack, and control the situation when he had all of them in his field of vision.
