by Sam Jones
Now they get here.
Run.
Even though his legs felt like rubber Black pumped the pavement and headed further into the seedy part of town. Moments later a fire truck was pulling up and dousing out the blaze as police started to set up a perimeter.
Black ended up hiding in an abandoned warehouse. Two hundreds yards from the club. Pitch black. Cracked, concrete floors. A dusty conveyer belt from the ‘70s in the center of the room. Busted to shit. Gears and parts were all over the place. Old boxes and newspapers that were being used for blankets sat in a folded pile next to a tent made up of blue tarp. At least thirty years had to have gone by, judging by the cobwebs and mold smells.
The sirens in the distance began to cease. Red and blue flashing lights could be seen through the windows. The police were far enough away that Black figured he had about ten minutes before he’d have to start moving again.
He looked at his tattered silver suit. Cuts and rips all over. Dirt on the pants. Dirt on the sleeves. Dirt on his face. Plus, a little blood. He removed his jacket and started wiping off the grime as best he could.
“You’re gonna ruin that blazer, boy!” a voice yelled from inside the tent next to the pile of newspapers and boxes. Black dropped his coat and drew his gun by the time he heard the word ‘gonna.’
“Hands up, come out slow,” said Black.
A shuffling. A groan that only an old-timer would have. Then a bum appeared through a flap in the tent. Sported a big trench coat and a dirty, old-timey cabbie hat. He was missing a few teeth. A pair of hazel eyes that looked glossed from the sauce stared out with gleeful curiosity. Not a shred of fear was aroused in the bum as he sauntered towards Black.
“Well, goddamn it!” the old man said in a tired and wheezy but somehow charm-filled whine. “You threw the thing on the ground, you jackass!”
Black took a few paces back as the bum picked up the coat and dusted it off.
“If you’re gonna treat your stuff like shit, I’ll take it,” he said as he walked off with Black’s coat towards a darker section of the warehouse.
“Hey,” said Black. “Are you really trying to steal that?”
“No. Gonna trade with you,” the bum replied as he disappeared into a small walled-off area. Caved in roof over the top. Piles of old clothes on the floors.
“Well?” the bum shouted out to Black. “You comin’?”
Black was stunned. The oddball vagrant was making an already outlandish night all the more outlandish.
I need a breather. And maybe I can bum a towel off the guy.
Pun intended.
Despite feeling slightly more relaxed, Black kept his grip on the Beretta. Last thing he wanted to have happen was surviving the night only to be stuck in the ribs by a vagrant. He made it to the area where the bum was toying with his jacket. He looked at the piles of clothes along the floor. Some were tattered, others a little cleaner, by the homeless man’s standards.
“You steal all these?” Black asked.
“I ‘aint some damn pickpocket. This is all stuff people threw away. Citizens, man. They’re a trip.”
“You were in the military.”
“How can you tell?”
“The way you said citizens.”
“75th Ranger Regiment. 4th Battalion. Fort Benning, Georgia. You?”
“Never been in the military.”
“You walk like you have.”
“I’m just lanky. Don’t read too much into it.”
The old man tilted up his cabbie hat and produced a scratched-up silver flask. “Call me Hoot,” he said as he offered Black a drink.
“No thanks, Hoot,” said Black
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Martin Black.”
Hoot huffed incredulously at Black’s moniker. “That a real name?”
“No. It isn’t.”
“Fair enough, mystery man.” Hoot began rummaging through a pile of blazers in front of him as he took a swig from his flask. “You the one that blew up that building a minute ago?”
“No, but I was lucky enough to be near it. Pretty sure my left eardrum blew out because of it. Either that or I’ve been listening to my music way too loud.”
“Take a seat. Catch your breath.”
Black’s entire body started to ache. Adrenaline was wearing off and the soreness was settling in. He squatted down and leaned against a wall, Beretta clutched in his left hand, half pointed towards Hoot. Hoot could sense the gun on his back. His body went from loose to rigid as he cocked a drunken eye towards Black.
“Don’t point that gun at me, boy,” he said.
“Just being cautious, Hoot.”
“You want to be cautious? Never point a gun at me.”
This guy isn’t a threat. Let it go.
Black engaged the safety and pointed the gun towards the ground. Hoot lightened up and continued to rummage through the clothes. “Looks like you’ve had quite the night,” he said.
“That I have,” said Black.
“Lady get you into some trouble?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact.”
“It’s always a lady. Always…”
“That why you’re living here, Hoot? A lady?”
“Charlene Doyle!” said Hoot with wide eyes and a smoker’s cackle. He took out his flask and toasted the air. “All this is for you, doll!”
The throbbing in Black’s head was getting worse. He couldn’t help but squint. “Don’t suppose you got any aspirin, do you?” he asked.
“What do I look like? A pharmacy?”
“Didn’t think so…”
“Just ride it out, kid. Quit being such a pussy.”
Black closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. Hoot then produced a cream-colored blazer from the middle of the pile he was rummaging through. A few grease spots on the right sleeve. He tossed it over to Black who caught it mid-air despite the fact that his eyes were still shut.
“What’s this?” asked Black.
“I’m trading out clothes with you.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. Unless you’re plannin’ on wearing a torn-up suit.”
“Are you?”
“I need something to wear to church on Sundays.”
Black laughed. “There’s blood and dirt on everything, my friend.”
“My friend Billy Club can sew this stuff. He’s got a rag and bucket for the blood. Knowing his drunken ass, it’ll take him a few days to fix it all up, but I don’t think a guy like you is planning on waiting that long. Also, if you were near that explosion, I’m gonna assume you got somethin’ to do with it. If that’s the case, you’ll want fresh pants if you’re runnin’ from the cops!”
“You’re very perceptive, Hoot,” said Black as he took off his pants. “Don’t suppose I got to worry about you pointing them in my direction if they end up asking questions?”
Hoot shook the flask. “I’m just a homeless vet who likes to drink. I don’t know shit.”
Black nodded. “Fair enough.”
Hoot cackled again as he tripped over his own feet. “Whoop! Verdict’s in and the jury is out: I’m drunk.” He turned to another pile. Pants seemed to be the theme of this one. “So,” he asked. “How did that strip club blow up?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. My involvement in this situation ended the minute it gave me a concussion.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Don’t ask so many questions, Hoot.”
Hoot produced the matching pair of trousers to go with the jacket he had given to Black. He turned to his left to another pile and pulled out a crumpled blue dress shirt. “Ah! Here we go!”
Hoot tossed Black the pants and shirt. Black took out his burner phone, money, and spare clips from his pants before handing over the rest of his original attire to Hoot.
“Where you from, Black?” asked Hoot.
“Don’t know,” said Black as he slipped on his semi-new wardrobe.
“What?”
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“I don’t know.”
“You adopted or something?”
“Or something.’”
“Jesus, kid. Lighten up.”
“I’m not being a prick. I just honestly don’t know.”
Hoot looked intrigued. He clenched his jaw and began to squint like he was trying to figure out a math equation. “Lemme see your hands.”
Black titled his head. He looked tired and a little irritated at the request. “Come again?” he asked.
“Your hands. I wanna see them.”
“Why?”
“Texture of a man’s hands says a lot about him.”
“Mind if I pass? I’m self-conscious about my thumbs.”
“Knock it off. Let me see your hands. Don’t worry, I ‘aint gonna rub ‘em or nothing.”
Just knock this guy out, finishing getting dressed, and get to the airport.
Black sighed and relented. He held out his hands, and Hoot took a step forward. He leaned in, almost lost his balance again from his drunken poise, and fixated on the tips of Black’s fingers.
“Coarse… And you got no fingerprints…”
Black grinned. “Burned them off on a barbecue lid.”
Hoot stepped back. He also grinned. “Ah…”
“You’re an odd guy, Hoot.”
“And what are you, Martin Black?”
Black thought about it for a good stretch of time. “Bitter employee.”
“Quit, then.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Says who?”
“My boss.”
“Fuck him.”
“Her.”
“Fuck her, all the same.”
“Got a lot of beefs with women, don’t you, Hoot?”
“Just one.”
“Yeah, but I can tell you don’t like the rest of them because of that one.”
“So?”
“A guy like you has hung in there awhile. I can tell. No sense in surviving that long just to kill yourself over a lady.”
“Yeah, well, clearly you don’t know Charlene Doyle.”
“Everyone has a Charlene Doyle.”
“Who was yours?”
Black almost gave a real answer. The one girl he had a misadventure with not so many years back.
Lizzie…
That’s another story for another time.
Black’s canine sense of hearing picked up the crunching sound of tires on gravel. Whoever it was, they were getting closer. He stood up and removed a hundred from his wad of cash and held it out to Hoot.
“I said we were trading,” Hoot told Black.
“Knock it off. We both know you’re going to take it.”
Hoot snatched up the bill and nodded like a doorman receiving a tip. “I take it this is where you make your exit, Martin Black?”
“Just about, Hoot.”
Hoot extended a dirty hand. Black scooped it up and they shook.
“Take care of yourself,” said Black.
“You too, mystery man.”
As soon as Hoot finished his goodbye a police cruiser screeched to a halt outside the entrance of the warehouse. Two thick-necked pavement beaters crisscrossed each other with guns drawn on the old man. Devine beams from Maglites blinded his eyes as they screamed, “Hands up!”
Hoot complied. The cops asked him if there was anyone else with him. Hoot glanced to his left and spotted a dirt cloud forming from somebody making a swift exit. He cracked a smile.
“Looks like it’s just me,” he said as he took another swig from his flask, “and you two thick-necks.”
After hassling Hoot for another ten minutes the police took off. Hoot wandered back to one of his many piles of clothing and began digging through to the core. After pulling out several pairs of dirty jeans, Hoot produced an object that seemed lost on a man of his type: a cellular phone.
He dialed a number and waited for two rings before the other end picked up—
“This is Tara,” a familiar voice greeted.
Hoot took one of the shirts from the pile in front of him and began to wipe the grime off his face like an actor removing stage makeup.
“Put me through to Trask,” he said to Tara.
As he waited for Trask to answer, Hoot began to dismantle the remote control device he used to trigger the explosion at the strip club.
The sun was up by the time Black made it to LAX. He got lucky and hailed what must have been one of the last remaining cabs in Los Angeles about two miles from Hoot’s hideout. Black rode the cab all the way to the airport, kept conversations to a minimum, and tipped just over ten percent of the fare to the driver before he hopped out by the departure gates. The cab took off and blended in with the sea of vehicles queued to pick up loved ones or starry-eyed actor/musician/entrepreneur roommates.
Black made a beeline for the Southwest terminal. His thoughts and his headache were just beginning to settle.
What the hell happened at that club?
Who were the guys in the suits?
Who was the guy on the phone?
Amanda said people were following her.
‘This guy… he needs her.’
What did Richie mean by that?
Doesn’t matter. I’m tapping out.
Black weaved through the denizens that were either headed home or getting ready to depart. Bags in hand. Bags under their eyes. He made sure to keep an eye out for any last minute snag or hitmen he didn’t know about.
So far, so good.
Ditch your gear; get on a plane to Philly…
…But I don’t have the money or Amanda’s signature on the bill. Trask is going to flip out if she knows I bailed on the contract. What if she pulls the Re-Val card?
Screw it. Just get back to home base. Make up an excuse when they call.
Black walked past a group of smokers corralled behind a semi-circle of potted plants, remnants of the 20th century that were slowly killing themselves off. He reached into his pocket to pull out his pack but the headache from the blast several hours ago had made him forget to remove them from the jacket pocket of his old coat. He shut his eyes at the screw-up.
You’re welcome, Hoot. Enjoy.
His burner rang. Right away he knew who it was before he stopped, walked off to the side, and pulled out the phone. He saw the label ‘HOME’ on the screen flashing in anxious rhythm.
It’s Tara. What the hell could she possibly want?
He answered—
“Hey, Tara. How’s things?”
A pause.
“Code in, please,” she said.
“Bravo, Echo, One-Nine.”
Another pause.
“Confirmation, please. ID challenge is ‘sparrow.’”
Christ. Every time.
“Woodwinds.”
One last pause.
“Mister Black, would you mind waiting on hold for a moment?”
It’s Trask.
“Sure…”
“Thank you.” A click. Black was put on hold for a total of ten seconds before the line picked back up. A familiar, smoky voice on the other end—
“Hello, Martin,” said Miss Trask.
The fuck does she want?!
“Couldn’t go a day without talking to me, huh, Miss Trask?”
“I was calling for an update on the Dubin contract.”
He couldn’t tell her. She’d ordered his Re-Val in a split second. The anticipation in her voice was that of a kid on Christmas. Trask was pining for him to say that something was off.
Don’t do it. Don’t tip her off.
“It’s going well. No snags, no bumps. Clear skies and smooth sailing.”
“Wonderful,” Trask replied, hints of her voice held an undercurrent of sarcasm. He wasn’t fooling her.
“I’m assuming you will be finishing soon then? It’s a Tier One contract, after all,” she asked.
Salt on an open wound…
“Indeed,” said Black.
“Wonderful. Don’t forget to have
her sign the CW.” The line went click followed by a long, infuriating flat-line beep.
She knew I was lying.
She knew something was up.
Somehow she just KNEW it.
Black clenched the phone in a tight grip, the cheap plastic crunching under the pressure he applied. He was mad at himself for trying to jump ship. There was no way he could go back without the payoff or the John Hancock.
I was just going to leave? What the hell is wrong with me?
It was that blast. Shook my brain up and now I can’t think straight.
I need that CW.
When a Contractor finished a job, the client had to sign something called a Commitment Waiver. A ‘CW’ was a document acknowledging that they used the services of a Contractor. Proof that they were involved in something really, really bad. The CW essentially bound a client to The Trust, should they ever get to the point where guilt or blackmail got the better of them, and they wanted to blow the whistle on The Trust. Should something sour happen, like The Trust becoming compromised, the client’s CW would be pulled from the file and somehow used against them. How exactly it was turned into their kryptonite and what the language meant on the contract itself was something that only The Executives knew.
Black, despite his precepts of training, couldn’t forge that signature. People like Trask were too smart and too anticipatory to have something like that pass through undetected.
Black also wouldn’t be able to cover the cost of the contract out of his own pocket. Contractors may have worked high-priced gigs but they themselves were grossly underpaid. Payday didn’t come until the twenty-five-year mark. Living quarters and a basic per diem were in effect. He had less than six hundred in cash at his house in Fleetwood. No one would loan ten grand to him.
Not even Stan…
Find Amanda.
The CW is the priority.
Get the signature and get the money.
But there were no leads and nowhere to start. It was right then that he realized a tidbit of information that somehow slipped his mind back at the strip club—
He left his courier bag with the spare clips and the CW in the back seat of the BMW he stole with Amanda which was now missing.
I need a fuckin’ drink.
Plastic cuffs restrained Amanda Dubin’s hands. They were deliberately too tight. A cloth bag to cover her eyes had been placed over her head. She saw it as the first punishment of many that she was going to receive for running off the reservation.
