by John Avery
"I know," Tom said. "I've got a business to run, and I need your help."
Aaron clenched his teeth, unable to speak. He couldn't miss any more school. No way. Not after ditching the whole first day and with detention and everything… He looked to his mother for support.
She looked back at him sympathetically, then turned to Tom. "Aaron really shouldn't miss any — "
Tom slammed an open hand on the table. "Did I ask for your opinion? I don't think I did."
Ashley's cheeks flushed with embarrassment, but she remained composed for her son's sake.
An angry scream rose in Aaron's throat, but he fought it down. He'd been on the receiving end of Tom's abuse plenty of times, but to hear it directed at his mother was too much.
He gripped the tablecloth, trying not to tremble, and spoke forcibly. "Don't talk to my mother like that," he said, bracing himself.
Tom looked at him like gum on his shoe. "What?" he said.
Aaron hesitated. "I said — "
"Shut up," Tom said, cutting him off with a pointed finger. "I'll deal with you later."
He turned back to Ashley.
Aaron stood up from the table and looked squarely at him. "I wish my father was alive and you were dead!" Then, with a quick glance at his mother he headed for the front door.
Ashley stood and threw her napkin at Tom, then ran after her son, making a solemn promise that before the night was through, Tom would be out of their lives forever.
She ran to the sidewalk and checked the street, but Aaron was gone.
Chapter 5
The Hideout
Tears washed over Aaron's face as he pedaled his bike south through the downtown neighborhoods. He rode hard, flying on and off sidewalks, jumping railroad tracks, potholes, and puddles, gulping the crisp night air, his heart in his throat, feeling as if he could explode with tension. He rode to lose himself in the anonymity of the city, to shake off the weight bearing down on him, to mute the angry voices shouting at him from within his aching head.
He passed endless rows of apartment buildings, some with lighted windows behind which he pictured families having dinner or watching TV by the fire. He wondered how many of the families were happy and how many were as messed up as his, and he seriously considered stopping and knocking on a few doors to see if any of the households were functioning smoothly enough to take in a feral teenager.
At last he arrived at his destination: the city's waterfront, the dominion of the criminally inclined and the criminally insane. He skidded to a stop under a mercury-vapor streetlamp that cast a tawny light upon a vast cliff of rusting corrugated-steel siding the length of a city block, The Alton Brothers Fish Cannery — aka the hideout. Rebuilt in 1907 following the 1905 fire, the cannery had been in operation for more than a hundred years before it was condemned in the mid 1990s.
Aaron took a couple of slow, deep breaths. His head still hurt, but the pain in his stomach was easing a bit. He took out his cell phone and fired off a text message.
– Willy was working on his second cheeseburger when his phone beeped. It was a text from Aaron:
I'm at the cannery. Can you come down?
Willy rubbed his nose and read the message again — neither one of them had been down to the hideout in months, and he had assumed that Aaron had gone home mad. He glanced at the clock on the restaurant wall and entered his reply:
It's past your bedtime you big baby.
Aaron laughed and texted Willy back:
I couldn't sleep. Are you coming or not?
Willy took the last bite of his burger, washed it down with his drink, and thumbed in his reply:
Okay, Boss. I'm coming.
Aaron smiled and pocketed his phone. He had loved Willy as a friend over the years not simply because he was innocent, fun loving, and loyal (Willy would cut off an arm for Aaron), but because Willy was crazy; he was Aaron's alter-ego — the Mr. Hyde to his Dr. Jekyll. Willy encouraged Aaron to do things he would never do on his own, to act in ways unnatural to his shy, withdrawn personality. Willy liberated Aaron from himself, and Aaron was addicted to Willy like a drug.
This year, for instance, the boys had first-period biology together, and their teacher — in addition to being a jerk — was missing the thumb on his right hand. "This guy's a bit of a wanker," Willy had concluded (he was fairly well Americanized by then, but occasionally the British slang he picked up from his grandfather slipped out). So, whenever either of them raised their hand to ask a question, they folded their thumb in, and when the teacher was out of the room, Willy might hold up four fingers and make an announcement like, Attention class! You have five minutes to finish your test! In fact, Willy was so highly skilled, he was easily capable of sending Aaron, along with an entire classroom full of students, into fits of uncontrollable laughter whenever the urge struck, and laughter was something Aaron craved, something he wished he could do more of, especially at home.
– Willy dumped his trash in the nearest receptacle, grabbed his pack, and walked out of the restaurant. His beach cruiser was locked to a pole by the entrance; he unlocked it, strapped his pack to his back, hopped aboard, and stomped the pedals.
– Aaron felt around on the cannery's steel siding and found their secret entrance: a loose panel to the right of the large, steel roll-up door (retrofitted in 1965) that opened into the main warehouse. He pulled the panel open and ducked inside, dragging his bike behind him.
Slatted light from the streetlamp lit a cavernous space filled with the dusty conveyors, tables and miscellaneous machinery of a once thriving fish-packing business. The familiar smell of fish guts still hung in air, and Aaron wondered why after all this time — the cannery had been closed for years — it had not gone away. He also noticed that it was unseasonably warm, hot even, but it didn't seem important so he let it go.
He leaned his bike against a post and unzipped his sweatshirt, then threaded his way through the junk maze until he came to the back of the building and a flight of rough, wooden stairs which he ascended to the second floor.
He stepped off the landing onto the long, wood-planked balcony that led to the cannery's office. On his immediate right was a steel door marked MAINTENANCE; he opened it and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
He felt around in the dark for the candle and lighter he and Willy had left on a shelf months ago, and as he lit the candle, two mice, startled by the flame, took off in opposite directions and disappeared.
The small space was packed with the essentials of building maintenance: tools, cleaning products, old buckets of paint, wire — all blanketed with a thick layer of dust. Aaron brushed the cobwebs aside and made his way to a large, unpainted, wooden cabinet in the back of the room. He opened the cabinet doors and pulled an old tweed suitcase out from the bottom shelf. He laid it on the floor, then knelt next to it and flipped open the latches.
The case was stocked with basic hideout necessities: a stack of comics, some playing cards, a spare candle and matches. Beneath the stack of comics was a small, royal-blue satin box. Aaron lifted the little box from the suitcase and held it in his hands for a moment, then opened the lid.
Inside was a small photo; he picked it up and held it toward the light.
It was a one-of-a-kind shot of his mother hugging his real father, Daniel Quinn. Aaron had taken the picture himself with a disposable camera during a family vacation while his dad was home on furlough the summer before he was killed in action overseas. Taken in an alpine meadow just before sunset when the light was perfect — the priceless photo represented the last days they spent together as a family; and whenever his heart was heavy, Aaron turned his thoughts to that wonderful summer. He took a moment, then carefully tucked the dog-eared picture into his wallet.
Suddenly Aaron heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs to the second floor. A chill ran through him — it wasn't Willy in his sneakers. It sounded more like two or three men in leather soled shoes. He quickly slid the case onto its shelf, and c
losed the cabinet. Then he held his breath as the footsteps crossed the stair landing and moved past the maintenance room toward the office at the end of the balcony.
He blew out the candle, then crept to the door and opened it a crack, in time to see three large men in business suits file into the office, leaving the door slightly ajar. Aaron stayed where he was and listened.
Chapter 6
A Clumsy Fool
Johnny Souther removed his leather fedora and dropped two bags of fast food onto an immense oak desk piled high with books and magazines. He lit a gasoline lantern — the city had cut the electricity to the cannery building when it was condemned a few years back — then sat behind the desk. The other two pulled up wooden chairs and faced him.
Souther grabbed a cheeseburger from one of the bags and unwrapped it. But instead of eating the sandwich, he simply held it in his hands and looked at it. He had spent half of the last ten years eating similar food off of metal trays while under armed guard, and had never lost his taste for it, but last night's botched bank job had left him without an appetite. He folded the cheeseburger into its wrapper and dropped it back in the bag with the others.
Nearly everyone Souther knew outside prison he had known inside. One of them was the big black man sitting across the desk from him, Benjamin "Beeks" Madison, whom Souther had met while working in a prison laundry.
Beeks was starving, and the smell of the food was killing him. But just as he started to reach for a burger, Souther cranked open the window next to his desk and tossed both bags out into the darkness, then cranked the window shut. Saliva flooded Beeks's mouth, and a tear came to his eye as he pictured himself enjoying his tasty dinner.
Souther shifted in his chair, his hip joint hurting as the result of letting a security guard shoot him five years before. He knew he couldn't be present at every robbery, and he thought he had put a good man in charge. But last night things had gone terribly wrong, and he deeply regretted not having been there.
He removed a bottle of whiskey and a glass from his desk drawer and poured himself a drink. He tossed the shot back and slammed the glass on the desk, then spoke slowly, in a low, well-worn voice.
"This morning I had five men — eleven, counting the fools doing nickels upstate. And now I have what, two? Hell… Wallace did better at Stirling fucking Bridge."
It wasn't simply the loss of his men that upset Souther; there was also the loss of income (his chief financial burden being his long-time girlfriend, Brandy Fine, a twenty-five-year-old redhead knockout whose extravagant taste for clothes, cars, nice homes, and jet-set travel demanded copious quantities of cash). It helped that the income from his various business ventures was tax-free, but there was never enough.
Lars "Needles" Sheldon had never even considered stepping outside the law until he met Johnny Souther, but with an instinctive flair for the demanding work of a bank robber, he had quickly become one of Souther's most trusted inside men. He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand through his silver hair.
"Diggs should never have let the bank manager into the vault without — "
"Without frisking the fucker first, right?" Souther said, interrupting Needles. "I know, damn it. If he had, Freddie wouldn't have had his damn head blown off."
"Larry, either," Needles added.
"I know. Shit!" Souther picked up a large hardback book with both hands and slammed it down on his desk, shattering Beeks's nerves in an attempt to calm his own.
Needles was well aware of the importance of frisking bank managers — having uncovered several concealed weapons himself that way. When he was in charge of a job he was meticulous about such matters, but he wasn't in charge on this job — he wasn't even there. Diggs was.
Souther drew a deep breath in through his nose and released it slowly out his mouth. With Diggs looking at life in prison, and all his other men either doing time or dead, Needles and Beeks were all he had. He looked at them sadly, then pulled two more glasses out of his desk and poured them both a drink.
Aaron trembled, terrified, unable to believe what he'd just overheard. He slipped out of the maintenance room and took a few cautious steps toward the stairs. But in the dim light he tripped over a pile of loose steel pipes and tumbled to the floor — making a huge racket.
Souther stood and drew his. 45 automatic.
Aaron lay still, holding his breath, his heart bouncing off his ribs like a boxer's speed-bag. He pictured his epitaph, carved in granite:
Here Lies Young Aaron Quinn
A Clumsy Fool Until The End
Souther picked up a large black flashlight, clicked it on, then eased the office door open with his foot and stepped slowly out onto the walkway, sighting down the powerful beam with his pistol. Needles and Beeks drew their guns and followed him.
The men worked their way slowly down the long balcony, checking behind stacks of boxes and under piles of junk, moving closer to Aaron with each step.
Icy fingers gripped Aaron's heart as Souther's flashlight sliced through the darkness like a great saber.
Willy rounded the corner in front of the cannery, pedaling his beach cruiser at full speed. He jumped the curb under the mercury-vapor streetlamp and stomped his coaster brake, laying a long black patch of rubber across the wide, concrete sidewalk.
Two vans were parked at the curb — one white, one black. Willy glanced at them curiously. Then, whistling a simple tune, he pulled open the secret panel and pushed his beach cruiser inside.
– Willy paused to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, then leaned his bike against Aaron's and worked his way through the junk maze to the back staircase.
He jumped as a bright beam of light swept across the balcony railing above him, but he assumed it was Aaron and started up the stairs.
– The three men were practically on top of Aaron.
"If you find the fucker, waste him," Souther said.
Willy heard the strange voice and stopped, then backed slowly down the steps and ducked behind a piece of machinery.
Aaron tried to crawl away, but the loose pipes were everywhere. Souther hit him with the flashlight beam and fired. The concussion nearly burst Aaron's left eardrum, and he cried out as the bullet splintered wood next to his ear.
Willy screamed, but he caught it with his hand and shoved it back into his mouth.
"Don't shoot!" Aaron cried, throwing his hands high in surrender. "I give up!" Tears streamed down his cheeks as he got to his knees. "I'm here! Please, God… don't shoot."
Willy was horrified, confused, and powerless to help his friend. He said a quick prayer, then closed his eyes tightly and listened, shivering in a state of shock.
Souther kicked a wooden crate to one side and stabbed his light into the eyes of the trembling boy kneeling before him.
"Stand up," he commanded.
Shaking in every limb, Aaron could barely keep his hands raised. He got to his feet and faced his captor. The man towered over him, eyes dark and cold. Deep lines ran down the sides of his face, and Aaron had a stomach lurching sense of the depth of the man's evil.
He didn't see the punch coming; it impacted his face with such force that he was sure it had caved in. His vision and balance left him and he fell sprawling to the floor.
Beeks was shocked. "What was that for?" he said.
Aaron opened his eyes and touched a hand to his face; his fingers came back with blood. He looked up just in time to see Johnny Souther take aim at him with his pistol. Instinctively he held up an arm and turned his head, preparing to die.
Needles grabbed Souther's wrist.
Souther jerked his arm free and turned the gun on him.
Needles stumbled back a step, swallowing his breath. A drop of sweat dripped off the end of his nose, one inch from the gun barrel. "The boy hasn't done anything," he said.
"He's seen our faces, you idiot," Souther said.
A bolt of pure instinct pierced Aaron's spine, triggering a desperate dash for the stairs. Souther fired. The bulle
t whizzed past Aaron's head, and with no hesitation he leaped over the second-floor railing and piled into a stack of cardboard boxes fifteen feet below. Souther ran to the railing and looked over, trying to track him with the flashlight.
Aaron quickly found his feet and sprinted across the cannery, passing mere feet from Willy. Souther fired two more shots that ricocheted off the loose siding panel just as Aaron dove through and disappeared into the night.
– "Find him," Souther said, fixing Needles with a look of utter contempt. "And don't come back till you do. I'll be damned if I'm going to let some punk roam the city crying about my line of work."
"He won't get far," Needles said, praying that was true.
– Willy was frozen in place, his thoughts and heart rate a dizzying blur. Dusty air moved quickly in and out of his lungs as he strained to hear what was happening above him. He watched terrified as Needles and Beeks descended the stairs. Then, as the thugs exited the cannery, he waited, until at last the third pair of leather soled shoes moved away down the balcony toward the office.
He sent a quick text message to Aaron:
Bloody hell! Are you okay? Where are you?
Souther stopped abruptly, then turned and walked back toward the stair landing. Willy tucked his phone away and held his breath.
Aaron's phone lay on the walkway directly above Willy's position. The text message glowed brightly on the small screen.
Souther reached down, picked the phone up off the floor, and read the message. Then he stepped to the railing and sprayed his flashlight beam down into the warehouse. Willy covered his mouth with his hand and made himself smaller as the hot patch of white light swept past his toes.
Souther paused, listening, then clicked off the flashlight and walked back to his office and closed the door.
Willy waited a few moments for his heart to slow, then crawled out from his hiding place, tip toed over to his beach cruiser, and slipped quietly out of the cannery.
