Every Day Above Ground

by Glen Erik Hamilton

  “Your car’s parked in front of them.”

  It was. Corcoran’s little blue BMW had the metered spot directly in front of the Impala.

  “Fuck you,” Corcoran said, realizing what I was suggesting. “Fuck. You. I’m not.”

  “Up to you, Jimmy,” Hollis said. He muted again, and lowered the volume against the torrent of expletives that followed.

  I was already climbing into the backseat. “Meet me at the airport.”

  Hollis glanced toward the ultramodern glass wall and cantilevered roof of the Tukwila station, shining in the distance. “You’re catching the train?”

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  I cracked the back door of the Caddy and slipped out. The Navigator was parked behind the strip mall. Before I started it, I put on the green sweatshirt and pulled the hood up over my head, like it had been when I’d visited Pacific Pearl. Not comfortable, but memorable. I drove the Lincoln around the far side, down a short alley, and around the block. Taking my time. As I rounded the corner and approached the Hoskins Livery lot, the driver of the red Impala strode out of the office. He and the passenger spotted me. I drifted past.

  Across the boulevard, I heard a basso thump of collision. Any fainter noise, like headlights breaking, was lost to the rumble of the Navigator’s engine as I pressed the accelerator. I tilted the sideview mirror to catch sight of Corcoran, already out of his car, gesticulating wildly at the hunters in the silver Impala. Their car had made it a scant foot away from the curb before Corcoran’s BMW had backed into it. It looked like the bumpers might be locked.

  A sure bet that Jimmy was telling everyone in sight that the accident was their fault. Probably demanding cash payment on the spot. A smile crept onto my face, which lasted until the red car showed in my rearview.

  They were hanging back. Not wanting to spook me. Professionals. They had lucked out, spotting their quarry, and now they aimed to follow me to where they could either stuff me in a bag or figure out who I was.

  I turned in to the train station. It was a weekday, the commuter lot crowded, but I nabbed a spot near the station corner as a Volkswagen pulled out. I left the Navigator and strolled toward the entrance as if I didn’t have a care in the world.

  The passenger from the Impala would already be on foot, following. The driver would have to find a place to leave the car. They would both have to buy passes for the train, unless by weird chance they already carried transit cards. All of that gave me a window of a minute or two. I jogged up the escalator to the ticketing level, and turned immediately toward the set of stairs that led to the airport-bound side of the station.

  The light rail track was built high in this part of the city, to pass over the highways and hills.

  At the top, a dozen people were scattered along the fifty yards of platform, waiting for the next train. Bright yellow letters on the reader board shone seatac 7 min. Plenty of time. No cops or transit personnel in sight.

  I didn’t hesitate, just jumped down off the platform and walked briskly across the two sets of tracks to the opposite side. One woman said, “Hey,” but nobody gave much notice. I climbed up onto the northbound platform.

  Within thirty seconds, the passenger from the red Impala emerged on the airport side, at the top of the stairs I’d just climbed. He quickly scanned his platform, and when he didn’t spot me immediately, he began to move at a casual pace down his length of the station, checking if I was standing behind a ticket kiosk or otherwise out of view. He hadn’t thought to look across the tracks yet.

  I leaned against a post and pretended to be engrossed in my phone as I examined him. Horn-rimmed glasses and prematurely gray hair. His navy blue suit was decent but not fancy. Middle management. In his left hand, he carried a soft black leather attaché case with a zippered top. Large enough for a few legal briefs. Or a tranquilizer pistol.

  The elevator doors opened and the Impala’s driver stepped out. He was leaner and taller than his partner. A long movie-hero-handsome face, topped with hair the curled reddish-brown of dried tobacco leaves. A gray suit with better tailoring than his partner’s. The man with horn-rimmed glasses reversed direction to meet him.

  They would be in contact with the other two hunters in the silver Impala. But would all four men converge here to trap me? They wouldn’t want to watch helplessly as I stepped off the train at the next station into a taxi, and be stranded without a way to follow. The silver car would hurry to try to intercept me, once they figured out where I was headed. I had to keep them guessing.

  The driver with the Hollywood face spotted me across the tracks. His partner looked, too, then glanced away just as quickly.

  They couldn’t jump the rails like I had. Too obvious. They thought I was clueless, and wanted to keep it that way. Horn Rims broke off to catch the elevator. He would go back down and cross to my side of the station while his partner kept watch. Good. To keep me covered, their team had split from four men to two, and from two to one.

  Now the hard part. I pretended to answer my phone, and walked slowly along the platform, toward the elevator on my side. I mimed a conversation, drifting through the waiting passengers. Less than a minute until the next northbound train would arrive. An electric hum began, low at first, growing in volume and pitch as the train neared. Some commuters were already leaning forward, looking up the track in anticipation.

  Mr. Hollywood had a fast decision to make. Hurry across the tracks and join me when I boarded the train, maybe blowing his cover, or rely on Horn Rims to make it to my platform on time. He stayed put. My last sight of him before the white caterpillar shape of the train came hissing into the station was him drawing his phone from his pocket. Probably calling the backup team in the silver Impala, telling them I was about to head north. The waiting people pressed forward as the train whispered to a stop.

  The elevator doors opened to reveal Horn Rims, black attaché still clutched in his hand. He stepped out. I walked past him, onto the glass and steel elevator, still engaged in my imaginary call. He did an abrupt about-face to join me. I pressed the button for the ground floor.

  “Wrong side,” Horn Rims explained as if I had reacted to his unexpected move. We were alone in the elevator, the arriving passengers not exiting the train yet. The doors closed.

  I spun and hit him. A swinging hook from all the way down at my hip, catching him just below the heart. His head banged the glass wall as he coughed and sagged. His hand moved in the direction of his attaché. I was there first. The grip of the pistol waited right at the zippered mouth, and the weapon was in my hand and out of the case in less than a second. A long barrel with a wide caliber, like a paintball toy. I pointed it at his thigh and pulled the trigger. The gun made a snapping sound and the red feathers of a dart blossomed instantly against his navy blue trouser leg.

  Sleep tight, asshole.

  He wilted into the corner and down to the floor. I yanked the dart out and stuffed the gun into my hoodie as the doors opened on the ticketing level. No one was waiting for the elevator, and if anyone nearby had happened to spot our quick scuffle through the glare off the windows, they kept their peace as I left Horn Rims where he lay.

  The airport train was arriving. I raced up the stairs once more and bounded onto the platform, practically strolling into the first car. In my peripheral vision, I caught a flash of gray as Hollywood dashed to join me on the train. The warning lights flashed and the doors slid shut.

  Our trip to SeaTac took less than five minutes. Enough time for me to call Hollis and make sure he knew where to meet me.

  Hollywood stood at the far end of the car. Alone, now. Very alert. He wasn’t positive I was on to him, but he had to suspect it. He was also on his phone. Maybe trying to reach his unconscious partner. Maybe telling the silver Impala they were heading the wrong direction.

  They would be too late. Unlike at other stations, a car couldn’t drive right up to the airport stop. Hollywood’s backup would have to leave the Impala and make their way on f
oot, and I’d have dealt with their square-jawed leader long before they arrived.

  Most of the train passengers had roller bags or backpacks. Hollywood and I were the exceptions. The doors opened and we joined the crowd trudging along the lengthy outdoor passageway to the parking structure and the bridges leading to the terminal. He hung back, using the people for cover. It was a long walk. Exposed. If I glanced back even once, he would see it. I had to trust that Hollywood felt just as vulnerable, not knowing his surroundings and separated from his team. That he would be cautious enough to keep his distance.

  As we reached the end of the passage and entered the parking structure, I broke from the pack and strode toward the first bank of elevators and the adjacent stairwell. In the glass covering an airport map display, I caught a blurry reflection of my pursuer’s tall form in his gray suit, angling to follow me like a wolf distracted from the flock.

  I made plenty of noise walking up two concrete flights and banging the heavy fireproof door open to Floor 6. No one stood waiting for the elevators. Midweek and midday; if the airport was ever quiet, it was now. I hugged the wall at the side of the stairwell door and waited.

  Hollywood followed my path up the stairs so quietly, I wasn’t sure he was still on my trail until he cracked open the door to glance out. I stomped the door, slamming it back into him, and stepped forward to jam the dart gun hard into his jugular as he caught himself on the iron railing.

  “At this range,” I said, “the tranquilizer will be the least of your problems.”

  His handsome face hardened with anger, but he got the message. I spun him around and frisked him, finding a little Beretta Nano in a belt holster, and taking his phone. He had cash and ID and credit cards in a money clip. I walked up a few stairs, out of reach, and put the trank gun away. It was empty anyway, not that he knew that.

  “Ellis Boule,” I said, looking at his cards. From Los Angeles. Big surprise. “Who’s your boss, Boule?”

  “Call the cops if you want,” Boule said. He was recovering his poise rapidly. Maybe imagining himself on a movie screen. “I’m licensed to carry that Beretta.”

  “You’re not self-employed. Nobody who can afford to buy an office building would carry a brass money clip.”

  His eyes flickered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t have to. It’s above your pay grade. Your boss, on the other hand, will want to talk to me.”

  People walked past the stairwell door toward the elevators, roller bags thumping and grinding over the cement. If Boule wanted to escape, now was his chance, while there were witnesses around.

  “Talk about what?” he said.

  “We can hurt each other or help each other. But we can’t stay status quo. You want to call him, or shall I?”

  He stared darkly at me for a moment, and then put out his hand. I handed him the phone.

  “On speaker,” I said. He hit two buttons and we waited as the phone rang.

  “Ellis?” A woman’s voice. A nice contralto.

  “I’m here with the man we talked about this morning,” Boule said to her. “He wants to talk.”

  She waited. The fact that Boule and his men had failed to capture me must have been self-evident.

  “Sorry about your new building,” I said. “Hope it was insured.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Someone willing to deal, if you are. With the safe gone, I think you’re low on options.”

  “What is it you imagine I want?”

  “You tell me. Maybe I can help you get it. Or him.”

  There was a long pause. I figured she had already made up her mind. Now she was considering method of engagement.

  “In person,” she said.

  “In public.”

  “Very well. Where?”

  “I’ll call you when we get there,” I said, and hung up.

  I put Boule’s Beretta in my pocket and handed him his cards and cash.

  “You pay for the taxi,” I said.

  Eighteen

  I had picked Volunteer Park as the meeting location. It was close to home, and about as open an expanse as anywhere in the city. Two roads into the park for cars, endless options for escape routes on foot. Both roads led to the park’s central attraction, the broad art deco Asian Art Museum. Sitting across the road from the museum, Boule and I could see everyone who came and went. Nannies with their charges, out for a sunny afternoon, disorganized clumps of schoolchildren playing around the camel statues, and the occasional cop.

  Boule hadn’t said a word during the taxi ride here. Not bothering to fume about his turn of luck, I sensed. Just considering options. If those plans had included his men regrouping for another run at me, I hoped Boule had enough understanding of tactics to realize that the very public park with its security cameras was not a viable field of engagement.

  I had been to the museum on field trips when I was around Cyndra O’Hasson’s age. Davey Tolan and I had once frisbeed a crushed aluminum pop can back and forth through the center of the big black donut-shaped piece of art that Boule and I now sat near, until Ms. Travers had caught us. Davey and I probably earned detention for that bit of civic disrespect; I didn’t recall.

  A Mercedes S-Class in lunar blue eased to a stop in front of the museum. A woman opened her own door and rose smoothly out of the backseat. She would be tall, even without the heels. She would be curvaceous, even without the tailored black jacket and skirt accentuating her shape. Big black sunglasses. A lot of chestnut hair swept back from a high forehead. Elegant. Almost arrogant, as she strode across the slate flagstones toward us. Boule stood and watched her, as if hypnotized.

  I didn’t miss the second sedan, twenty yards behind. It wasn’t another Impala, but I was pretty sure the driver had been one of the hunters in the fender-bender with Corcoran.

  The woman stopped in front of us. She didn’t acknowledge Boule.

  “Are you a police officer?” she said to me. Her voice was even better in person.

  I grinned. “You worried about entrapment?”

  “I’m wondering if this will be a pointless conversation. You don’t look like you can provide much help.”

  “At least I can hold on to my weapon.”

  Boule’s square-jawed face reddened. “He claims to have been at the building. That night.”

  The woman raised an eyebrow. “The night of what? Just so we’re clear.”

  I stood. Boule edged forward, just a little. Unarmed, but willing to defend his boss nonetheless. I pulled up my shirt to show I wasn’t wearing a wire.

  “The night Mickey O’Hasson and I broke into the safe in the Pacific Pearl office to take four million in gold, and he torched the place before you grabbed him,” I said. “That clear enough?”

  She nodded, slowly.

  “So before we start really talking terms, I want to know if O’Hasson is still alive.”

  “He is.”

  “I’ll take your word for that,” I said. “For now. Later, I’ll want proof. Did you get the gold out before the building went up?” I said.

  “Which do you care about?” she said. “The gold, or your friend?”

  “Both,” I said.

  “That’s a large amount.”

  “You were right on top of us at the safe,” I said. “You must want somebody involved with Pacific Pearl bad enough to make these guys sit and wait for weeks for that alarm to go off.”

  The driver of the sedan had grown impatient. He was out of the car and crossing toward us rapidly, suit jacket flapping. I looked at him pointedly.

  “Marshall,” the woman said. The man stopped. “Wait there.” She nodded to the stone bench a few yards away. Close enough to hear the conversation without intruding.

  Marshall scowled at me as he took a seat. He was bull-necked and heavy-shouldered, so that he gave more impression of width than height.

  The woman took off her sunglasses to consider me. Younger than her formal bearing implied, maybe no mor
e than thirty-five or -six. Spectacular bone structure, like a Roman statue. Her eyes were such a light blue they were nearly translucent. Cold, but beautiful.

  “You could be working with them,” she said. “The ones at Pacific Pearl.”

  “O’Hasson can confirm that I’m not. He enlisted me for the safecracking.”

  “He can also tell us your name.”

  I nodded. Cards-on-the-table time. “It’s Shaw.”

  “You’ve learned a lot about Pacific Pearl, Shaw. Do you believe you can find who I’m looking for?”

  “I found you.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  She was silent for a moment, and then took a photograph printed on cardstock from her tailored suit jacket. She handed it to me. The photograph was still warm from her body.

  It was a candid shot of a man coming out of a doorway. He was very thin, dressed for winter weather in a topcoat and scarf, holding a fur hat in his hand. His face was in three-quarter view, and I could see that his aquiline nose and black goatee made almost a crescent moon shape. He looked like Lenin, or at least a scarecrow crafted to resemble Lenin.

  “Tell me his first name,” I said.

  She understood. “Tamas.”

  “Fekkete.”

  “Yes. Have you seen him?” the woman said. Something new in her voice. Hope. Almost fervent.

  “No,” I said.

  “Find him, bring him to me, and I’ll give you O’Hasson.”

  “We don’t need his help,” Boule said.

  “Find him,” she said again, “by the end of this week.”

  “For O’Hasson, and the gold,” I said.

  “Half.” Marshall spoke up from the bench. “Your share would have been half.”

  “And O’Hasson gets the other half. For pain and suffering.” I looked at the woman. “Agreed?”

  She nodded. Marshall stood up and started back toward the sedan, a disgusted look on his face. Boule stayed by the woman’s side.

  She paused in mid-turn. “You haven’t asked why I want Fekkete.”

  “Or who you are. Or where you came from,” I said. “So long as we’re on the same side.”