I stepped back, dropping into a guard position. He was slowly rising to his knees. I checked his eyes. There was madness there. So be it.
Ice, I thought as I pulled one knee up, pivoted on the standing leg, and kicked him as hard as I could in the face. I felt the cheekbone and probably the orbit of one eye crunch under my heel. Furry dropped like a slaughtered cow. Amber/Khandi screamed as if she were the one who’d been kicked.
I stepped back, waiting to see if he’d try to get up again. He didn’t. I let the cold pass through me and took a deep breath before turning to the girl. She was sitting huddled against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. I could see the whites of her eyes.
“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s down.”
She staggered to her feet and stumbled over to the mound of fallen biker lying on the gravel. “Frank?” she quavered. “Frank?” She looked up at me, panic in her eyes. “You killed him,” she said. “You killed him, you son of a bitch!”
I sighed. Two minutes ago he was ready to gut her; now she was weeping over his limp body. I felt very tired again. Suddenly there were bright lights shining on me, a white spotlight with flashes of red and blue that reflected off the wall. “Police!” a voice shouted. “Don’t move!” I put my hands up. Looked like the night wasn’t over yet.
TWO HOURS later, I was sitting in a brightly lit room, cuffed to a bench while a bored desk officer tapped away at a computer. I had my eyes closed and my head back against the cinder-block wall, but the fluorescent lights were bright enough even through closed eyelids to keep me awake. The clackety-clack of the computer keyboard didn’t help.
“Axel,” a voice said. Tired as I was, it took a moment to register that that was my name on this assignment. That was the kind of mistake that could get me killed. I needed to get real sharp, real quick. I opened my eyes.
Johnny Trent was standing there, dressed in blue jeans and an Oakland Raiders jersey. He looked pissed.
“Get up,” he said. I didn’t answer, just raised my cuffed wrist as far as it would go. Johnny turned to the cop. “Uncuff him,” he said. The cop looked like he was about to make an argument of it, but if there was one thing I had learned about Parham County, Kentucky, it was that not even the cops wanted to cross the Trents. The cop had a sour look on his fat face as he got slowly to his feet, shuffled over, and unlocked the cuff.
I stood up, rubbing my wrist. “Thanks,” I told Johnny.
“Thank my uncle,” he said. “If it was up to me, I’d still be in bed.”
“Sorry,” I said. “Wasn’t how I wanted the evening to end up, either.”
Johnny grunted. “Come on,” he said. He turned to go. “Wait a minute,” the cop said. “I got to finish this report.”
“You can finish it without him,” Johnny snapped. “And write it up as self-defense.”
“I still got to get a statement from the girl. And the victim, when the hospital’ll let me—”
“They’ll tell you the same thing,” Johnny said. “Self-defense. Write it up.” He started walking again. The cop looked like he was going to say something else, then shut his mouth. He looked at me with pure hatred. I looked back at him steadily. I didn’t have a damn bit of sympathy for him. He and his whole department had put themselves in the pocket of the Trent family; they deserved any petty humiliations that they had to swallow, as far as I was concerned.
I followed Johnny out of the double doors of the police station into the parking lot. Johnny’s big Chevy Suburban was parked crookedly across two spaces. He got into the driver’s seat. I climbed into the passenger side. He didn’t speak as he started the engine. It wasn’t until we pulled out of the parking lot that Johnny spoke. “Tell me what happened” was all he said.
I told him, just as it had gone down. I didn’t know if he’d talked to the girl, or if what she said would back me or Furry. When I was finished, he didn’t speak for a moment. Then: “Your bike at the club?”
“Yeah.” Well, at least he didn’t shoot me. We drove in silence to the club. The sky was starting to redden like a burning coal as we pulled into the parking lot. I thought of the old rhyme. Red sky at morning, sailor take warning. We were miles from any ocean, but it still felt like a bad omen. He pulled over next to my Harley. I was halfway out of the Suburban before he spoke again. “Come in at three thirty,” he said. “My uncle’ll want to talk to you.”
“Okay,” I said. I closed the door and watched him as he drove off. I got on the bike and drove to the tiny one-bedroom rental I called home. I was bone weary, and time for work would come all too fast, but I needed to call in.
The cramped bedroom was depressing in the grayish light of early morning. I pulled the cell phone out of the shoe box in the closet where I kept it and dialed a number I knew by heart.
The phone rang once and a voice answered. “Steadman.” “You’re up early.”
“Always. Any news?”
I told him what had happened.
“Hmm,” he said. “You think you’re in trouble?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Furry’s a full brother, but the Trents don’t tend to take kindly to anyone messing with a good earner.”
“We can pull you out.”
I thought it over. “No,” I said finally. “I can handle it.”
“Your call, Tony.”
“I know,” I said. “I’ll be fine.” “Anything else?”
“How’s Kendra?”
“Worried sick about you.”
“Yeah, well, tell her . . .” I stopped. “Yeah,” he said, “I will. You take care.”
“Always,” I said and broke the connection. I pulled the blinds shut against the morning light and took off my boots. I lay down on the narrow bed and stared at the ceiling. My gut was knotted in apprehension. Tired as I was, I wondered if I’d be able to sleep.
I didn’t wonder long.
IT’S strange. When I’m back in the real world, my dreams are fairly linear. There’s a story. A beginning, a middle, and an end. When I’m on the job, however, all I can get back out of sleep is fragments. Pictures that flash by like bits of programs scanned by a channel surfer on crank. I saw the lights of the club where I’d been working the last four months, looking for a way into the Trent organization. I saw a flash of leg on the stage, a glimpse of blond hair . . .
Flash.
I was sitting across the table from my wife. She was wearing a leather jacket I’d bought her, laughing at some joke.
Flash.
I was climbing an almost vertical slope, hands and booted feet clawing for purchase in the soft earth. I’d gain a few feet, slide back a foot, then start again. My breath burned in my lungs. I looked up, lost my grip, and started to slide. I scrambled frantically to stabilize myself before I looked back up. Kendra was standing at the top of the slope. She was dressed in the same gym shorts and T-shirt as I was, but her ball cap had the word instructor written across it. She ostentatiously checked her watch. “Sometime today,” she drawled. I scrambled forward another foot or so, enough to lock a hand around her ankle and yank. She yelped and threw herself backward, narrowly avoiding falling off but crashing to her ass. I hauled myself over the lip of the slope; the move brought me over on top of her. For a second we were looking into each other’s eyes. She had great eyes. She looked pissed for a moment; then she grinned. “Not bad,” she said. Then she punched me. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was right on one of the nerve centers she was always telling us about in personal combat training. It hurt so bad I rolled off her, gasping with pain. She sprang to her feet, still grinning down at me. There was a sound of thunder.
Flash.
MY EYES opened. I was staring at a light brown water stain on the ceiling. There was the sound of surf in my ears, and I heard the thunder again. I shook my head. I realized that the sound I was hearing wasn’t the ocean but the noise of pouring rain on the house’s tin roof. I looked over at the clock. Three o’clock. Shit. I wouldn’t even have time to shower. I nee
ded to get up or I’d be late for my meeting with Trent, but still I lay there. The dreams of my wife were so real they made me ache with wanting to see her. Even the memory of her slugging me made my throat tighten up. That had been the first day we started noticing one another.
After a few minutes, I sat up. I changed my shirt and socks, splashed water on my face, and looked out the window. It was still raining. That would have to do for a shower.
By the time I got to the club, it had cleared off a little, the heavy thunderheads having dropped their load and moved on, leaving a few wispy gray scraps scudding before the wind. I had gotten a pretty good soaking, but I’d live. I had an extra shirt and bow tie behind the bar, and the black pants would be clammy for a while but wouldn’t show the damp. My Harley and one of the Trents’ black Suburbans were the only vehicles in the lot. I entered the club, taking a moment to let my eyes get accustomed to the gloom. The place would be lit up like the starships from Close Encounters later, but right now, the only lights were the dim ones behind the bar.
I saw a door open on the other side of the room. Nathan Trent was standing there. The president of the Brotherhood was wearing one of the expensive suits he’d only recently begun to favor over biker leathers. He still wore his hair long, but he’d cut the ZZ Top beard back to a more respectable length. He waved me over, turning to let me follow him into his office. It was cramped, with a simple wooden desk, a single rickety chair, and a gray metal file cabinet as the only furnishings. The walls sported tattered posters from “special appearances” by various porn actresses who used fuck films as promotion to hype their major source of income: dancing on the “gentlemen’s club” circuit. Trent sat down behind the desk. He took a cigarette out of the pack on the desk and lit it. He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at me. Finally he spoke.
“Heard you and Furry had a little trouble last night.” I just nodded.
“Tell me.”
Just as with Johnny, I had no idea how much or how little Trent knew. I told it to him straight.
SO WHY’D you do it?” he asked when I finished, looking at me through the curl of smoke. “You been fucking her yourself?”
“No,” I said. “She’s a good kid. Works hard. Doesn’t cause any trouble, and she packs ’em in when she’s working. I make a lot of tips when Khandi’s on.” I looked him in the eye. “The club does better, too. She gets her face fucked up or gets cut, well, she can’t work. There’s that much less for all of us.”
Trent’s eyes narrowed. He was trying to figure out if I was bullshitting him. He tipped his chair back and stared at the ceiling for a moment.
“Furry’s always liked being one of the Brotherhood,” he said, as if to himself. “He likes drinking, getting laid, kicking ass.” He grimaced. “Sometimes all at the same time.” He sat forward and looked at me. “But he’s never seen the big picture, McCabe. He doesn’t contribute to the greater good. He doesn’t have any commitment to something bigger than himself.”
I tried to keep my face expressionless. Trent headed a biker gang, not the U.S. Marines. But I didn’t think telling him he was full of shit would be too smart at that moment. “I guess” was all I said. “I don’t know him that well.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye on you, McCabe,” he said. “You’re a good employee. You get here early, you stay late when needed. You don’t show up drunk or fucked up. Things get slow, when other bartenders would be leaning against the bar bullshitting with the ladies, you’re looking for something to do, even if it’s just wiping down the bar. I like that.”
I shrugged. “I like to stay busy,” I said.
“That,” he said, “and your cash box always balances. To the cent. Some fellows come in here, they see how things are done, they start thinking they’ve figured out slick little ways to skim off some green.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I saw a few of those.” “And you never tried any.”
“I’m making good money already. Plus, if I’ve got money in my pocket, I like to feel like I earned it.”
“Good,” he said. He smiled nastily. “Because I’ve figured those little tricks out, too.”
“And I figured you might have,” I said. “That’s the other reason.”
He laughed out loud for the first time. “That’s honest. I like that.” I didn’t reply.
“You learn to fight like that in the army?” he asked. The abrupt change of pace was meant to throw me off. I didn’t let it.
“I don’t remember ever telling you I was in the army,” I said calmly. “Or anyone else, either.”
“I did a little background check,” he said. “I like to know who’s working for me.”
I felt a twist in my gut. I’d prepared a good cover, with good backup, the best the FBI’s resources could give me. There was even a file for Axel McCabe in the military records repository in St. Louis if anyone had thought to check. Still, no cover is perfect. For one thing, if anyone ran my fingerprints, “Private Axel McCabe” would have the same prints as Staff Sgt. Anthony Wolf. I didn’t think Trent had the wherewithal to do that, but if there was any other flaw, if I’d overlooked anything, I was dead.
“Well,” I said, “I knew how to fight before I went in. They just taught me to do it better.”
“You like being a soldier?” “It was all right.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“My hitch was up. It was time to move on.”
Trent stood up. He reached into his desk, took out a set of keys, and tossed them to me. I caught them one-handed.
“I’ve got a job for you,” he said. He reached into the same drawer and took out a business card. He handed it across the desk. It was the address of a women’s clinic in Louisville.
“I need you to give Khandi a ride there,” he said. “Take my Suburban.” He gestured to the door. “She should be here by now.”
I walked out and looked again at the card. I had a bad feeling about this.
AMBER/KHANDI WAS waiting for me in the darkened club, sitting at a table in the shadows. She was dressed in ragged jeans, sneakers, and a hooded sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big for her. It was too warm for the hoodie, but the way she was hunkered down inside it with the hood pulled over her head, I guessed she was willing to sacrifice some comfort for whatever small feeling of security she could get. Without her stage makeup on, she looked even younger. She seemed surprised to see me.
“I’m supposed to give you a ride,” I said. She just nodded and stood up. I let her go first. She walked with her head down, her arms folded across her chest.
She didn’t speak for the first few miles. I didn’t, either; I didn’t have any conversation starters for a situation like this. Finally, at a stop sign at the outskirts of town, she spoke up in a small voice. “Thanks,” she said. She cleared her throat and spoke a little louder. “Thanks for helping me out last night.”
“No problem,” I answered.
She didn’t speak for a few more miles. Then: “He’s really not a bad guy.”
“You mean Furry?” I said. She nodded. There was a look of pathetic defiance on her face, as if she were daring me to contradict her. I could see how it would play out if I did, if I pointed out that this not-so-bad guy was ready to gut her the night before and kill her unborn child. She’d deny he really meant it, and I’d be the one she’d end up getting mad at. I wasn’t up to that dance right then, so I just grunted noncommittally. Grunting was more in character anyway. She looked disappointed.
A few more miles rolled by before she spoke again. “You know where we’re going, right?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“You don’t look happy about it,” she said.
I shrugged. “Not like it’s any of my business.” Then I surprised myself. “You know,” I said, “you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”
She looked out the window and gnawed at her thumbnail before turning back to me. “You think Frank’s making me do this? Or Mr. Trent?” I didn’t answe
r. I was too busy cursing myself. It wasn’t something McCabe would say, and it was damn sure not calculated to score brownie points with the boss if I talked one of the Leopard’s best dancers into taking herself off the stage. I looked over at her. She was slumped in her seat, looking at her shoes. She muttered something I couldn’t catch. She caught me looking and said it again, louder. “It was my idea,” she said. “I just asked Mr. Trent for a place to go.”
“Okay,” I said.
“I mean,” she went on, “can you see me as a mom? Fucked up as I am?” There was a shocking lack of bitterness in her voice. She sounded as if her fucked-upness was as much a given as her height or her hair color. “And Furry?” she went on in the same reasonable tone. “I don’t think he’d be much of a father, even if he did stick around, which he ain’t gonna do.” She shook her head. “Plus, only job I can make any money at is shakin’ my ass, and I can’t take nine months off from that. I got bills to pay.”
“You ain’t got to convince me, Amber.”
She looked at me, then laughed. “You’re right,” she said, her voice bright and cruel. “Why am I tryin’ to justify myself to the damn driver?” I turned my eyes back to the road without answering. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice now small and childlike again. “That was mean.” I shrugged. We spent the rest of the trip in silence.
The Sanger Women’s Health Clinic was a one-story cinderblock building in a part of town dominated by pawnshops and “Speedy check cashing” stores. The parking lot off to one side was an obstacle course of broken pavement. A couple of young men slouched at the street corner eyed the Suburban. I gave them a hard look back, and they quickly averted their eyes. Still, I didn’t give the car much chance if I didn’t check on it frequently.
Despite the shabby look of the outside, the inside of the clinic was brightly lit and clean, if Spartan. At the desk, a middle-aged black woman in a blue smock looked at me over her spectacles as Amber filled out the forms. “You the boyfriend?” she said in a voice that ranked that particular species somewhere below the wood tick on the evolutionary scale.
Breaking Cover (Tony Wolf/Tim Buckthorn) Page 11
