“Jack Ramsky. Donovan Bledsoe. We have a probable cause to search the premises for the manufacture of methamphetamine. Come out unarmed with your hands in the air. If you do not comply, we will enter with force.”
Somehow, with all the smoke billowing out of the top, the cops hadn’t had probable cause before tonight.
One of the two men poked out the trailer door, and I could see the police tense up. I think he said something, then disappeared quick as he came.
A standoff. Wonderful.
The police didn’t seem too keen on moving from the safety of cover. After all, it wasn’t a stretch to believe that the two would-be chemists had a couple firearms handy for extenuating circumstances.
Then the two men came barreling out the door, running straight through it Kool-Aid Man style. No guns, at least not from what I could see; these two cretins were trying to make a dash for it, even though the cops had the only exit off the Point blocked.
I saw one of them cock his arm back and hurl something from the ledge—the cell phone, one might presume. I hoped that was the case; no need for the police to start wondering who their mysterious informant was. Snitch was never a good label to have, even on the outside.
“They know there’s no way off this hill, right,” I said, turning to Johnny. His eyes stood open in rapt awe. This was better than he could’ve hoped for. At this rate, the two wouldn’t just be busted, but find a way to get themselves killed.
Not that I relished the thought, but I didn’t think the world would be missing out on a cure for heart disease or something.
The police, upon seeing that Ramsky and Bledsoe were unarmed, had moved up and pinned the pair against the cliff. It wasn’t far to the water below, but it was rocky as hell, and neither man seemed eager to test it for soft landing spots. Their arms flung up, and that would have been it, except meth labs are real unpredictable.
The top of the trailer blew off about twenty yards in the air, a fireball erupting into the otherwise tranquil night. Ramsky and Bledsoe, being farthest from the blast, only fell down from the explosion, but the cops, they were stunned a bit. Flames and debris decorated Pete’s Point, a spectacle that I was sure could be seen for some miles.
Not believing their good luck, Ramsky and Bledsoe stumbled and dragged themselves forward, leaping over the prone police officers. They were heading towards our little outcropping of trees, which fed into a thicker strand of woods. I’m not sure what their end game was—the explosion confirmed that they were playing Iron Meth Chef—but what was going down right at that moment, that was clear.
They were headed straight for us.
“Johnny,” I said, and I turned to him. Now he was frozen in a shitting-your-pants kind of way—not the kind of look you wanted to see when someone’s in this sort of foxhole with you. “Goddamnit, man, you need to get the little guy. I got the big one, on the right.” My eyes tracked back to Ramsky and Bledsoe. Fifty yards, maybe less. The showdown would happen soon. “If you don’t, we’re both done.” I hoped that this drilled down how important not screwing up was, but I didn’t get a response.
I crouched behind a tree and breathed deep. The footsteps grew louder. When they were almost even, I sprang out.
I connected with Ramsky, the big ass bastard, going full bore, spearing him from the side. His momentum carried us in a staggering sort of diagonal, into a scrawny sapling that sagged and then snapped under our weight.
He groaned. I threw my best haymaker while he was clutching his ribs. Not an honorable move, but it did the trick, knocking him out cold. I pricked my ears up like a hunting hound, listening for Johnny.
Thrashing and crashing.
I rushed over and blasted Bledsoe in the head with a cheap shot from his blindside, causing him to crumple face first into the grassy dirt. Wouldn’t get me the title, but it would get me the money.
“I had him,” Johnny said, panting, blood dripping from a cut over his mouth, “you didn’t have to do that.”
“Insurance,” I said. “You keep an eye on our new friends. I’ll get our boys in blue.”
I walked over to the group of cops laid out on the ground. I wasn’t friends—if you could call us that—with any of them except Mike Greenville. I offered my hand to him, and he took it, groaning as he stood.
“Goddamn tweakers,” he said, “you see them?”
“I’ll do you one better, Mike,” I said, taking his hand like I was leading him somewhere real special, “I got them for you.”
He shook loose from my grip. “What’d you say?”
“Just come into the woods.”
After I helped him drag Ramsky and Bledsoe back to the Point, Greenville stood there, hands on his hips.
“So, Desmond, what were the two of you doing out in these woods, anyway?”
“Fresh air,” Johnny said. “Good for preventing cancer.”
“I’ll bet,” Greenville said. “And you two just happened to be here when we get an anonymous call—almost a damn bug—on the premises that lets us hear all about their little meth operation.”
“Look,” Johnny said, placing his hand on my shoulder, “I didn’t want to tell you this, ‘cause you know, my buddy Desmond, he’s sensitive about it.”
“Sensitive about what?” I said.
“About how we like to pack each other in the woods. Just get sloppy, roll around in the bushes. Get a good screw in every now and again.”
Greenville wasn’t believing a word, but he was amused by Johnny’s enthusiasm. I can’t say that I shared this view; I wanted to get the hell out of there, not listen to how I loved to suck Johnny’s dick.
“Yeah, two regular faeries,” Greenville said, dragging Bledsoe to his feet. “Whatever you were doing, I don’t want to know about it.”
“Aye, aye,” Johnny said, “later, Mike.”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“We can do that,” I said, and I started down the dirt road that led off Point. Behind me, one of the captured men was yelling epithets and threats. I’d have been more scared if he’d had any juice.
But dumb freelance criminals didn’t worry me too much. Considering, at one point, I’d been one.
Johnny caught up with me after a couple minutes and hopped on my back. I about buckled into the dry soil.
“You beautiful bastard,” he said, “I could fuck you right now.”
“Please don’t. Although I’ll take that money.”
“Straight to business.”
“Do I get a bonus for making the bust myself?”
“Don’t be greedy.”
“Fine. Let’s go.”
We reached his house just as the moon was brightest. I felt that was a good sign.
9
Wine and Dine
Seven hundred sixty-eight bucks.
It looked like a thousand earlier, but I hadn’t counted it. Laziness was part of the culprit, although the thought of rummaging through the dirty bills had played a role. Now that they were mine, they didn’t seem so nasty.
But I didn’t like being shorted.
I’d argued with Johnny for a while, but he swore up and down that he thought it was a thousand bucks, had counted it three times himself—all bullshit, of course—and that he’d get me the difference in a week.
I didn’t have much faith in that notion, but I did have faith that the money would spend. I swung by the liquor store and picked up a bottle of wine with a fancy French name. Seven bucks, but still. The flower shop was closed, so I raided the neighbor’s window box for something that looked half-alive.
And then I went into our home office.
I had hopes that my initiative would result in some gratitude.
Cassie put the kibosh on that right quick, though.
“You were involved in that clusterfuck on the scanner,” she said, voice loud
as hell, “we’re running a goddamn business, here, Kurt. Not some fly-by-night gun for hire bullshit.”
I stepped over the flowers, petals strewn about the room. I offered her the bottle of wine, since nature’s beauty hadn’t appealed. She took it and then chucked it against the wall, a magenta geyser exploding onto the floor.
“Jesus, Cass,” I said, “glass is dangerous.”
“Not half as dangerous as I’m gonna be if you pull this crap again.”
I reached into my back pocket and extracted the wad of greasy bills, tossing it at her. This is what I should have led with, but I didn’t.
Her eyebrows arched in the slightest hint of surprise.
“Rob a strip club?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Who knows with Johnny, but the money’s there.”
She thought about it for a second, wheels turning. I bit my lip, squashing my desire to say something else, argue my case. I was no silver-tongued devil; further input would only seal my fate.
“Fine,” she said, putting the money in her own pocket, “this will cover us for the month.”
“Hey, but I need—” She shot me a look that said shut the hell up, so I did.
“You find any more…projects, you bring them to me first.” And then she went into the bedroom, shutting the door.
Despite my bread-winning capabilities, I was sleeping on the couch. Fox came over and barked.
“I know, man,” I said, “I don’t get women either.”
10
Semiology
By the time I’d awoken the next morning, there was a stack of papers two inches thick on the cheap coffee table in front of me. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and rolled over, straight on the floor.
“Smooth,” Cassie said, and when my senses returned to the land of the living, I could see that she was sitting in a chair ready to go. “Get dressed. We got another shot.”
I yanked on my pants and rubbed some cold water on my face. Not the cleanest job I’d ever done, but hell, it wasn’t like I was getting laid for a few days, anyway. One piece of plain white bread later and we were on the road, heading towards Ocean Boulevard.
“I did some research on this Otto character,” she said. “I want to know more about this job.”
“I thought it didn’t meet your standards.”
“Well, reality set in and I’ll put it real easy for you, Kurt.”
“We’re fucked?”
“We’re fucked.”
Not much more needed to be said. Cassie pulled up at the Seafood Shack and threw the truck into park.
“Nah, I’m good on the fish sandwiches,” I said, “I had a wholesome breakfast already.”
“It’s three in the afternoon.” I double-checked the clock. So it was. Not that it mattered. I deserved to sleep in, after the night I’d had.
“So it is. I was being polite. This place blows.”
“Then don’t get anything,” she said, stepping out of the car, then leaning back through the open window, “in fact, just stay here. Don’t see what Otto has to say. You’ll just dick it all up.”
I watched her head over to one of the wooden tables. It should be illegal for chicks to wear yoga pants. People could get distracted, hurt.
I went up to the Shack and ordered a bucket of fries. The place had the distinct smell of dead fish, and I wasn’t thrilled about sampling their specialties. Last time I had, the rest of the day had been spent buckled to the toilet seat, like an astronaut riding a jetpack.
The greasy teenager behind the counter handed me the sad stack of limp, wet fries, and I headed to the table. By this time, Otto had joined the festivities, still wearing that same blazer. He’d replaced his shirt with a kind of gingham pattern, though, which worked better with the hip professor aesthetic he was trying to project.
I sat down mid-conversation. For once, I kept any smart ass comments to myself.
“My associate and I,” Cassie said, nodding at me, “looked over the files you sent. And we apologize for our behavior.”
I don’t know what I had to apologize for. I hadn’t told the dude his fashion sense sucked, and his motives sounded suspect as hell. Not that I didn’t agree, I just hadn’t gotten the opportunity to start that fire. She’d already burned the house down before I struck a match.
“It’s all right,” Otto said, and put his broad hands on the table in some sort of peace gesture, “you were riled up. Manny…”
“Manny can be a real piece of work.”
I looked at Cassie. Who was this woman? She hadn’t exploded into a string of expletives for at least five minutes.
“That he can. As I was going to mention yesterday, before our meeting was cut short, I have a job for you and Mr. Desmond.”
“Kurt,” I said, “Mr. Desmond is—”
“Yes, your father. Of course,” he said, smiling as he completed the old joke, his expression telling me to be quiet. “This job, it involves finding a certain piece of artwork. Now, we have a few clues as to where it might be, but we were hoping that professionals might be able to locate it quicker.”
“And as I said the other day,” Cassie said, “we aren’t art dealers. Why us?”
“This isn’t a job for the stuffy collars,” he said, “it takes…more resourceful individuals. Locals.”
“All right. Why go to all the trouble, though? From the picture you gave us, it’s just a bunch of symbols. Gibberish.”
Otto’s features tightened when she said this, but he maintained his placid demeanor. “Yes, I suppose they are just, as you say, gibberish to most. But to my employer, they’re very important. Fascinating, of great historical relevance.”
“And it said in the report that this is a cave painting? Look, I don’t know if you’ve been around here,” Cassie said, sweeping a finger in the air like she was running a guided tour, “but this town isn’t full of mountains.” She grinned for a moment and lowered her voice, like she was going to tell him a secret. “In fact, the boys in the white coats say that we’d be the first to get swallowed up in the ocean.”
Otto would have made for a terrible poker player. Maybe I would let Johnny know. His teeth clenched, like he was sick of bullshitting with us, and just wanted to hear a yes. What he didn’t seem to realize, though, was this was all part of Cassie’s game. She was reading him, and what his face had to say, it wasn’t good.
“My employer,” he said, continuing as if it were a great burden to remain civil, “would like a few high-resolution photographs of the cave where these symbols are located.”
“But you already have a drawing. Seems you got the symbols you need to study right there.”
“This is a concept sketch, Ms. Atwood. Based upon other artifacts and paintings.”
“We’ll take the gig. And your employer, he’ll give us the money up front?”
“Yes, and after yesterday, we’re willing to double the payment. If you can expedite this,” Otto said.
“Which was?”
“Twenty thousand. My employer will give you forty thousand, however, if you can guarantee delivery by the end of the week. I have the twenty in the car.”
“That’s not very much—”
“Yeah, we’ll do it. End of the week,” I said through a mouthful of greasy potatoes, “you found the right guys. Fast, clean. Impeccable service. Where’d you say that twenty large was, now?”
“In the car. I’ll get it.”
I leapt up, feeling the daggers in my back from Cassie.
“Don’t worry, Otto,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder pad of his expensive tweed blazer, “I’ll come to you.” I whispered in his ear. “And, just between you and me, the chick doesn’t know what she’s talking about. I think your get-up is fantastic.”
I think he considered punching me, but instead he popped the trunk and handed me a brown package
. I ripped it open a little bit, and Ben Franklin’s fresh, clean face grinned back at me from beneath the wrapper.
“I’ll be back next Monday, Mr. Desmond,” Otto said, smoothing the front of his clothes before he stepped into the driver’s seat, “you’d best get started.”
Not a problem.
I headed back to the table—snagging a cola from the Shack before I did—and sat down slurping at the straw. Cassie’s eyes hadn’t left me the whole time—and I didn’t think it was because I looked better than usual.
“He’s got a little weight behind him,” she said, once it was clear I wasn’t going to start the conversation.
“I thought he was in pretty good shape, myself.”
“This is serious, Kurt. Whoever he works for, they don’t want delays. And whatever those symbols mean, they’re nothing good.”
“You worry too much. I bet it’s just for their Sunday School exhibit about worshipping false idols.”
“I’m just saying.”
I knew what she’d been saying. We’d take his money, but be looking over our shoulders.
I could live with that. Money talks, after all.
11
Cave Paintings
I was ready to go home, strategize, regroup.
But Cassie respected our deadline, even if I’d been the one to jump without considering the consequences.
We passed our crumbling office, and I gave her a look. She didn’t indulge me.
“What about Fox,” I said as the sad building receded into the rearview.
“He can shit all over the place, for all I care,” she said, “I pulled the door to my bedroom shut.”
Oh. Now it was her bedroom.
This week was gonna be real fun.
“All right, fine. Where are we headed?”
“The only place you’ll find a damn cave around here.”
I didn’t know where that was, despite living in Seaside Heights for the entirety of my more than three decades on this green, wonderful planet. Made me feel stupid, considering she’d only been around for three years, maybe four. Time sticks together sometimes.
Shadow Memories: A Novel (The Singularity Conspiracy Book 1) Page 3
