by Gordon Brown
I do as I am told.
We enter the bar. Charlie points towards the far end. ‘There’s a trapdoor behind the bar. The stairs go straight down.’
I quickly find the handle on the floor and pull up the cover. The trapdoor is heavy, awkward to move, but it finally gives. I swing it up and drop it to the floor.
Charlie follows me over and whispers. ‘There’s a small door at the rear of the cellar. The key is on a nail to the left. When you go through the door you’ll find another trapdoor that’s used for dropping in beer and spirits. It comes up under the fire escape in the alley. In this light you might get out without being seen. It’s the best I can think of.’
‘Thanks, Charlie.’
I start to drop down and he grabs my shoulder. ‘Here. It’s not much but it will get you out of town. I wouldn’t go using any ATMs or swiping credit cards in the near future.’ He hands me a fistful of notes and I stuff them in my pocket.
‘Charlie, I’m still going for Lorraine.’
‘Don’t be stupid. I’ll take care of it. Trust me.’ Charlie closes the hatch. I fumble around until I find the door and the key.
The lock is tough to open. When it frees itself the door flies inward. I stumble into the space beyond. My shin cracks against a beer keg. I curse in the dark. Waving my hands around, I find the hatch. I undo the catch, all by feel, and lean upward, shoulder against the metal.
The plate lifts into the alley. Catching it with my hand, I put my head to the crack. I’ve seen the hatch often enough as Lorraine and I have lounged near the pub door. It sits hard against the wall, under a metal fire escape.
I can’t see anyone but my view is restricted. I listen for any telltale sounds but the rumble of traffic and the sounds of the city are all I can hear.
I heave, catching the metal handle before the hatch bangs on the ground. I haul myself up and close the hatch. The alley rolls into view. Clear.
For a second.
A suit rounds the corner, then another. I turn to find the other end of the alley blocked by three more. Buzz 1 leads them. He smiles. I think about diving down the hatch but I’d be trapped. The bar door is an option but I’d be back where I was. I stare like I’ve been caught in a car’s headlights.
‘Ok, Mr McIntyre, don’t make this any harder than it needs to be.’ Buzz 2 starts to close in.
I look up, more for inspiration than for any outreach to a higher authority. Either way it works. The fire escape. Jumping up I grab the pull-down ladder. It rattles down as my weight triggers the release mechanism. Buzz 2 starts to run as I start to climb.
Charlie’s premises are part of a three-story block and I gain the platform for the first floor as the suits converge at the bottom of the ladder. I try to pull it up but Buzz 2 is only feet behind me. I wait until his head is level with my feet and stamp down hard on his face. He twists to avoid the kick, but he’s too slow. My foot catches him a side blow, he loses grip, falling into the suits below.
I fly up the next twenty feet and at the top I’m faced with a flat roof. There are no other exits. I sprint to the far side and look down onto the street. Two suits are standing at either end of the alley. Three more are standing at the front door to the bar. I duck back as Buzz 2 makes the top of the fire escape.
I run to the far end of the building. Looking down, I can see the alley below. Across from me is the next strip of buildings – all two-story. The roof beyond is flat, with a doorway about halfway along. The door is ajar and I can see stairs leading down.
I look back. Buzz 2 is on the roof and bearing down on me. I judge the gap between my building and the next at a good twelve feet with a ten-foot difference in height. I’d never make the distance as a regular long jump but with the fall I might.
I need a long run-up but Buzz 2 will be on me in seconds. I have no choice. I run at the edge and leap, knowing I’m not going to make it. I’m too slow and my leap too weak.
The far wall looms. I throw my hands up. The edge of the roof digs into my palms. I grab hold of it to stop me plunging to the alley floor. My chest hits the side wall, followed by my legs. It hurts. My hands find a grip and hold. I scrabble with my feet for some purchase. I feel something jutting from the wall. I put my left foot on it and push.
‘Jump! After him!’
‘No way.’
The voices are coming from the roof I’ve just left.
I plant my other foot on the protruding object, shoving myself onto the roof. I don’t look back. I just run for the door.
Crashing through, I fly down the stairs. There are two flights, then another door. I open it and fall into an empty space. It looks like a storage area. I scan the surroundings. A gap at the back leads out onto what looks like a balcony. I head for it.
I hear glass breaking from below, then voices. These guys are not for giving in.
I reach the balcony only to find it’s glassed in. This is no storage area. Someone has laid this out as a loft-style apartment. Three glass sliding doors protect the metal balcony. I try the sliding doors one by one, but they’re all locked. I look around for something to break the glass with, but there’s nothing. The voices are closing in. Rising from below.
I run back to the stairs. With heavy legs I return to the roof. Sprinting to the edge where the balcony sits, I drop myself onto the metal structure. Through the glass doors I see suits pour into the space beyond. One of them sees me. His mouth moves but the double-glazing stifles the shout. He raises a gun. I place my hand on the balcony railing and leap over.
There is no alley below – just a stretch of scrubland. I fall ten feet, roll forward and I’m up and running again.
A muffled shot rings out, followed by the sound of one of the glass doors exploding. I keep running, entering a small parking lot at the back of a commercial row of buildings at the other end of the scrub. I run into the gap between two buildings and out onto the street beyond.
Across the street there’s a movie lot stuffed with cinema equipment. Flats, lighting covered in tarpaulins, a couple of trucks and range of props. I enter the lot, grab a handful of the tarpaulin from one of the lighting rigs and pull it over myself. Underneath the rig is a crisscross of aluminum tubing. I climb up a few rungs, settle myself into the nest of steel and try to stop breathing.
There is no point running further. I haven’t the strength. This might be the most obvious place to hide in LA or it just might fool them. I just wish I didn’t need air.
Breathing makes so much noise.
Chapter 16
‘Did you see him?’
It’s Buzz 2. He’s only a few feet away.
‘No, but he can’t have gone far.’
‘You try that way. I’ll try this way.’
They’re talking too loud. You don’t yak like you have just come out from a rock concert when you’re hunting someone. You do it by signs, not words. Not unless you want the prey to believe they are close to freedom.
I’m cramping up. The cold of the metal is creeping into my bones. Don’t move. It’s all I can do. Not to move. My ears are my defense. The slightest noise. Any sign that I’m not on my own. Anything. I start to count. Backwards from one thousand. If I get to zero with no sign, then I’ll move.
A car drives by. Chat and laughter and the car slows.
‘Is he watching us?’ A girl’s voice. Then she continues: ‘He is.’
‘Hey!’ Now a man’s voice. ‘What are you looking at? You dressed for a funeral? Because it’ll be yours if you don’t fuck off.’
I’m guessing one of the suits is hanging around to see if I reappear.
‘Let’s go.’ The girl sounds drunk. ‘Maybe he likes to watch. Is that it – you like to watch?’ The last few words are shouted.
More laughter as they move away.
I’ve lost count so I start again.
1,000-999-998…
I hit zero and wait for another count of one hundred before starting to unfurl my legs. The blood rushes back. I bite my tongue an
d clench my fists as the pain kicks in. The pins and needles are extreme. I flex my joints to try to ease the throbbing. My foot hits the ground as I drop down. I’m still inside the tarpaulin tent. Leaning my head to the ground, the smell of damp concrete in my nose, I stretch my hand out and lift the corner of the material to reveal a slice of the road.
I crawl forward, lifting the tarpaulin a little more. No one – but this is like shining a torch for light in a desert. You can see a few feet but someone a mile away can see you. I lift a little more and push my head into the gap.
No one.
I roll out, waiting for the pins and needles to ease before standing.
Still no one.
Time to walk – not run. No need to draw attention. Anyway, I’m out of running at the moment.
There’s no cover to be had on the street but the next corner is only yards away. I hold my breath as I walk round it and exhale as I put my hiding place out of sight behind me. I cross the road and enter yet another alley.
As I exit the alley I spot a cab sitting at the end of the next street. I walk up and jump in. The cabbie looks surprised to find he has a fare.
‘St Vincent’s Medical Centre,’ I say.
The driver takes off. I try to look behind in a manner that doesn’t suggest I’m being followed. There’s no one in sight. I settle into the seat as the driver takes an on-ramp to the I-10 and heads downtown.
We hit the off-ramp with St Vincent’s a block away. Two SUVs sit at the next corner. I duck as we pass them. Two more sit at the entrance, with three suits on the door.
‘Take me round the back.’
The cabbie nods.
An SUV, a Regal and two suits sit at the back.
Fuck.
The cab stops.
‘Not here,’ I say.
‘Where then?’
‘The nearest payphone.’
Two blocks on, the cabbie pulls up at a phone.
I jump out. ‘I’ll be two minutes.’ The phone is working and I dial Charlie’s pub.
‘Michael’s, can I help you,’ Charlie answers.
‘Charlie, it’s me.’
‘How are you?’
‘How am I? How the hell do you think I am?’
Silence.
‘Charlie, are you alone?’
‘I…’
I slam the phone down. Stupid. Just stupid. Of course he’s not alone. A car burns rubber. I turn, expecting to see an SUV or a Regal, but it’s an old Taurus pulling away from the lights too quickly.
I jump back in the cab. ‘The Greyhound Bus Depot.’
I’m no use to Lorraine here. It’s me they want. A little distance and figure things out. Then back for her when things have cooled off. I pull the bundle of notes that Charlie gave me from my pocket but it’s not enough. Charlie has given me fifty dollars. I need to get more cash.
Shit.
I lean forward. ‘Can you pull off the freeway and find an ATM?’
The driver doesn’t look happy but I don’t care. I have to get cash now. If I draw it out at the bus station it will be a giveaway as to where I am. And I need money. Once I’m on the road I can’t access more.
There’s an ATM at the bottom of the next off-ramp. The machine only lets me draw four hundred dollars. I jump back in the cab and we take off again.
Twenty minutes later the taxi driver pulls up at the bus depot. The complex lies on a side street fronted by chain link. The buses are parked rear in. It’s quiet, it’s late, but there are still buses pulling in and out. I strip forty bucks from my cash and pay the driver.
As I enter the depot I keep an eye out for suits. The good news is that they’ll stand out a mile in here. Two-piece and ties are thin on the ground. The ticket office has a queue of one. I approach it trying to figure where I’m going.
Two police officers walk into the depot and, with the eyes of the well-practiced, scan the concourse. They stop when they see me. I look away. When I turn back one of them is on his walkie-talkie.
Can’t be for me. Can it? The suits have some reach if the beat cops have me down pat already. I wander to the coffee machine and order up something to keep me awake. When the cup pops out I risk a glance at the cops – they’re gone.
I swallow most of the liquid in two shots. Time to leave town.
I approach the ticket booth. ‘When is the next bus to New Orleans?’
‘Ten to twelve tonight, sir.’
The ticket man looks bored. His shirt is stained and his badge tells me his name is Helmut.
‘Helmut, how long does the journey take?’
‘You arrive at ten to eight on Monday night. Change twice. Tomorrow morning at six-fifteen in El Paso and then again at Houston at eleven fifteen on Monday morning.’
Long trip. I reach for my money. ‘A single to New Orleans.’
The man hits a few buttons on his screen. ‘One hundred and ninety dollars.’
I step back. ‘That the cheapest fare?’
‘Book on the web and you’ll get some off.’
As if. I start to count out the cash. ‘OK. I’ll go with it.’
He prints off the ticket along with a receipt.
‘Do you have a list of the stops in between?’ I ask.
He plays with the screen again before a printer spits out a list of towns.
‘Thanks.’ I scan the list, counting off the states. Arizona, New Mexico, Texas and Louisiana. ‘How far is it?’
Helmut shakes his head and punches some more. ‘Just under nineteen hundred miles. Most of it on the I-10.’
I sip at the last of the coffee and screw my face up at the taste. ‘Last question. Will it be busy?’
This time he smiles. ‘There are a few on board but if you’re looking for company’ – he winks as he says company – ‘you may be disappointed.’
The phone next to him rings and I’m dismissed.
I check out the café and load up on doughnuts, candy and Coke. There’s a small stand selling travel aids next to the cafe. Inflatable headrests, non-drip cups and the like. A shiny Leatherman hangs from the top of a small carousel. I’m a Boy Scout at heart. I cough up for the tool and slip it into my pocket. I ask where the nearest liquor store is. I’m directed a few blocks away. A bottle of Jack Daniels and I’m back at the depot with ten minutes to spare before the bus departs.
I’m not sure I want to go all the way to New Orleans, but I need distance and there will be plenty of places en route to stop off if I change my mind.
It’s as good a plan as I can come up with.
The bus is waiting on the last but one stand. There’s no one out front of the vehicle but the back seats seem heavy with people. I flash my ticket at the driver. The rear is noisy. At a guess I would say we have entered ‘little old lady’ land. The chatter is loud and friendly. I count twenty women. Halfway down the bus two older men sit on their own. I choose a seat a few in front of them and flop. Then I’m bolt upright. No cup!
I jump off the bus, order another coffee I don’t want from the machine, tip out the liquid, leaping back on as the driver shuts the door to pull out.
As we leave I scan for suits but it seems clear. Suddenly I feel trapped in the metal shell. This is such a dumb thing to do. How easy will it be to figure where I have gone? Why am I leaving with Lorraine still in hospital? I decide to exit my head. I mix up a drink and tip it down in one go.
What is the plan? I mix a second drink. Who are the suits? What do they want? I slug half the second drink.
What do I do next? Do I stay on the run? For how long?
I finish the drink and pour another.
Chapter 17
‘We stop here for an hour.’ The voice cuts through the fug of booze and sleep.
‘Sorry?’
The driver is standing over me. ‘We stop over for an hour. You can stay on board if you want, but you might want to get a coffee.’
I rub my eyes before looking out of the window. There’s a six-lane highway outside and little else
. The bus is sitting in a double-height concrete shell.
‘Any good restaurants around?’ I enquire.
The driver shakes his head. ‘Depot café or nothing.’
An hour later I’m back in my seat, two coffees to the good, three doughnuts light from my bag of six. The gaggle of women is back on board. They’re a little more subdued than when we left. The two older men have moved to the row behind me.
‘You on your own, son?’ One of the men is talking to me but I’m not in the mood for chat.
‘We don’t bite,’ the second man joins in. I still ignore them.
‘You had a nice gab with Jack last night,’ says the first man. His bright blonde hair is an award-winner in the bouffant category. It sits atop a suntanned face with more wrinkles than could be cleaned out with a pipe cleaner. He’s wearing a cardigan, purple with 69 picked out in stitched panels. His teeth look store-bought.
‘Jack?’ says the second man, and points at my bag. He smells of expensive aftershave. I smell like crap. ‘Jack Daniels?’
They both laugh.
‘Up for sharing it?’ he asks.
I shake my head.
‘Long journey if you are going all the way to the Big Easy. Pays to be friends with people on a bus. You never know when you’ll want company.’ The second man is as bald as his friend is hirsute. He’s equally as tanned and is top to toe in black – a roll top hiding his neck.
I turn away.
‘Company.’ The Bouffant King rolls the word around his mouth as if he’s chewing hot candy floss.
‘Company,’ repeats the Man in Black.
I lean against the window as the bus pulls out. Thankfully they lose interest in me.
At Tucson I crash the restroom for a quick wash.
We cross into New Mexico around midday and the driver pulls over and tells us we have a half-hour stopover in Lords-burg. There’s a McDonald’s on the opposite corner to a gas station. I decide to risk a Big Mac.
The place is busy. The little old ladies are ahead of me and have all decided to tuck into calories. The only spare seat is in the booth next to the Bouffant King and the Man in Black. I sigh, pick up my dead cow and take a seat. Thankfully they are too engrossed in each other to bother with me.
