In Charleston, I ducked into a washroom. They knew about the flight to Charleston. Did they know where Darlene lived? I hadn’t seen anyone and I hoped no one had spotted me. Sometimes the bull wins and sometimes the rabbit wins. When the wolves are on your trail, it’s a call you have to make.
A new rush of people into the bathroom meant another plane had landed. Time to exit with the crowd, and I did. Down where the cabs waited I took the next in line.
“Where to, Mac?”
I gave him a fifty. “A FedEx store.”
I bought two boxes and packed them myself. I addressed one to Augie, with a note for him to hold it for me. If I didn’t make it, he might as well have the rest of the five grand. The second went to Darlene with fifty grand in it. I just wrote a note.
“Your father wanted you to have this. Keep it quiet for a while.”
I sealed both packages and paid for three-day deliveries. When I came out, the cab was still waiting. I gave him the address and he took me there. The money belt was still comfortably full.
I had the cab wait as I knocked on the door. When Darlene opened the door, she looked older than her father’s picture. I waved to the taxi and he took off.
In my pocket, I had my phone open, with the speaker turned down to nothing.
“Darlene,” I began. “I had to leave your father in Miami. He wanted to come but he had an accident.”
She led me into the house. Someone pushed the muzzle of a gun against my neck. It felt cold. I didn’t move. My hand in my pocket dialled 911.
“Yes, Jack’s sick. Trouble was he didn’t have the money, did he?” the second thug who stepped from the dining room said. He had a gun as well. “We figured you might be coming here.”
“So you’re robbing us at gunpoint,” I said. “What if I hadn’t come?”
“The ladies would have told us who you were, eventually,” he replied. “Now, where’s the money?”
Slowly, I lifted my shirt and unbuckled the money belt. It fell to the floor.
The nasty one started toward it, looked at me and said to Darlene, “Sweet pea, pick it up and give it to me.”
She picked it up. “There’s blood on it.”
“Damn right, probably your father’s blood. Tough guy. Most guys get a shiv in the kidney and they’re down for the count. Not him.”
He herded us into the living room, where Darlene’s mother sat. “Sit down over there. Bennie, get the car.”
He stood over us, the gun in one hand and the money belt in the other. He was weighing something. He wanted to get clean away but he also hungered for more, to mix his type of fun with this business.
“Mr. Hotshot, let’s see what’s in those pockets.”
Airline ticket stubs, a paperback book. Some tissues. My wallet and, last, my phone. If he checked the call history, I was dead.
“Buddy, Beecham didn’t pay you?”
“When we got here. That was the plan.”
“Sucker.”
With taking his eyes off me he said, “Benny, go and get the car started. I'll be there in a bit.”
Benny went out the door. Suddenly I felt cold. I was sweating. What did this thug want to do that he didn't want Benny to see. Nothing good came to mind.
I waited. He wanted something more. What could I give him? Desperately I said, “Yeah, Beecham never thought you guys would come to his daughter’s place. Didn’t think anyone but him was at risk. Last I saw, he was bleeding like a pig. I wonder if he made it to the ICU.”
Darlene gasped. She clutched her hands together. I turned to her. My left leg was off the couch and under me.
From outside, a loudspeaker began, “This is…”
I didn’t wait. He had turned toward the front door for only a moment but that was enough. I drove in low, my chest at my knees, and came up a little to smash my shoulder into his stomach.
The air burst out of his lungs with the sound of a pricked balloon. I didn’t stop. My left hand hammered blow after blow into his balls. I grabbed the gun and twisted it out of his grasp, breaking a finger. Then I hit him with it three times.
“Darlene, go and open the front door. Keep your hands up and in front of you. Move slowly,”
I dropped the gun. The cops stormed inside in seconds. All helmets and bulletproof vests, with assault rifles. As they forced me to the ground, I relaxed and smiled. No one would die today.
BURNT OFFERINGS
Hermine Robinson
Dale handed the joint back to the girl – a girl of unspecified age because he never bothered to ask and she never offered – probably not underage, but with a name like Chelsea you never knew. If that was even her real name. Ryan had vouched for her, but lately Ryan’s judgement left a lot to be desired. The dumb shit had passed out in a corner of the bar halfway through the evening, leaving Dale to pick up the tab and deal with the girl.
Chelsea seemed okay. She had propped Ryan up in the booth, pulled a ball cap over his eyes, and dropped a twenty on the table for the bar owner to call a cab when Ryan woke up. Then she offered to go home with Dale. He had not planned for her to stay overnight, but who was he to question the fates, and the whole thing seemed like a sweet deal until now, when she started asking too many questions.
“Come on, I want to hear about the fires you set,” said Chelsea.
Was she really begging to hear this shit? “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Bullshit. That’s why Ryan introduced us. He said you knew something about fires.”
Ryan, the fucker. Dale should have known better than to trust an idiot who liked spreading tales to any young girl willing to give him the time of day – or night.
“Knowing about fires isn’t the same thing as setting them.”
Dale could not get a read on the girl. He watched Chelsea inhale deeply and he felt better – smoking up made it less likely that she was a cop.
“What are you staring at?” she asked, squinting through the blue haze. Chelsea sat cross-legged on the end of the bed across from Dale. He could not sit like that anymore; his knees and hips would not take it. Maybe that was what bothered him about her: girls her age thought men in their thirties were ancient, and Dale was pushing a hard-fought forty.
“Are you a cop, Chelsea? A snitch maybe?” It was a stupid question to ask but Dale could not help himself. Paranoia.
Chelsea laughed and leaned forward across the bed. “Do you wanna check if I’m wearing a wire?”
Dale looked past the gold locket dangling from Chelsea’s neck, down the V-neck of her top. A pink bra, probably the push-up kind, gave her more cleavage than a girl her size deserved. No sign of a wire from here either.
Chelsea smiled as he stared. “Why would you think I’m a cop?”
“Because you ask a lot of questions.”
“Blame my grandmother. She’s the one who told me that polite girls show an interest in other people and don’t only talk about themselves all the time.”
Dale leaned back against the headboard, still enjoying the view. “Tell me about your grandmother.”
Chelsea crawled forward and handed over the joint before fumbling with the locket and pointing to the photo inside. Dale barely gave it a glance. Maybe it was his eyesight, or the crappy light from the bedside lamp, but all those grainy old portraits looked the same to him.
“My grandmother raised me until I was eleven.”
“Where was your mom?”
“Are you a cop?” asked Chelsea.
Dale choked as he inhaled. It made him feel like a rookie – hacking and coughing. The girl looked concerned, but not about Dale. She slapped at the glowing cherry melting a hole in the cheap nylon bedspread where he had dropped the joint. She made an old lady tsk-tsking sound while she snuffed the ember and put the remnants of the joint on the saucer Dale kept beside his bed. “You should be careful,” she said when he finished coughing. “You could start a fire.”
“I thought you were into setting fires.”
“Setting f
ires is easy. Any idiot with a match can commit arson,” said Chelsea. “I’m more interested in how you get away with it.”
“Who said anything about arson? Can’t a guy have a couple of bad breaks?”
“Not really. One fire is unlucky, but more than that and someone’s going to figure it out.”
Dale shrugged. No one had figured it out yet, and right now the only thing he wanted to figure out was how much of Chelsea’s cleavage was real and how much was padding. “Mind if I check you out for that wire?” He pulled her toward him.
Chelsea ran her hands up under his T-shirt and said, “Me first.”
The girl did not act like any kind of cop Dale knew, undercover or otherwise. Afterward, Chelsea lay propped up on one elbow beside him, her clothes strewn at the side of the bed, except the panties she had put back on, along with his grey T-shirt. Dale was not a big man, but on her his shirt hung loose like pyjamas. There was not as much padding to her bra as he had suspected either – and no scars from surgery that he could see. Some girls were lucky that way, all skinny and tight but with a nice rack. Lucky her; lucky him. Dale lit a cigarette.
“You shouldn’t smoke in bed. It’s dangerous.”
First the conniption about the joint and now she was lecturing him on smoking in bed. The girl definitely had an issue with fires. Dale butted his smoke after another couple of drags. Fuck it, he should quit anyways. Chelsea played with her locket, flipping it open to the grainy picture inside before closing it again and winding the chain through her fingers. Dale said, “So, you never told me why you were raised by your grandmother instead of your mom.”
Chelsea looked relieved to talk about it. “My mom was only fourteen when she had me and took off before I really knew her. Then, after Grandma died I got bounced around to foster homes because Mom was too strung out to have custody.”
“It sounds like a tough kind of life for a young girl,” said Dale. “So, how long ago was that? How old were you when your grandmother died?”
“I know what you’re trying do.” Chelsea laughed. “But it’s a bit late to try and figure out if I’m jailbait.” She sat up, and pulled her hair back. “Okay, you tell me. How old do you think I am?”
Dale guessed eighteen – a safe number because the underage girls liked to think they looked “old enough” and the older ones liked it when they looked young enough to still get carded. He could not remember if the bar where they met held to such formalities – probably not.
“Hah! I’m twenty-three.”
Dale played along. “You barely look legal. I thought I was guessing high.”
“Everyone thinks I’m younger. It’s because I’m a tiny thing and people underestimate me.”
“I’ll bet they do,” said Dale. “But even twenty-three is kind of young to hook up with an old man like me. So what’s your angle?” Chelsea considered the question a moment too long; Dale waited for the lie.
“I like older guys,” she said, “and Ryan told me you only smoked good pot and didn’t mind sharing for the right price.”
Halfway to the truth, thought Dale. It did not explain her earlier interest in the fires. “That’s selling yourself kind of cheap, isn’t it?”
“Maybe, but you know that’s not the only reason I’m here.” She tiptoed her fingers down the line of hair below his navel toward his shorts. “Tell me about the fires.”
“Okay, but it’ll cost you.” Dale’s body responded to her touch; he reached under the grey T-shirt to slip it off her. Afterward, he lit a fresh cigarette and offered Chelsea a drag, but she declined. “Why would you smoke pot, but not cigarettes?”
“My grandmother hated cigarettes. She couldn’t stand the smoke because of her asthma, and ever since I was little she drilled those anti-smoking messages into my head.”
“But not the ones about drugs.”
“Maybe if she’d lived long enough.” Chelsea played with the locket again, snapping it open and shut.
“Did you get anything else from her besides a locket and advice about not smoking?”
“This.” Chelsea showed Dale the gold band with a tiny diamond she wore on her thumb. “It was her engagement ring.”
It would barely pass as a promise ring nowadays, thought Dale, but maybe back in the day it was adequate. His brain felt too tired to do the math and figure out how long ago that might have been. He lit another cigarette. “Grab me a beer.”
“Only if you put down the cigarette while I’m gone. One burn hole in the bedspread is enough.”
“Are you scared I’m going to burn down the place? Because I’m not into that anymore.”
“That’s not what Ryan said.”
“Ryan doesn’t know shit and should keep his fucking mouth shut,” said Dale. “Now go get me a beer.”
Chelsea shrugged herself back into Dale’s shirt before padding out of the bedroom. She came back with a single can, popped the top and took a swig before holding it out to Dale. The girl had some nerve. “Hey, get me a fresh one. I don’t need your backwash.”
“Last cold one.” Chelsea wiped the top of the can with Dale’s T-shirt and handed it to him. “You afraid of girl germs?”
Dale grabbed the can, peered into it, and used a corner of the bedspread to wipe the top again before draining it. It tasted like backwash. Fizz and spit. Dammit. The girl was getting to him. He glanced at the alarm clock on his dresser across the room. It was not too late to get rid of her. Maybe he could kick her out and get a good night’s sleep.
“So I got you the beer,” said Chelsea. “Now tell me about the fires. Not just setting them, but the secret of getting away with it. Pretty please.” She sat cross-legged near the end of the bed again, elbows on her knees and chin resting in her hands like a kid waiting for a bedtime story.
Twenty-three years old, my ass, thought Dale. How had he gotten hooked up with a teenybopper? Fucking Ryan, that’s how. “Nothing to tell,” answered Dale. “Fires are terrible accidents and even the stuff that doesn’t burn is ruined by smoke, so you lose everything.”
“But just the stuff you don’t care about, right?”
“No, important things too, because it looks suspicious if all your photo albums and the new television just happen to be at a friend’s house.”
“So then, what’s the point? Why burn down a house for no good reason?”
“I didn’t say there was no reason. It just can’t be about stuff,” said Dale, “or money.”
“So you just burn them for fun?”
“Hell, no!” Dale grabbed Chelsea’s arm, pulled her forward, and twisted her around to pin her on the bed with his hand across her neck. “Is that what Ryan’s been saying? That we set fires for fun?”
Chelsea jerked her head side to side as she kicked to get free. Dale pressed harder, and her eyes grew wide before he let her go. Fire was one thing, murder another. The girl rubbed her throat and gasped a couple of times before using the grey T-shirt to wipe away her tears. His grey T-shirt, and Dale wanted it back before he sent her packing. Chelsea moved warily around the bed, just out of reach. Dale leaned back against the headboard, biding his time. Her clothes were right beside the bed; he reached down to pull them closer. He liked the fear in her eyes as he stroked the lace of her cute little pink bra.
“It was just a question,” she said. “You didn’t have to try and kill me.”
“I don’t kill people,” said Dale, “and I don’t set fires for fun, no matter what Ryan says.”
“That’s not what Ryan said, but it doesn’t matter because Ryan’s a fucking idiot and you need to get rid of him before it’s too late. I’ll help you.”
Whoa. Dale kept the leer frozen on his face as he stared at Chelsea, but his fingers hesitated in their travels over pink lace. “Ryan’s my friend,” he said.
“No, he’s your stooge,” said Chelsea. “A dangerous one because he talks too much, and the first time he gets caught setting one of your fires he’ll talk even more.”
“Ryan knows
shit.”
“If you say so.”
“Whatever he’s told you is all hearsay – nothing that anybody could prove. I had some bad luck with fires a few years back but that’s all it was.” Dale could still see the impression of his hand on her neck, and the locket twirling at the end of its chain glinted yellowy-orange in the incandescent light from the bedside lamp. But the glint in Chelsea’s eyes as she crawled across the bed was from something else. Holy fuck, she’s getting off on this fire thing, thought Dale.
“So tell me about those fires.” She ran her hand up his leg. “How did it start?”
“The first fire was an accident. I was crashing on a friend’s couch for a few nights while I was out of work and some bonehead dumped an ashtray in the garbage after a party. I didn’t lose much, but everyone still felt sorry for me anyways. I got new clothes, job offers, and some agency found me a place to stay until I was back on my feet.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “Were you the bonehead who dumped the ashtray?”
“No, but everybody I met had stories about stuff like that, and the whole thing got me thinking about all the accidental fires that happen. I set up a little side business, helped a few people out of some jams and did them some favours. It was all good as long as they followed the rules. No padding the insurance, or moving valuable stuff out of the house at the last minute.”
“That makes sense,” said Chelsea. “It’s all good so long as nobody gets hurt.”
“That’s the first rule, nobody gets hurt.”
“Except things don’t always work out that way, do they? I heard that someone died because of one of your fires.”
Dale stared at Chelsea. What the fuck had Ryan told her? “It wasn’t the fire. A neighbour lady died of a heart attack. Nothing to do with me, but it’s what I got for breaking rule number two.” Chelsea did not ask about the second rule. Had Ryan told her that one, too? She played with the locket. Dale felt like ripping it from her throat so he could throttle her good before doing the same to Ryan. “I promised myself to never start a fire for my own benefit – that was rule number two – but then I hit on some hard times and I figured ‘what the hell’ and did it anyways.”
New Canadian Noir Page 15
