Jack in a Box

by Pringle McCloy

  “There she is!” someone hollered. “She’s getting away!”

  Yes, she was. I almost pulled her arm off before the Red Sea miraculously parted and we dashed through the opening. The sky had again turned black and shortly after we reached the safety of my Beemer the rain came pelting down. Jillian curled into a ball.

  “It was supposed to be a peaceful protest!” she whined. “We don’t believe in violence.”

  “You’re pretty naïve for a thirty-year old, Jillian. What makes you think you can control the actions of other people? Especially during rush hour when poor working slobs just want to go home. People with jobs, that is, although I doubt you know many real people.”

  She tried to wipe her tears on her plastic sleeve but only managed to move them around. “It had to be rush hour. Or we wouldn’t get the attention for our cause.”

  “Oh, you got attention, alright. And don’t be surprised when they throw the book at you. Mischief. Big time. Jail term, since you’re on probation. And possibly lawsuits if anyone gets injured back there. Do you want me to go on?”

  She thrusts her defiant chin at me. “I want you to shut up, Hampton. I don’t need a lecture. I can get that from Jack.”

  “Thanks. Thanks for being grateful that I saved your skinny ass back there. If they’d caught you they may have flogged you. Do you not get that?”

  “I should be grateful,” she said sarcastically. “Grateful that you somehow manage to show up at every single protest to interfere with my work. My work. My cause. I just don’t know why I’m not grateful.”

  We left it there.

  With the cash advances I received from Reynolds and Richard I took Jackie and Billy shopping for new clothes and the cell phones needed for their jobs. And after that horror show I sprang for dim sum, during which Thing One and Thing Two kept phoning each other across the table to see what they should order. It was a simple matter, really, because they chose everything from every cart going by, while guzzling three pots of green tea. A double shot of whisky, three rounds, worked for me. Was that the same as three double-shots of whiskey? I phoned Jackie across the table to get his take on the matter.

  “Can’t you see I’m eating, Amster? Figure it out yourself.” He cut me off before snatching up a chicken foot and making guttural sounds.

  I gave up.

  The following morning I discovered a huge creative streak in me, a Dickens of sorts, just begging to get out. Didn’t I tell you that I was going bad? After Billy Chan told me that Richard was going to his in-home gym to work out I texted Reynolds saying,

  Richard is carrying a heavy weight on his shoulders. He thinks he’s a dumbbell. He told Shorty that he is on an endless treadmill, going nowhere fast. He sounds depressed to me.

  The following day when Billy told me that Richard was swallowing his morning supplements – a pile of them – I texted,

  Richard is on medication. He’s swallowing pills faster than Elvis.

  On day three, after his tailor had come to measure him for a new suit, I wrote,

  Richard has ordered a new suit for a funeral and he’s talking about too many loose threads. He can’t find the silver lining.

  I just didn’t say that the funeral was for his intended victim, Reynolds the Wrap.

  On day four of my employment with Reynolds I got fired. Willy called me on my iPhone to officially end it all. “You really are a jerk, Hampton!”

  “I accept all compliments.”

  “Did you have to get so goofy? The guy is dangerous you know.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “You took his money. You might have at least given him some information.”

  “I did. He just didn’t like it.”

  “You made me look bad.”

  I laughed. “I can’t quite picture you looking bad. You’re too polished. And I still have your twenty percent. Would you like me to give it back to Reynolds?”

  “Screw you.” Willy hung up.

  “I got fired,” I told Billy on his cell. “So you owe me for the suit. At least for the arms.”

  Billy laughed. “Come and get me, Amster.”

  “And I want the cell back, too.”

  “Nice twy.”

  “Ok, Billy. You can keep the cell and the suit. I need you to stay on for a while. I need you to watch out for Richard.”

  “With pay?”

  “With pay.”

  “Cash?”

  “Yes, cash. You’re starting to bug me. Now listen carefully. I need to know if anything unusual happens. Anything at all.”

  “He hiwed three new guards.”

  “How many does that make in total?”

  “Twelve. Four outside at a time. And inside there’s the boys. King, Fweddie, and Shorty. They go with him everywhere. They check everything out.”

  “They always did.”

  “Wichard makes me check things out too. He makes me quawl under the Hummer to check for bombs. In my new suit. Isn’t that mean?”

  “It is. You could get yourself blown up.”

  “I got a gun.”

  “That’s reassuring, Billy. I hope you get to use it. If you can find your arm after the blast.”

  He giggled. “You funny, Amster. But you forget. Nobody will get Wichard with me awound. Nobody.”

  As goofy as it sounded I almost believed him.

  Chapter Five

  YOU KNOW THE OLD CLICHÉ the best defense is a good offense? Well, Richard had no intention of sitting on his hinny waiting for me to cough up an address that I wasn’t particularly willing to share. No, he managed to locate the Wrap on his own shortly before letting me go via text.

  ‘No hard feelings, old boy,’ he typed in his pleasant English accent. ‘But it seems that I’m better at your job than you are.’

  I had no hard feelings. I had no feelings for Richard one way or the other, I just didn’t like him. In no time at all Billy called to tell me of Richard’s plans.

  “Wichard’s going to pop Wenolds. In bwad daywight.”

  “Is that right? And how do you know so much? You got cameras inside?”

  Billy giggled. “Ancient surveillance, Amster. I heard through the door.”

  “What’s his plan?”

  “Oh no. You don’t get details. Details cost money.”

  “I’m already paying you, you little shit. So spill.”

  “You only pay me to watch Wichard. To keep him safe. And he is.”

  Smart ass. “Could you just give me a clue?”

  “Ok, Amster. I’ll give you one. You’ll know soon enough. You’ll see it with your own eyes.”

  I passed along the heads-up to Willy.

  I was now working at the Walmart suite below Reynolds Woo because I’d lost Jackie Chan. Jack had lured him away to guard Jillian’s hideout, twenty-four seven. Well, zero-seven as it turned out in the end. However, a warrant had been issued for Jillian’s arrest and since Jack wasn’t quite ready to make deals with the law he decided to do the Jones thing and stow his daughter away. It was how the Jack coped.

  So, I stretched out on my lumpy bed and closed my eyes. My holster hurt and I was hungry enough to eat the mice I could hear running around in the walls. Great. Or sad, if you thought about it. My envying mice. They sounded happy to me, scurrying and playing carefree. And I was willing to bet on their financial stability, given their free food and lodging. It wasn’t fair. My condo wouldn’t be mortgage free during my lifetime and I had no one to inherit my debt. Or my Gucci suits. Maybe the mice would like my Gucci suits. As I drifted off to sleep I thought about stuffing my pants into that gaping hole in the wall. I was dreaming about mice and about Mini Chin and mice. Or was that really Mini Chin’s voice I heard? I sat up and shook my head.

  Mini Chin stopped only long enough to chastise the guards in the foyer before heading to the living room bar. Without a word she poured, then belted back, two healthy jiggers of single-malt scotch. Glenfiddich. Reynolds was bringing it in by the case now to avoid assaults
from his mom. No inferior scotch for Mini, who wasn’t exactly a beauty, you may remember. She still looked like a creepy old doll preserved in paraffin, or a mannequin gone wrong. Still short and stocky she wore more gold chains than Mr. T, enough to topple her in a windstorm. Her little red shoes clicked on the hardwood floors as she paced back and forth thinking.

  Reynolds came screeching into the room. “Mama!” he hollered. “Mama Mia! Why didn’t someone tell me you were here?”

  Mini scratched her three chins. “Likely because I arrive at four every afternoon so certain people might think you’d be expecting me.”

  “But I was! I just lost track of time.”

  “I’m sure everything is more important than your mother,” said the master of the guilt-trip.

  Reynolds wisely changed the subject. “Did you bring widdle Wen Wen anything?” he said in a baby voice.

  Mini opened up her shiny red purse. “They were out of Kinder Surprises so I bought cough drops. They’re better for you anyway.”

  To my knowledge Reynolds didn’t have a cough.

  He didn’t think so either and his eyes watered. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you who?”

  “Thank you, Mama Mia.”

  “That’s better. Now, don’t eat them all at once.”

  She watched him like a hawk while measuring two additional jiggers of booze and splashing them into her glass. “Well? Go ahead. Try one.”

  Reynolds searched the room with darting eyes before finally extracting a black cough drop from the box and forcing it into his mouth. Now he had a cough.

  “We need to bring in extra guards,” Mini chirped. “You’re not safe here. Willy says you’re not safe. He thinks Richard may have tracked you down. We can’t move you to another place because that’s even more dangerous. We can’t have you out in the open. Not for a second. We’ll just have to bring in extra guards.”

  Reynolds had pushed the cough drop into his cheek and was storing it there like a gopher.

  “Naturally your brother Bugs Zee will be in charge. He’s a good organizer and that’s what those boys need.”

  Reynolds’ mouth took a downward turn.

  “Family is always best.” She didn’t require an answer. “And then there’s our stockbroker, Albert Noe. Albert can handle our investments during the downtime. We made a lot of money when he was here last time.”

  Was Reynolds thinking what I was thinking? Last time? Last time Albert Noe raced out the door as soon as learning that Bugs Zee was in charge.

  “Mmm…” Reynolds mumbled. “Mmm.”

  “I’m glad you agree. And on the outside doing surveillance around town there’ll be special agent Wong. James Wong. Agent seven double O.”

  I laughed out loud. “Good luck, Reynolds.” I also knew James Wong. James had been dropped on his head as a baby and was a few bricks short of a load. He now spent most of his time bragging about being a secret agent to the Chinatown merchants.

  “That’s it then.” Mini tucked her purse under her arm. “If you think of anyone else just run it by me. I’ll make the final decision, of course.”

  Following Mini’s exit Reynolds took a terrible turn. The cough drop he’d been storing in his cheek suddenly lodged in his throat, causing him to choke. Gagging and grasping he headed down the hallway and staggered into Willy’s office turning blue. Good choice. Quick-thinking Willy rushed to Reynolds, grabbed him from behind, and placing his fist under the ribcage, applied the life-saving blow. Pow! With great ceremony the treasonous black cough drop went sailing across the room and glued itself to a wall.

  Chapter Six

  THE MIDOLO AND BREWSTER LAW offices were in the Roberts Building near Georgia and Burrard. I parked my car, dashed through the drizzle of a grey October morning, and strolled into the glass-roofed lobby. I waved hello to the mosaic mural of aboriginal people on a hunt and took the elevator to the seventeenth floor. I walked through double glass doors trimmed in gold to a reception area of marble floors, modern furniture, and seascapes by local artists. It was a Marco Midolo office, alright. I knew it the moment I saw a buxom blond receptionist at the desk. I wondered had she bought them herself or had Marco chipped in?

  At the desk, Sherry, in a deep blue skirt above a white blouse with a plunging neckline, said hello.

  I flashed my best synthetic smile. “I have an appointment. Hampton.”

  She nodded. “I recognize the face. From the papers. Aren’t you the guy that killed a guy?”

  “I’m a killer,” I bragged. “I kill for a living. That’s why I need a lawyer.”

  “I’ll tell Mr. Midolo you’re here.” She inched her way across the desk and bolted down the hall.

  A lot of doors opened and closed. I sat down on a stiff chair to check my Facebook for jokes. Don’t you just hate it when people post crud? Tony was the worst because his sense of humor was really old. Jackie was checking in through texts, though, and he spelled like he spoke – garble. I gathered that he was parked outside Julia’s West End condo building in a rental car. Not rocket science, Jack. Salting Jillian away in her aunt’s condo. No one would look for her there. But worse still, Jackie behind the wheel of a car? How scary was that? Very scary, since he was driving on a fake license. He wrote, J is side I sure she doesn’t scape. Right.

  “Hampton!” said in a phony baritone voice. “Good to see you!”

  Right. Marco and I had a tangled relationship from the beginning, you may recall. In this episode, however, he was still about as crooked as the Upper Levels Highway and twice as slippery. That’s why Jack liked him. That, and the fact that Marco was one of the top legal minds in Vancouver, his glassy good looks and silly assortment of overcoats aside. And not to forget his temperament. He was mean. Tall, dark, and debonair Overcoat Marco turned ugly on a dime.

  I followed him down a hallway that turned into another hallway and another one after that. Finally we arrived at his big brown office where Marco pointed to a recliner before taking the chair behind his mahogany desk. A captain’s decanter of whisky and two glasses occupied a leather tray on the desktop. He leaned over to pour. “Maybe we’ll start to like each other after two or three. What do you think, Charlie?”

  I smiled. “Better make mine big.”

  “Touché!”

  Marco and I sat there drinking in silence, trying to warm to each other. It took a while. And in the end it never happened.

  “Where is she?” he finally asked.

  “In hiding.”

  He nodded. “She’s on probation from the Clayoquot thing. And protests before that. Surely she’s not hiding from her parole officer.”

  “No. She’s checking in with her. They’re sort of friends now. I mean, she’s only an activist. It’s not like she murdered someone.”

  “Not like someone else in this room.”

  Ouch! I don’t know why I got such a bad rap. So, I killed a guy in self-defense. Ok, maybe two. Three tops. But far more guys were trying to snuff me out than the reverse.

  Marco leaned back in his chair. “She’s facing mischief, big time, not to mention creating a disturbance, etcetera. And if that guy in the hospital dies they’ll throw the book at her. He took a big rock to the head.”

  “That’s why Jack wants her hidden away for a while. To let things cool down.”

  Marco shook his head. “If there’s any chance for bail she has to turn herself in. Immediately. We’ll go for an electronic tagging but I think it’s the best we can do. She’ll be under house arrest. She’ll be going nowhere before her trial.”

  “I’ll tell Jack.”

  Marco gave a half-laugh. “Tell Jack? He’ll likely want her out of the country but that’s not the solution.”

  “There’ll be a trial though?”

  He nodded. “She’s on probation. Unless she wants to plead guilty.” He checked his image in the large mirrored ball on his desk. I mean the guy made Narcissus look humble. “It will be quite a trial,” he said to himself. “The princip
le will be tried. The issue of where to draw the line. On one hand, we have the Jillians of the world, the activists, the Friends of Clayoquot Sound, Greenpeace, etc. The environmentalists. On the other side, we have big business. Intercom, for example, and the loggers, many of them with families to feed. And we have Rosecam and its employees and the Ahousahts who are divided themselves on whether to sell their land or not. No one person, I mean, no one, will get to decide this case.”

  “But a jury of twelve will?”

  His eyes frosted over. “We’ll go for a jury. Trial by judge is too risky.” He smiled into the ball. “It will be international, you realize. We’ll be flashed around the globe.”

  Marco was still smiling into his fucking mirrored ball as I stalked away shaking my head.

  On my way out of Midolo and Brooster Jack called from the warehouse, on speaker.

  “Can you believe it, Hamster? Your protégé let her slip.”

  “What? Jillian’s gone?”

  “Gone!” Jackie Chan hollered. “But it wasn’t my fault. She weft in the midow of da night.”

  “Right,” Jack said. “She just folded her tent and silently stole away. But for the record, Peter checked it out and she left this afternoon. But not before sticking a note under Jackie’s windshield wiper. Do you want to know what it said, Hamster?”

  “No I don’t.”

  “It said, Tell Jack that next time he shouldn’t send a boy to do a man’s job.”

  “Jackie!” I hollered. “What the hell happened to you?”

  He cleared his throat. “I don’t know Amster. Someone musta hit me on the head.”

  Jack chortled. “I think it was the sandman. The building superintendent told Peter that the boy on surveillance in the black car, illegally parked, slept more than Rip Van Winkle. And that he hoped his employer wasn’t paying him much because his only accomplishment was $750 worth of parking tickets.”

  “Nice going, Wildman. Exactly how do you plan to pay for those tickets?”