by Mike Knowles
The space between my seat and the steering wheel had been compressed as if a much smaller person had been driving and I had forgotten to readjust the seat. I unbuckled myself and slipped my legs out from under the dashboard. When my feet touched the ground, I had to use the door to keep myself on my feet. The world was spinning and threatening to throw me to the ground if I didn’t hold on to something. I shook my head and blinked hard enough to make my eyes water. Within a few seconds, the merry-go-round I was on slowed down and my equilibrium returned. I let go of the door and drew the Glock.
The BMW had three passengers inside. The two riding up front wore their seatbelts, but the restraints didn’t save them. The seatbelts just held the two men in place so that the dashboard could crush them. The man in the back seat was still breathing. He saw me through the side window and then he noticed the gun in my hand. He started frantically pawing around the back seat, looking for what had to be a gun of his own. I put a bullet in the side of his head.
The sound of the gunshot was louder than the horn, but the horn had stamina and it immediately took over again. The horn’s song picked up a percussion section when bullets started hitting the BMW. I went low, using the vehicle for cover, while David emptied what was left in the AK-47 from the trees he was hiding in.
The sound of metal piercing metal trailed off like the end of a rainstorm and I risked a look over the bumper. David was twenty feet back from the road with the rifle still pointed in my direction, but he wasn’t looking at me — he was looking at something at the edge of the road. The something was the body of his mother. Ruby had flown thirty feet from the car wreck into a tree. From where I crouched, it looked like she had been turned inside out.
David was saying something, but I couldn’t make it out over the horn. I didn’t waste time trying to read his lips; I rose out of the crouch and came up from behind the trunk with the Glock in a two-handed grip. I pulled the trigger three times fast. The first and third bullet missed, but number two hit David in the side. He fell down beside the meat that was his mother — the AK still in his hands.
The shock from the car crash was gone — adrenalin had kicked in and taken over. I pulled hard on the rear door of the BMW and it gave way with a screech. I shoved the dead man over and pulled the seat release. The back seat tipped forward and I saw into the trunk. There were two duffel bags inside the dark space. I pulled each out and pushed the seats back up.
Two hundred thousand dollars in cash weighs more than you think. A bill is light on its own, but multiplied thousands of times over it becomes a challenge — especially after you just walked away from a car wreck. I put each bag over a shoulder and got up on one knee. When I looked over the trunk, I saw that David wasn’t beside his mother anymore. There was only Ruby’s mangled body on the ground and a trail of blood leading into the trees. Google Earth had shown me that the side of the street opposite Yang Tam’s house was all forest. The trees went back a couple hundred metres and that was where I had told David to sit and watch for the money to move. The trail of blood became impossible to see as soon as it touched the dark soil under the trees. I still had ten rounds, but David had more left in the AK’s spare magazine. If I stepped out from behind the car to go after him, he would have all the advantages. I didn’t have the time to wait David out; the sound of the crash and the car horn had probably already alerted the neighbours and had the cops on the way. Anyone rich enough to live on a private road would be quick to call the police and the cops wouldn’t waste any time responding.
I moved around the BMW and slipped behind the van. Suddenly, for a second, the horn got louder like it was in surround sound. I looked around and saw Steve’s Range Rover at the end of the private road. I made a break for Steve and got three steps from the van before bullets dug into the pavement around me — David was still alive. I dove back for cover beside the van and signalled for Steve to wait. I moved to the open door and leaned into the van. The engine was still alive. I pulled the gearshift into reverse and felt the rear wheel drive respond. The van rolled back five feet and then shuddered like a freezing elephant. The engine didn’t have much left. I leaned into the front seat and gave the van some gas with my hand. The van picked up its pace as more gunfire from the trees shattered what was left of the windshield. I pushed harder on the gas and the van rolled faster, dragging my feet along the pavement as it towed me along with it. I got twenty feet before the engine died. I pulled the shifter into neutral and let the van coast as far as it could. When the van started to creep, I reached up and swung the wheel to the right angling the van across the street. David let loose again from the forest, but his sight line was blocked by the body of the van. I ran, hauling the bags as they slapped into my legs, to the Range Rover. Steve leaned across the seat and opened the door; the Range Rover took off the second more than half of me was inside.
I hated leaving David alive back in the trees, but the cops would be everywhere in a few minutes. I had to hope that the gut shot would do what I didn’t have time for. We sped down the Escarpment into the city. On the way, we passed two cruisers with their lights on. The police cars didn’t brake when they passed us — they just keptcharging up the hill.
“So you got my note,” I said.
Steve nodded. “You didn’t have to hit the garbage cans so goddamn hard. I was already awake.”
“I needed you to check out the car so you would see the note.”
On the way to return the Range Rover, I had written a note on a napkin I found in a cup holder. The note just said: Be close to Hill Street this morning. You’ll know when to pick me up.
“You owe me for the damage to the front end,” Steve said. The bartender was more concerned about the dents on the car than the ones on my face. I smiled and it hurt.
“I can cover it, I think.”
“What did you do with Ox?”
“I took him home. Sandra wouldn’t let him leave on his own as drunk as he was.”
Steve’s wife was a good person. I had wondered, too many times to count, how it was that people like us knew someone like her.
“How drunk did he get?”
Steve spoke while he checked his mirrors and changed lanes. “He wouldn’t stop complaining, so I told him to start drinking until I said different.”
“What time did you say different?”
“I didn’t. He passed out around two.”
“Where’s he live?”
“Nice place over in the north end.”
I got Steve to give me directions and then asked him to drop me at an intersection where I saw a few cabs waiting at the lights. “Thanks,” I said.
“Come by for dinner. Sandra says she hasn’t seen you in a while.”
I laughed at Steve. How many getaway drivers invite someone to dinner at their wife’s behest? “I’ll come by the bar tonight.”
Steve nodded and said, “Shut the door.”
I slid into a cab and told the cabbie to take me to the address Steve had given me. The drive took just a few minutes to get to Ox’s place. The old man lived in a beautiful two-storey that looked to be pre-war. The house was immaculately kept and had beautifully manicured shrubs and freshly tilled flower beds. It was just after nine; a time when most people would be up, but most people weren’t coming off a late-night bender. I had to bang on the door for three straight minutes to get Ox to open up.
He looked like shit. His grey hair was sticking up at the back of head while the side was pressed flat to his scalp. He was wearing a stretched-out undershirt and stained boxer shorts than had ridden up on one leg. The old man’s eyes were bloodshot and they only seemed able to open halfway. He kept opening and closing his mouth and his tongue made a gross sound every time he peeled it off the roof of his mouth.
“You have a nice place, Ox. Real nice.”
“C’mon, man, Steve said this shit was over. I tol’ him I wouldn’t say a word.”
Ox’s breath was heinous and I had to resist the urge to step back. “Invit
e me in, Ox.”
He opened his eyes a bit more and what he saw made him laugh. The sound hurt him and he grabbed at his head while he spoke. “You look half as bad as I feel. I gotta tell you, it’s real nice to see that you got smacked around. Not fun, is it?”
“You want to see if I can make you look worse?”
He sighed and I saw his face contort as though he was about to cry. “Fine, fuckin’ fine. C’mon in.”
We stepped into a small mud room where I saw shoes neatly arranged on a small wooden rack. I untied my boots and put them at the end of the top row. When I stood up, Ox said, “Are you serious?”
I shrugged and walked into his kitchen. There was no table, only bar-stool seating on one side of the kitchen island. To my left was a living room with two comfortable- looking leather chairs, a television with a DVD player, a stereo, and a lot of books. I put the money on the floor and motioned for Ox to take a seat at the counter. Ox rubbed at his mouth with his forearm and then climbed up on the stool. He was still a bit drunk and he almost lost his balance climbing on to the stool. I unzipped the bag and took out a stack of cash bound with a thick rubber band. I tossed it to Ox and he almost fell from his perch trying to catch it. I kept him upright and picked up the money off the floor. I put it on the counter behind him and said, “Ten grand for your trouble.”
“What? You’re paying me ten Gs?”
“I think it’s a fair amount for one night’s work.”
Ox ran his hand over the stubble on his jaw. “It is, but I didn’t work last night. You kidnapped me.”
“See it how you want. But remember, it could end like a job,” I said, lifting the money, “or like a kidnapping. Your choice.”
Ox picked up the cash and fanned it. “It was a pleasure working with you.”
“We square, Ox?” I asked.
Ox started to answer, but instead he jumped off his stool and ran around the island. Whatever he drank last night splashed into the sink. When he finished heaving, Ox ran the tap and stuck his face under the stream. He turned off the water and looked at me with his face still dripping. “Yeah,” he said, “we’re square. The money more than makes us even — it makes us friends.”
“In that case, I need a favour.”
Ox shot me a look while he fumbled for a few sheets of paper towel to dry off his face. “I need to watch what I say around you. You’re a literal son of a bitch, aren’t ya?”
“I need some transportation. You know a guy who can help with that?”
“I know plenty of guys for that.”
“Yeah, but I want something that will pass being stopped by the cops.”
“You still have my phone?”
I handed over the BlackBerry. Ox wiped with screen with his undershirt and scrolled through the menu. He burped something that I could smell where I was sitting and then wrote down an address on a scrap of paper he pulled from a drawer.
“Henry will have something for you. Just tell him that it was me who sent you by.”
“That won’t be code for him to let me ride off on a bullet, will it?”
“You are goddamn literal and paranoid. It’s code to give me a kickback. He sells you a clean car on my recommendation, I get a piece. There’s no money in you being dead.”
“Thanks, Ox,” I said.
“Give me a number where I can get a hold of you.”
I gave him the number of the cell phone in my pocket. “This is all I have right now.”
“Set up something more permanent. Something with an answering service. I might have work from time to time that you would be interested in.”
“Thanks, Ox.”
“Words mean nothing,” he said, “just say thank you by leaving so I can vomit in peace.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ox’s guy hooked me up with a black Honda Accord. The car looked old, but the engine had been done up right. It wasn’t as good as the Volvo’s had been, but it was better than stolen cars and cabs. I had just gotten back to my place when the cell phone rang. The only one still alive with the number was Ox.
“You can’t really think that I want a job already. You still drunk?”
“Shut up and listen. I just heard from a guy that a certain triad heavy got ripped off this morning.”
“You don’t say.”
“I don’t, this guy does. This guy also says that the triads have a guy who knows who did the robbery.”
“Uh-hunh.”
“Yeah, and this thief is apparently friends with a guy who runs a bar.”
I hung up the phone and dialled Sully’s Tavern. Steve picked up on the first ring.
“They there?”
“Yep.”
“You okay?”
“Yep.”
“Sandra?”
“Upstairs.”
“Tell him that I’m coming now.”
“He says he wants his money.”
“Tell him no problem.”
I hung up and shouldered the money out the door and into the Honda. I used the cell to make a call before I got into the car and drove into a trap.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The street out front of Sully’s Tavern was full of souped-up imports. Each car had bright paint jobs, spoilers, custom rims, and fat mufflers. There was also a black Porsche SUV parked directly in front of the door to the bar. I found a spot on a side street and got out of the car with a duffel over my shoulder. I walked into the bar and saw that business should have been good — if anyone inside was drinking. Twelve bar stools all had asses on them. The men on the seats were closer to boys than adults. Each had spiked hair. Some accentuated it with a rat-tail, mullet, or lines shaved into the sides of their heads. Behind the bar, I saw Steve in his T-shirt reading the paper. His hair hung down over his face and he had to tilt his head to see me in the doorway. He nodded at me and went back to reading.
At a table in the corner sat three men. One was huge — Chinese, with a Bruce Lee haircut and an Arnold Schwarzenegger physique. Beside him was a short, fat man in a dark suit. He bore a resemblance to Buddha, only the chubby deity didn’t sport six inches of wispy chin hair, and none of the pictures I saw ever portrayed Buddha with brown teeth. Beside the fat man sat David. He was pale, sweaty, and hunched over.
“This him?”
David nodded and the fat man took a drag on a cigarette. He motioned for me to come over as he let the smoke slowly pour out of his mouth and over his wrecked teeth. In front of the man were two Taco Bell bags. The paper bags were greasy and wrinkled. The fat man rested his cigarette on the plastic lid of his cup and took a bite out of a fat burrito stuffed with what looked to be like a whole other meal as I crossed the room. Crumbs and meat showered his suit and he brushed them away with a hand that resembled an overinflated rubber glove.
I got to the table and the muscular guy got up. He had a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. The shotgun was pointed at my stomach.
“You Wilson?” The fat man asked after a swallow.
I nodded. “You Yang Tam?”
He took a drag on the cigarette and let the smoke roll out like fog over water. “Who I am is the man you stole a lot of money from.” He bit into the burrito again and more food splashed his shirt.
“Money wasn’t his to give,” I said.
Yang laughed. He looked like Buddha again for a second until I noticed his eyes. The cold, hard black dots set inside the fat face made him look nothing like the jolly deity. “Doesn’t matter where he got it. The money was mine the second it touched my hand. And the second it left my hand, it was stolen — from me.”
Yang ate the rest of the thing in his hand in one bite. Nothing fell onto his suit this time. He then dug into the second bag and pulled out something else wrapped in paper. Yang unfolded the paper and said, “You see this burrito? I only bought one because I’m watching my weight, but I missed breakfast this morning because, well you know why, and I’m still hungry. This burrito was Arthur’s.” Yang gestured towards the muscular man bes
ide him, using the Mexican food as a pointer. “You think Arthur is going to take it back from me? It wasn’t mine. I had no right to it. You think he’s going to reach over the table and take it right out from under my nose?” He looked at Arthur. “Would you even think about touching it?”
Arthur shook his head.
“Why is that, Arthur?”
“Because you’d kill me.”
“I would fucking kill you if you touched my Taco Bell.” Yang put down the food and started stroking his sparse chin hair without wiping his greasy fingers first. With his other hand, he lifted the cigarette to his mouth and took a long drag. He spoke through the smoke. “Think about that. Arthur’s been with me for years. I fucking love Arthur, and I would kill him dead over ninety-nine cents of shitty Mexican food. Think about where you are in this equation. I don’t know you, you killed three of my guys, and you stole the equivalent of two hundred thousand burritos from me. Two hundred thousand!” Yang slapped the fast food bag away and flicked his cigarette at me. The butt sparked against my coat and fell to the floor. I noticed in my peripheral vision that everyone at the bar had swivelled on their stools so that they could look at me.
“Maybe less money for burritos isn’t such a bad thing.”
The air went still in the room as everyone searched for the source of the jab. It had come from behind me, but I didn’t turn my head — I was glued to the shotgun aimed at my guts. At this range, Arthur could saw me in half if he moved his finger just half an inch. His eyes were on whoever was behind me, but the gun was still looking right at my waist and his finger was still on the trigger.
The voice kept talking. “I mean seriously, you smoke and you eat that shit. You have to see the writing on the wall. How long do you expect to live?”
“Longer than you,” Yang said.
The threat was serious, but the voice didn’t quiver — there was only a short bark of laughter. “Heh, good one. Bartender, grab me a beer. A Rickards, if you got it.”
