Bad Guys

by Linwood Barclay

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Nothing personal,” Lawrence said.

  “Of course not,” I said. As if it could be anything but.

  “You could dress a little better,” he said.

  We were both quiet for a moment. There was no traffic on the street. “So, let me try again,” I said. “Why’d you leave the force?”

  Lawrence breathed out, sounded tired. “This isn’t for your feature.”

  I slipped my pen through the metal spiral at the top of my notepad. “Go ahead.”

  “I’d made detective about eight, nine years ago, I guess, and towards the end, last year or so, I was partnered with this guy, Steve Trimble, the guy you met last night. Okay guy, knew him back when we were both in uniform. Married, had a kid who must be in college by now. Didn’t seem to have any hang-ups working with a guy who was not only black, but gay.”

  “The rest of the department, they knew?”

  “I’m not keeping any secrets, man. This is who I am. You don’t like it, you can kiss my ass. Trimble seemed okay with it, we got along well, I got to know his wife, I’d go over to his place sometimes, hang out.

  “We got a call one night. We’re plainclothes now, detectives, and we’re working some case, can’t remember what, but a call comes over, some sounds of gunfire in the west end, the warehouse district. We were a block away, I guess, so I thought maybe we should just take a stroll by, and Steve thinks okay, why not. So we turn off from this street of row houses, which is probably where the call came from, someone hearing shots, and we’re driving nice and slow, windows down, looking and listening for anything suspicious. And the thing is, it could be nothing, you know? Some old lady, hears a car backfire, she calls 911.

  “We’re driving down between these two big industrial buildings when suddenly this car comes screaming around the corner ahead of us, one of these low-slung rice machine jobs with the dark-tinted windows, and Steve slides a flashing red light onto the roof, pulls across the street to block his way. Might be nothing, right, but it is suspicious, so few cars down there, this one appearing out of nowhere.

  “So we try to flag him down, and he veers, going right up on the sidewalk and around, and by this time we’re out of the car, both of us, guns drawn, and Steve takes a shot, at the tires, because with the windows tinted you don’t know how many people are in the car, it’s just too risky. He doesn’t hit the car, but the driver’s losing control and hits a telephone pole a hundred yards up or so. The door opens and this white kid bails, starts running away from us, and Steve’s after him on foot and I go back for the car, turning it around and radioing in at the same time, looking for backup, and I catch a glimpse of Steve turning down this alleyway, elbow bent, gun drawn.”

  Lawrence licked his lips, like his mouth had gone dry. “What we didn’t know, till later, was that this kid had just come from a deal gone bad, well, not from his point of view until we showed up. He’d gone to make a buy, and rather than hand over the money, shot his supplier. Gets his coke, keeps his cash. I try to head the kid off, so I drive around the block, and he’s coming out the other end of the alley when I get there. Steve comes right out after him.

  “I end up cornering him up against the wall with the car. The car’s not actually touching him, I’m back a good thirty feet, but I’ve got the lights on him, and he’s got nowhere to go, and Steve moves into the frame. We’re both yelling at the kid, that we’re cops, to drop his gun.

  “I’m getting out of the car, and with the headlights on, we’ve both got a good look at this kid, and we can see he’s got a gun held down at his side. And I still don’t have mine drawn, I just got out of the car, and the kid decides he’s going to shoot it out with us, I guess, and he raises his weapon to take a shot at me, and I figure, okay, this could be it, but Steve’s already got him in his sights. And then the kid fires.”

  “At you.”

  “Yeah. He gets off a shot, which hits the window frame of the car door. A chance in a million he doesn’t hit me. What I did next happened so fast, but it’s like slow motion when I replay it in my head. I draw my gun and take aim and drop him, one shot right in the chest.”

  “He died.”

  “He died.”

  “And you’re wondering why it was you that had to bring him down. Because your partner must have had him in his sights, and didn’t fire.”

  “It did kind of occur to me.”

  “What did Trimble have to say for himself?”

  “Comes over, says he was just about to shoot, but I beat him to it.” Lawrence shook his head, about an eighth of an inch in either direction.

  “You didn’t buy it,” I said.

  “He froze. The fucker froze. And I nearly bought it. And I had to kill that kid.”

  “Who was he?”

  “His name was Antoine Mercer, and he was seventeen, and he was a gofer, if you can believe it, for Lenny Indigo back then. And after that, I started thinking that maybe I didn’t like being in a job where you had to depend on others to watch your back. Figured I was better off looking out for myself.”

  “What was the fallout?”

  “Ah well, there was the usual lynching in the press. Cop kills kid. Your paper played a leading role.”

  I felt my cheeks go hot.

  “But that died down. Steve and I were still partnered together, but I couldn’t work with the guy. Couldn’t trust him to be there for me. And I started wondering whether I could trust any of them. Decided the only one I could trust to cover my ass was myself, and that’s when I decided to go it alone.”

  “You quit.”

  “I quit. I was good at being a cop, for the most part. Liked solving things, figuring stuff out, doing what’s right. But I figured I was better working alone.”

  “Thanks for telling me.”

  A shrug. “Well, you asked, and I don’t know. I don’t talk about it all that often. You seem a bit of an asshole, but you’re a likeable asshole, so what the hell? It’s a long night out here without something to talk about. Speaking of which, black Annihilator up ahead, doing more reconnaissance.”

  The SUV, with its lofty military stance and blacked-out windows, looked every bit the predator as it rolled down the street, its headlights, set high amidst a massive network of metal crisscrosses that looked more like a set of shark’s teeth than a grill, shining toward us. Again, in front of Brentwood’s, it slowed.

  “They like what they see. They’re getting ready, I guarantee it.”

  And then, from the other direction, that same city police car, doing another sweep. No lights or siren, just heading down the street, doing a regular patrol. As the cop car came into range, the driver of the SUV gave the oversized vehicle some gas, pulling away from the men’s shop.

  “He got spooked,” Lawrence said as the SUV rolled past us. “He might come around again, but I doubt it. Not tonight.”

  He turned his ignition key.

  “What are we doing?” I asked. I had an open coffee in my hand.

  Lawrence was already cranking the wheel, swinging across the street.

  “We’re leaving our stakeout?” I said. “What if it’s not them, and somebody else hits the store while we’re gone?”

  “Oh, that’s them,” Lawrence said, straightening out and hitting the gas so he could keep the Annihilator in sight. “As long as we know where he is, I don’t think we’ll miss seeing the store get hit.”

  I felt an adrenaline rush. My heart was starting to pound. We were in a chase. Suddenly my feature was getting a whole lot more interesting.

  “Where’s the lid for my coffee?” I said, glancing down at the console and down around my feet. “Fuck it,” I said, and tossed it out the open window. Who needed caffeine to stay awake now?

  5

  The driver of the annihilator must not have suspected anyone was following him, because he wasn’t booting it up Garvin Avenue. Lawrence Jones hung several car lengths back as we traveled along behind the big, hulking vehicle. The SUV�
��s brake lights came on and it slowed, turning right onto Belvenia.

  “He didn’t signal,” I said. “Can’t you get him for that? Then we don’t even have to worry about Brentwood’s.”

  Lawrence ignored me. He swung the wheel hard to the right as we turned the corner. The SUV drove up Belvenia, then took a left, again without signaling.

  “He’s going on to Wilson,” Lawrence said. “I’m hoping maybe he’s decided to call it a night, will head home, we can get some idea where he’s come from, who he is. You got your notepad there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can you make out that plate at all?”

  I squinted. It was impossible. “No.”

  The Annihilator hung another right, then a left two blocks on. “Oh dear oh dear oh dear,” Lawrence said softly. There was an almost cheerful lilt to his voice, but I had a feeling it was masking some concern.

  “What?”

  “I think he’s onto us. He’s just driving around randomly, watching to see whether we go where he goes. What we need is another car, two guys with phones, trade off following him so he doesn’t get so suspicious. Fuck.”

  “Maybe he hasn’t made us. Maybe he’s just killing time, waiting to go back to Brentwood’s.”

  As the Annihilator passed under some bright streetlights, Lawrence peered intently at the vehicle. “Trying to see past that tinting, get some idea how many people might be in there.”

  “Those windows are pretty dark,” I said. “You can’t see— Hold on, he’s pulling over to the curb.”

  The Annihilator slowed and eased over to the right.

  “I’m just gonna have to drive on by,” Lawrence said. “Don’t look over or do anything suspicious.”

  “What if I mooned them?”

  Lawrence guided the old Buick past the black SUV, which was now fully up against the curb, lights extinguished. It would have been nice to slow down and see how many people got out, but it was clear Lawrence didn’t want us drawing attention to ourselves that way.

  Once we were a couple of car lengths past it, I glanced back. No doors were opening, no one was getting out. The Annihilator’s lights came back on, and the truck slipped back into the lane behind us.

  I was still turned in my seat, taking in our new situation, when Lawrence barked at me, “Eyes front! Don’t look!”

  I shifted back, tried to get a glimpse of the SUV in the mirror on the passenger door.

  “This is not a good thing,” Lawrence said. “Not a good thing at all. I hate it when I get made. Absolutely fucking sloppy. You want to know what they’re doing right now?”

  “What?”

  “They’re taking down my license plate, that’s what they’re doing right now.”

  “That’s bad, right?”

  “Normally, it would be, but I’ve got bogus plates on this car, so it’s not that big a problem.”

  “Uh, isn’t that illegal, Lawrence?”

  He had only a moment to glance at me and grin. “Which Hardy Boy are you? Frank or Joe?”

  I decided not to respond to that, but go on the attack myself. “So what’s your plan now, Sherlock?”

  “We just drive along, like we don’t know who he is and don’t care, and maybe he starts thinking that maybe he was wrong, that we weren’t following him.”

  As the Annihilator gained on us, its raised headlights shone through the back windows of the Buick, reflecting off the rearview mirror and nearly blinding Lawrence. “Fucking SUVs,” he muttered. He was on edge, and it had to be taking every bit of resolve he had not to tromp on the accelerator and leave that lumbering vehicle in our dust.

  “We’ll just keep going straight up Wilson,” he said quietly. And so we did, driving at the speed limit, a couple of guys out for a cruise around the town. The Annihilator kept pace behind us, barely a car length, those annoying lights illuminating everything inside the Buick.

  “Okay, moment-of-truth time,” Lawrence said, put on his blinker, and turned right down a side street, nice and proper, like he was delivering, instead of me, his grandmother back to the nursing home.

  The SUV stayed with us, rounding the corner without slowing down. I didn’t want to admit this to Lawrence, but I was starting to feel just a tad apprehensive. And by apprehensive, I mean scared.

  There was a deep throaty roar behind us, and the lights from the Annihilator grew more massive. The vehicle was only inches behind our bumper. Then there was the sound of a horn, a deep, resonating blast like a ship pulling into the harbor, that I could feel in my bones.

  “The guy’s out of his fucking mind,” Lawrence said. He hit the gas and we pulled away from the truck. We heard another roar as our pursuer gunned his engine.

  “I think he wants to drive right over us,” I said.

  “If he gets a chance, he will,” Lawrence said. “Hang on.”

  He yanked the wheel hard to the right, sending us down a side street. The car lurched wildly and all four tires skidded across the pavement, but we made the turn and barreled our way up the street. The SUV, with its high center of gravity, couldn’t navigate the turn at such a high speed, but this didn’t seem to trouble the driver all that much, who steered the beast over someone’s lawn, plowing through a row of hedges and a small fence, and flattening a bicycle that had been left out on a driveway.

  “If you had a chance to pull over anywhere,” I said, “you could just let me out.”

  And then I heard a popping noise. Pop-pop-pop.

  Lawrence said nothing, just kept both hands gripped on the wheel, swinging hard to the right, then to the left, glancing for split seconds at his rearview mirror.

  Pop. Pop.

  “Lawrence,” I said, somewhat hesitantly, as the Annihilator, half a dozen car lengths back, caught the back half of a parked motorcycle and sent it flying across a sidewalk.

  “Yeah?”

  “I hate to ask, but what are those popping noises I keep hearing?”

  Rather than answer my question directly, Lawrence told me to open the glove compartment. “There’s something in there we need. You’ll know it when you see it.”

  I took out a customized auto-club map detailing the route to Florida. “Triptik?”

  “Keep looking.”

  Behind several maps, tissue packets, a roll of masking tape, and ownership papers, I came across a small handgun.

  “Actually,” said Lawrence, “given that I’m driving, it might be better if you used it.”

  This was not a good idea. The last time I’d had a gun in my hand, I’d fatally shot a desk. “This really isn’t my area of expertise, Lawrence,” I said. “I’m not particularly adept where guns are concerned. Plus, there’s the nature of my role here. I’m really more of an observer, not a participant, so—”

  And then the back window of the Buick blew out.

  “Jesus!” Lawrence said, turning so hard this time the g-forces jammed me against my door. “Hand me the fucking gun!”

  I handed it over. He was still steering with both hands, but there was little more than the thumb of his right hand around the wheel, his fingers gripped around the gun.

  “You ever hear about how to get away from a crocodile?” he asked. He was shouting now. With the back window gone, it was a lot noisier in the car, especially with the Annihilator bearing down on us.

  “No,” I said.

  “Well, they’re bigger and stronger and faster than people, but they can’t corner worth shit. So if you’ve got one coming after you, you keep running in circles. They can’t navigate the turns. Right now, we’re being followed by a crocodile, and we’re coming up on the perfect place to lead him in circles.”

  Up ahead, a sign for the Midtown Center. The largest mall in this part of the city. As the mall’s west-end anchor store, a Sears, came into view, so did the massive, entirely empty, parking lot.

  Our Buick screeched around the entrance into the lot. Again, the black Annihilator missed the turn, but rode right up over the curbs, its fat wheels rollin
g over them like they were Kit Kat bars. “Here comes the fun part,” Lawrence said, using the wide-open spaces of the mall lot to do huge circles. “What I’m gonna do,” he shouted, “is come up around behind him, and then we’ll give him a taste of his own medicine.”

  “What do you mean, own medicine?”

  “He took a few shots at us, now we’ll return the favor.”

  “How are you going to shoot and drive at the same time?”

  “If you can’t handle a gun, surely you can handle a fucking steering wheel.”

  “You gotta be kidding.”

  “Does steering compromise your journalistic integrity, too?”

  So I leaned over in the seat, ready to grip the wheel whenever Lawrence wanted me to.

  The Annihilator was trying hard to keep up with us, but the SUV was leaning precariously. I wondered if maybe this was Lawrence’s real plan, to trick our pursuer into flipping his own vehicle over. If it was, I approved.

  But the driver seemed to know what he was doing. He wasn’t pushing the truck to extremes. I glanced back and saw a leather-jacketed arm hanging out the window. The hand was clutching a weapon that looked a lot bigger than the gun I’d handed to Lawrence.

  The Buick lurched and its tires squealed. A hubcap went flying off, spinning across the pavement toward the Sears. But Lawrence seemed to know what he was doing, too. We were now actually coming up around behind the Annihilator.

  “Okay,” he said. “Hold the wheel.”

  I gripped it like I was holding on for dear life, allowing Lawrence to switch the gun to his left hand, get his arm and shoulder out the window, and start firing.

  He got off two shots, but the Annihilator was bearing to the right, so he wrested the wheel back from me and changed course.

  “Again!” he said, and I grabbed the wheel as he leaned out the window, firing the gun twice more. “Shit!” he shouted, wind blowing into his face.

  “Did you hit him?” I asked as he took control of the steering wheel again.

  “I don’t think so. And even if I did, the thing’s a fucking elephant.”

  Ahead, the Annihilator abruptly turned, but where it was headed didn’t make any sense. The SUV was speeding to the far end of the lot where the ground sloped steeply upward to a road that was actually a ramp that led from a city street that circled the mall, and on to the highway.