by Mike Knowles
“This is how it works,” I said. “There are no set rules in our game.”
Ivan moved for the first time. He surprised me by turning away and picking up the bag. It wasn’t his job to carry anything; the bag was a message. Ivan lifted the bag with the arm I shot, and opened the door with the other. The smaller man turned and left without being told. Ivan was the true heavy, the one in charge. He turned to me before leaving. “No rules in game,” he said, and chuckled. His laugh was terrible. It was in the back of his throat, and it had the destructive sound of waves crashing on rocks. “Soon we be only game in town.”
He left without closing the door behind him. I waited for ten minutes with my gun pointed at the open door. When my forearm started to ache, I got up and shut the door. I stumbled to the desk using any object I could to stay upright, and passed out at my desk face down with my gun still in my hand. My face had the idiot’s grin of a survivor.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I woke several hours later. The angle of the sun through the window told me it was midday, and the clock confirmed it. My mouth was dry, but my body was clammy. The bullet wound had given me a fever, and I had sweated through my shirt. I got up from the desk and tried to stretch. My bad arm barely made it ten inches from my body. I scrounged for another energy drink, finally finding one in the pile of things I brought with me from Steve’s. I popped the top and ignored the spray of warm liquid that went all over my hand. The drink was too sweet, and it had almost a medicinal taste as it went down my throat. When the can was empty I rubbed my hands over my face, feeling the stubble, as I staggered to the window. I used my reflection to confirm my suspicions. I looked like hammered shit.
“Damn,” was all I said to myself.
There was no question, I had one priority now. I had to get the bullet out of my arm, and I had to do it quietly. I had to avoid any off-the-books doctors that had any relation to anyone I knew. That meant I had to avoid doctors who dealt with people. I knew a veterinarian. She worked on horses out in the country. She was also a drunk. For enough cash to keep her drowning she would work on almost anyone. I came across her while I was chasing Donny O’Donnell, an Irish gangster and local psycho who had been raping women in Corktown for years. Corktown was in the southeast part of downtown; it was a historic Irish neighbourhood, and much of the Irish blood had never drained out. The whole neighbourhood was terrified of O’Donnell and his crew, so he went unchecked, growing more brazen with each attack. For his last attack, he happened to choose a woman who lived about a block outside his neighbourhood, and who had been a waitress for a catering company owned indirectly by Paolo Donati. Word of the assault got back to him, and with it came tales of the nightmare of the small Irish neighbourhood. I was given the task of bringing the neighbourhood terror to Paolo. I worked my way through O’Donnell’s small world and came, first-hand, into contact with his legacy. I met men and women whose lives had been obliterated by a big sick fish in a small pond. I finally managed to catch up with him and put a bullet in his gut, but he vanished on me. There was no trace of him in the city. The horror stories I learned searching for the bastard kept me on his trail. After a few days, I found out that he was convalescing in the country. Exactly where was hard to find; I only knew he was with a vet out in the boonies. At first, I thought he was hiding with a war buddy, but he was too young to have been in any conflict that I could recall. O’Donnell was never a soldier; he was too much of an animal. That was when it hit me — animals go to a vet all their own. After a day of grinding through the crew O’Donnell left behind, I was pointed in the right direction — Flamboro.
I went out to Flamboro Downs racetrack and planted myself there for a few days. I played the part of a degenerate gambler looking for inside information. I asked about the animals’ health, diet, and where they were tended to. Each day I checked out vets and names I overheard, and the next day I was back asking more questions. I finally caught a break when an old horse broke its front legs a mile out of eighth place.
“That one is off to Maggie’s,” I heard a man say.
I found out that the owner was broke, and Maggie was a disgraced, unlicensed vet who fixed horses passably or put them down cheap. A little more digging got me an address and a life story the locals seemed to revel in. Maggie lost a kid, then a husband, hit the bottle, and then lost everything else, including her licence.
I found her place that night, and her Irish patient left with me, without a word, while she was sleeping. I made sure he stayed in good health — for a while. Now, years later, with the Irish gang gone, she was the only doctor I knew who was completely off the grid to the people I was involved with.
I kept money in a few different places around the city. Some of it in banks — more in safe spots where people would never think to look for it. It wasn’t the most secure idea, but it was accessible at all times. Now was one of those times. I would pull what I needed for the vet on my way out of the city. I moved to the closet and used my good arm to free a bag and a change of clothes. I put the clothes in the bag along with some food for the drive. I didn’t put in any identification or items that would give me a name. I wanted to be in and out, fast and anonymous. Packing brought with it a bit of dizziness, so I sat at my desk and waited for it to pass. I passed out again face down at the desk.
The sound of the door splintering off its hinges brought me awake. The frosted pane cracked and the door swung open, slamming against the wall. The door ricocheted back slower, one corner dragging on the floor. I was startled straight up from my sleep. I reached my closest arm towards the Glock still on the desk, forgetting that it was useless. The shooting pain my stupidity caused cost me seconds I needed. I moved my right arm and got my hand on the gun just as I heard, “Don’t do it, Wilson.”
The two men in front of me were middle-aged Italians. They had short dark hair, crooked noses, and scar tissue around their eyes. They were not handsome men. Their misaligned features were augmented with layers of fat that hung on cheeks studded with blackheads. They were brothers of the same ugly mother.
“Hand off the gun. Get up now.”
I didn’t move. I was still groggy and a bit out of it. My brain was telling me something I couldn’t process. I blinked hard, and the speaker, the ugly guy on the left holding a snub-nosed revolver, spoke again.
“Hand off the gun. Get up now.”
My brain snapped into focus. These were the Scazzaro brothers — Johnny and Pat. They were mid-level muscle, and they were probably here because Julian couldn’t be. I looked at Johnny and played through my mind everything he had told me. While I was thinking, he again told me to get up. He never said he would kill me, and he didn’t even threaten to hurt me. He wanted me up so I could go somewhere.
“I know you’re supposed to take me somewhere, not shoot me, Johnny. Put the gun down.”
He didn’t move. The gun wasn’t pointed at me directly, but that could change quickly. I shifted in my seat, moving my body forward so the 9 mm still holstered at my back was away from the chair. I put a little agitation into my voice: “I’m serious. It makes me nervous when you point those things at me. What are you afraid of? I don’t even have my gun in my hand, you caught me sleeping. If you’re not going to kill me, and I’m not armed, at least point the gun at the floor.”
The two brothers exchanged looks, but their guns never moved. I pushed harder. “If you’re so fucking scared I’ll give you my piece. Here!” With one motion I used my good arm and both feet to shove the desk over. The Glock hit the floor along with the overturned desk. Both men looked at the gun on the floor; they never noticed my hand moving behind my back, or it coming back with a pistol. When their eyes left the floor and found mine, it took five seconds for them to read my grin and move their eyes down from it to the gun in my right hand. The room didn’t fill with noise, and bullets didn’t rip me apart.
My gun was pointed at Johnny. He was the talker, so I put him down as the one in charge. “Where am I supposed to be go
ing?”
The two exchanged glances out of their peripheral vision, unsure of the direction the discussion had taken.
“Boss wants to see you now,” Johnny said.
“But he doesn’t want me dead.”
Johnny waited a second then spoke. “He said you crossed a line and he wanted your ass in front of him.”
“Why send you two? Why not Julian?”
Pat sneered. “You know why,” he said.
“No, I don’t. Tell me,” I said.
“Somebody hit Julian with a car. He says it was you. Boss wants to know what you got to say.”
“You two are up to date on your gossip,” I said. “Here’s how we’ll do this. You two are going to leave, and I’ll go to the restaurant on my own.”
“No. You’re gonna come with us now. Like the boss said.” Johnny’s whiny voice let me know that he didn’t like the sound of my idea. The gun in my hand meant things weren’t going to go the way he planned.
“I’m going myself. Two shit button men aren’t taking me anywhere. You want to see if you can make it otherwise, go ahead.” The silence that followed told me they didn’t. “I’ll be along shortly, now fuck off.”
Pat looked at Johnny for ten seconds, the two of them having a fraternal argument inside their heads. They both knew they were supposed to bring me in, not kill me, and the two of them weren’t high enough on the food chain to make any executive decisions. They moved to the door, covering each other.
“We’ll be waiting to follow you over, so don’t get any ideas,” was the only goodbye I got.
After they left, I ate everything I could hold down. I drank a Red Bull with a handful of Tylenol, changing it up from Advil. I picked up the Glock from the floor beside the desk and tucked it into the front of my pants with my right arm, making sure I could draw it without wincing. Once I got it right, I practised walking across the floor. I tried to hide any awkward movement, but I moved like I was in a jacket that was too small. It wasn’t ideal, but it was the best I could do. Before walking out the door I rummaged in the garbage for an old newspaper. I knelt and used the floor and my one good arm to crease the paper in half. I nestled the SIG I showed to the Scazzaro brothers into the paper, folded it, and put it under my left arm.
The broken office door closed when I left, but it didn’t hold. I left it as it was — I didn’t have time to worry about it. Johnny and Pat weren’t waiting for me in the hall or in the stairwell. No one was waiting outside, either, but a minute after I pulled the Volvo away from the building I picked up an obvious tail. The two Scazzaro brothers were behind me in a black SUV. Their worked-over faces appeared closer than they really were in the side mirrors. Pat was in the passenger seat talking on a cell phone. They weren’t taking any chances getting me back. They would guide me in, and any hiccups would bring backup — quick. Traffic was light, and I only hit a few red lights. At each one I caught sight of a second black SUV farther back. I thought it was the person on the other end of Pat’s cell phone — I found out later I was wrong.
As I drove, I glanced at the newspaper hiding the gun. It was an offensive, stupid idea, but it was necessary. A gun in plain sight should get me in the restaurant without frisking, provided I used the right attitude. I double-parked beside the cars lined outside the doors. The four guards out front weren’t talking about sports, food, or women this time. They were looking at me like wolves eyeing a lone fawn.
I put the newspaper on my lap and took five deep breaths before I reached across my body and opened the door. I stood and tucked the paper under my bad arm, feeling the reassuring weight of the gun. There was no pain as long as I kept my left hand in my pocket.
“Move the car.”
I ignored the order and started around the front bumper of the car.
“Hey, asshole, we ain’t valets. Move the car.”
As I passed the final corner of the bumper my right hand moved inside the paper under my left arm. The dampness of my fingers caused a small bit of friction on the newsprint. The four guards tensed when they saw my hand move. Each man’s right arm moved a second behind mine.
“Easy, boys,” I said as I approached. “I have some business here today.” I stopped in front of the group. “You know this place is watched, so keep your hands loose. If we start a gunfight no one leaves happy. I was told to come down and I’m here — on my terms. I’m going in, and you’re staying here. Everyone watching this place will see me go in and everyone will see you stay out front as usual. You come inside and everyone watching will turn into everyone listening. When there ends up being something to hear, everyone will come in for a closer look.”
I hoped my lies would play on the constant paranoia people in organized crime find themselves in every day. The men out front glorified themselves in their own minds. In their heads they were important, dangerous men. They could not imagine a group of law-enforcement officials who would not fear them, and therefore would want to keep constant tabs on them. In reality no one watched the restaurant all the time. If anything it was bugged by recorders that were collected and transcribed later. The law wouldn’t know I came for months, if at all. Who knew if the tapes were even checked.
Four hard faces looked at me. Four hard faces saying nothing. I didn’t wait for a response; instead I moved to the left of the group. If they drew guns they would have to move them across their bodies to get to me. The extra milliseconds would be necessary if I had to draw on them from under my arm. No one moved as I walked a semicircle around the group. I went through the door of the restaurant sideways, my eyes never leaving the small crowd of men. Once I was inside, I turned, and the newspaper followed my gaze towards the coat-check stall. Cold eyes greeted me, and one manicured hand was already under the counter.
“We’ve been here before.”
The coat-check girl said nothing.
“And you know what? I’ll still be through the door before you draw.”
“I’m faster than I was,” she said, her hand still under the counter.
I looked at her and let the grin form on my face. For a second her lips separated and her eyes found my hand in the newspaper pointed at her. She was instantly unsure of herself.
“It’s good that you’ve gotten better. Me, I’ve never slowed down.”
Her hand stayed under the counter as I went through the second set of doors.
I walked down the steps into the restaurant. All of the tables had chairs up on them as usual. The only difference was in the hallway where the booths were located. Two men stood there with guns in their hands.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Neither of the two gunmen spoke to me. They took turns looking at me and at my hand in the newspaper under my arm. I took deep breaths and visualized shooting the one on the right and diving left toward the tables. I had to quickly re-evaluate my decision when I realized that my left arm couldn’t take a bump on the floor; I’d have to shoot left and dive right.
“What in the hell did you do, figlio?” I heard Paolo before I saw him. He came out, empty-handed, from between the two men.
“The boys you sent didn’t seem friendly. I decided I would come and see you myself. I meant no offence.”
He stopped dead. “Don’t you fucking lie to me, you stupid fuck. You took from me and attacked my people. You . . . you . . . fucked with me.” Every me was emphasized like a sonic boom. Paolo was physically shaking. His rage dilated his pupils and made his hands shake. It turned him into the focal point of the room. No one could look anywhere else. “Then you lie to me like I’m worth nothing. Not even an explanation. I bailed you out when you should have been dead. I gave you work when I should have made an example of you, and to reward my generosity you become Judas? What did it take to turn you, Judas? How much money, figlio?” Paolo’s voice had worn down into a whisper; he was now the grand inquisitor.
I said nothing. The man calling me son wasn’t my father; he kept me employed because it helped him. He hung me out to dry days ago for the s
ame reason. I didn’t argue back. I forced myself to stop hearing Paolo so I could focus. At some point I would be told to drop the newspaper. In my mind, I visualized tossing it in front of me and using the movement of the paper and the heavy sound of the gun hitting the ground to conceal my drawing of the other gun from my waistband. I watched myself in my head, over and over again, until I realized Paolo was staring at me.
“Thirty pieces of silver, eh Judas? You have no loyalty. I knew that when you first bit the hand that fed you. When a dog does that they put him down because they know that he’s got a wild streak in him that’s no good for nothin’. I made a mistake there. I thought you were better than a dog. But you’re not better than a dog, you’re still a crow. You come in here with a gun and lie to my face. To me! You cripple a man, my man, and then lie to me about it. Take off that shirt and we’ll see the liar. Take it off! Show me you’re not lying and I’ll apologize for the invitation that offended you so much. I know what’s under that shirt. I know because you didn’t kill that kid, or his mom. That was always your problem. You only killed people you thought deserved it. You never saw that you were living in the jungle and everyone deserves it. The lions take who they want; they don’t weigh out the morality of the situation — they just act. Acting is what makes them king — not morality. I’m king of the fucking jungle. People die all the time because I say so, not because they deserve it — screw deserves. People die because I live. I’m what Darwin dreamed of at night. Top of the food chain, no remorse. Now take off your shirt.”
“I did the job you wanted done. I picked up what you asked for. You lied. You never told me what I was dealing with.”
“Risks, boy. Did you forget what you did for a living?”
“I never forget. I complete jobs that you need done. Jobs you want to be able to distance yourself from. I work for you, but I’m not your fall guy. You left me out to dry. You knew that the Russians would find me eventually. You knew they would have to work to find me and kill me, and you thought that in the time it would take them to do that you would be able to hurt them bad — maybe kill their organization completely. You set me up, and when that didn’t work you sent men to bring me to you; to bring me to die. That’s not how I work. My shirt stays on and I leave . . . for good.”
