McNamara leaned her elbow into his throat, held it there until he stopped kicking and struggling. The man took a deep, rasping breath, and then his muscles relaxed. She took the pressure off his throat. She stood up, extended a hand, and pulled him to his feet.
“Why don’t you come up to my office?” she said, and the reporters snapped their photos and started asking their questions, but the press secretary put out his hand.
“There won’t be any questions. Thank you.” An officer opened the door to the building and McNamara and Chris Mayweather’s brother stepped inside.
Chapter Six
There was an orange glow on the horizon and the smell of burning tires. The thick acrid smoke and the stench of burning plastic hung heavy in the night air as I stepped towards the city. Every now and then, the quiet breath of wind brought a murmur of raised voices, clashing metal, and the occasional gunshot . . . or maybe it was fireworks. Hard to tell from this distance.
I reached the interstate, hauled up my hospital gown, clambered over the barrier and onto the shoulder. The verge of the road curved in the direction of the glowing sky, the smog and the voices. I set out towards them and $300 million.
I didn’t know what I’d do with the money. Apart from wetting my lips, there was very little that I wanted to spend money on . . . or needed or wanted. My relationship with the greenback was about as foreign to me as I tried to make my memories of Afghanistan and Iraq. The few times I saw a dollar were on pension day or when my editor—he’s got a name, but I call him Ed because I know it annoys him—decides to pay up for stories I wrote three years ago. Doesn’t bother me much, though. Most of the time, I have what I need—a keen sense of direction, a loaded piece, and the reluctant ability to fight myself out of trouble.
A few vehicles trickled past and ignoring my outstretched thumb. I figured I’d have to walk for the rest of the evening, maybe arrive in Savannah sometime in the morning, maybe sometime just after midnight. I’d find a bar, sit down.
I’d almost certainly find myself a pair of pants and a T-shirt, because I discovered having your balls gently caressed by an updraft of hot night air from the interstate is not as pleasant as it was rumored to be. The one pocket in this disgraceful rehabilitation garment held the key to a world I’d never imagined and didn’t have a clue what to do with; that crumpled, faded note. Maybe I’d hand it to a bum on the street or unfurl it into the fire that glowed in the distance ahead. I wondered what they were fighting about, what they were burning, and why.
There was the serpentine hiss of air brakes, and then an 18-wheeler pulled over onto the verge. I looked up, only half-hopeful. Maybe the driver was stopping for me, or maybe he was stopping to take a piss on the verge. I wasn’t looking forward to the embarrassment I would suffer if I began running towards the truck and it turned out to be the latter. I might have been wearing a thin cotton dress, but I still had my pride.
A man with tats down both arms, a shaved head, and creases that looked as if the sun cracked his skin like a desert, opened the door and leaned out. “You gettin’ in?”
Just before I hopped in, I noticed the vanity license plate: A55MAN. I chuckled. Ass man. I wondered how he’d managed to get that one past the fuddy duddies at the DMV. I grabbed onto the handle, hopped up onto the side step, and pulled myself in to a pretty comfy seat. The footwell was lined with a rat’s nest of receipts, empty potato chip packages, McDonald’s and Kentucky Fried Chicken cups—supersized—and used condoms. Gingerly, I cleared a space for my bare feet, nudging the mound of trash aside. I’d managed to survive showering in the rehab center without catching myself a case of foot fungus; I figured I’d come too far to turn around now.
The cab smelt like menthol cigarettes and sweat, and the radio played—surprise, surprise—country music, interspersed with ads for some sort of mega-church, where healing and salvation were guaranteed for a small monthly love-gift.
I pointed in the direction of the glow. “Heading into Savannah?”
The big man looked down across his sailor’s tattoos, which included, among other indiscernible images, a naked woman strung out across an anchor, a slavering pit bull, some kind of horn-faced Pokémon I couldn’t name, and a misspelled Bible verse that seemed to endorse kicking ass and taking names. They were all blurred, monochrome and shittily done. I’d seen neater tattoos on the ears of dairy cows.
The guy gave me a yellow-toothed grin. “Take you anywhere you want, boy.”
Boy? I turned my jaw towards him. We looked to be about the same age.
“Anywhere.” He hissed low, rolling his eyes as he placed a big thick nicotine-stained hand, with a wedding ring creased inside folds of skin that had grown up around it, onto my thigh and squeezed my leg.
I silently tried to remember my high school biology classes; how many bones were there in the human hand, and how many would I have to break before he moved his?
“But first,” he said, and pulled out a condom from his pocket with his other hand and tore the foil with his teeth, “you need to give me something.”
I prized his fat fingers off my leg. “I’m sorry, man. You’re not my type,” I said.
He grabbed me by the front of my gown, and I felt it ride up on my legs, revealing family treasures which, especially in situations like this, would be better kept hidden. I felt that precious square of paper crumple in my pocket; in my ears it sounded so loud I wondered if he could hear it, too. He yanked me towards him.
His laughter came out in a gust of hot, stale, nicotine-infused breath. “Type? What’s that? Type don’t matter to me, son,” he said.
Call me ‘son’ one more time, I thought, and I will permanently remove any capability you have of having a son of your own.
He tried to force his face into mine. That was a mistake.
But one I was willing to overlook if it meant I could still get a ride into town out of him—once I’d convinced him that his actions were foolhardy, and shouldn’t be repeated. I raised my hand, popped him in the eyes with two fingers —though not enough to cause serious damage, since I did need that ride—and then shoved him away from me in distaste. I am not homophobic; what I am is random-smelly-sons-of-bitches-laying-their-grimy-hands-on-me phobic.
“Give it up, buddy,” I snapped. “All I want is to get into town. Drive me there and that’s it. You get out of this okay.”
Some people are more dense than others. Some people don’t know a hint if it slaps them in the face. “Come on, sexy,” he said, grabbing me again and leering. I sighed. I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this. Now I was gonna have to get my knuckles all bloody. I only hoped it didn’t spray all over my lovely nightgown. I grabbed the back of his head and slammed the bridge of his nose onto the steering wheel.
The sharp beep of the horn rang out into the night, almost covering up the satisfying crunch the gristle in his nose made when it cracked. I yanked his head back and thumped it down again. Another beep.
This was fun and all, but I needed to get going. I dragged him over to the side of the cab where I was sitting, and then out through the door and onto the shoulder of the interstate. He was blithering all the way. Blood trickled down his face as I propped him up against the railing at the side of the road. I found a can of spray paint in the footwell, and wondered if I was up to a bit of mischief before I went. His eyes crinkled open, watching me warily. I guess he was wondering whether I was going to shove the can up his ass. Which wasn’t a bad idea.
I started to spray Rapist onto the barrier along the side of the interstate, and then thought better of it. Maybe I should just call the police, send them in his direction once I got to town. I gave up on my amateur gang tagging halfway through. I’d already written Rap in the crimson paint. Let anyone passing make of that what they would.
He seemed to get a second wind; fools like him are slow to learn. He decided to tackle me again, slewing forward at me, and grabbed my ankle. I kicked out and sprayed a stream of red paint into his eyes. He lurch
ed backwards and cracked his head against the concrete barrier, and I stepped up into the cab, and started the engine. As an afterthought, I tossed out a couple packets of chips and a bottle of water. I knew from experience that a concussion can make you peckish. And dopey. Seriously dopey.
I threw the 18-wheeler into gear and rolled it towards the smokestack that was Savannah. I stopped only long enough to rummage through the rubble on the floor of the cab until I found a nondescript pair of gray pants, a T-shirt in a color formerly known as white, and a slightly oversized black jacket. Then I pulled away again. I changed the radio station, of course. Country music could kiss my ass.
Chapter Seven
Irving Mathers spat onto the blacktop. He rubbed the red paint out of his eyes with balled up fists and kicked an empty beer can, sending it rattling down the interstate behind his truck as it disappeared towards town.
Take a deep breath; count backwards from 300.
He sucked in a lungful of air and tried to breathe, but he was too agitated to count backwards. He spat again and then slammed his fist down into his other hand. Meditation was supposed to work. It had got him through things before, bad things. But, right now, in the heat of the storm, in the white heat of the moment, he couldn’t detach himself, could barely breathe, think . . . and certainly not count.
And then, as the last plume of smoke from his truck’s exhaust billowed on the horizon, Mathers struck upon an idea. His body shivered once, and his lips sneered up as he scratched absently at the tattoo on his left bicep. Olive Oyl, stark naked, with puffy nipples and a shaved crotch. Ole Popeye knew what was what.
“You ain’t get away with this,” he said to himself, and waved his arms in expansive movements as a truck rolled past, tooting its horn and refusing to stop, and then another, and another, until finally one pulled in, a red pickup with an old man at the wheel.
He leered at Irving, and Irving leered back. His great beard was smattered with the leftovers of an apple cake and permeated by the stench of stale coffee and beer.
He recalled a time earlier in his life, another man with another filthy beard and the smell of coffee and beer. He shuddered, dove forward across the cab, grabbed the man by the throat, and pulled him through the cab and out onto the blacktop. He lodged one firm kick in the man’s gut, and propped up the now limp lump pretty much in the same place where the truck-thieving bastard had left him just moments earlier. It had a sense of divine synchronicity to it. The Universe would approve.
He climbed up into the driver’s seat and put his foot on the gas until he could see his 18-wheeler up in front. He set off in pursuit, pushing the claptrap old bucket of bolts as hard as he could push her. At times, he was almost driving into the rear license plate of the big vehicle, and at others he pulled back, waiting, seeing which way his attacker would go.
“I’ll get you. I’ll fucking get you,” he grated. He knew in his heart that the opportunity would eventually present itself. That was just the way all things harmonized. Soon enough, the 18-wheeler hauled off the interstate and slid into a parking spot in a gas station lot. The alignment was perfect: the truck-thieving dickhead had skills. He wondered how many skills the guy would have left once he knocked the bastard to the ground and rolled his truck back and forth over his knees until they looked like silly putty.
Mathers watched as the man who’d stolen his 18-wheeler climbed out of the cab and down onto the concrete. He sauntered into the gas station like he stole trucks every day, which he probably did. Well, this would be his last. Mathers pulled the red pickup around the block, twice, before the man emerged again and set off on foot towards metropolitan midtown. Mathers parked up, climbed out of the pickup, and kept his distance as he followed on foot. The man in front of him was tall and strongly built. He was no longer wearing the cute little dress from before: he’d changed into something boring. Irving was mildly disappointed.
Dickhead, thought Irving, clenching and unclenching his fists.
The man was too far away to see his appearance; but he was clearly strong. Not in the way that spending five years in the gym does, but in a way that suggested he’d lived a life. Maybe he was ex-military; maybe he’d even done time. He knew first-hand how a couple of years behind bars gave you a swagger.
Irving considered this for a moment, considered the man’s stature, the way he walked, that quiet confidence. There was a danger to him, but Mathers wasn’t afraid of danger. He’d faced the worst this world has to offer.
Past the gas station, and the highway segued into city streets. They passed stores, bodegas, and nondescript holes in the wall. Irving Mathers cut around the block and stepped into a gun shop. There were voices outside on the street and, as Irving stepped up to the entryway, he realized the door was shut and locked and barred. He banged on the door for a few moments. The owner came forward, mouthed that they were closed, pointing at the sign. Irving banged some more. The owner opened the door a crack and Irving pushed it open.
“We’re closed,” said the man.
“What’s all this craziness?” asked Irving.
“Right. We’re not selling anything.”
Irving nodded and allowed the red mist in front of his eyes to dissolve for a minute. He wouldn’t lose control. Not this time. “Look, I own a farm outside of town. We’ve got a dog problem. I just need a simple rifle with a scope.”
“No can do,” said the man. “Sorry, you’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“My geese will be dead tomorrow,” said Irving. “Hell, all I need’s a simple rifle, couple rounds of ammunition, that’s all.”
The man indicated the door. “We’re closed.”
Irving nodded as if he understood, steadied himself, launched one foot forward and then the next, and then his hand was around the man’s head, his other arm around his throat. He twisted the neck quickly, sharply. The man went down, crunched, crumbled to the ground, his legs akimbo.
Irving raided the man’s pockets and then the area behind the counter until he found the code for the safe. He cracked it, pulled out some ammunition, grabbed a Colt AR-15—America’s favorite rifle—off the shelf, pocketed ammunition and an empty magazine, and stepped out into the street, carefully looking one way and then the other.
The man he was following was a silhouette in the near distance and he was approaching, quickly, steadily, confidently. Irving stepped back into the doorway, and then looked out again as the man disappeared into a bodega. Irving followed and peered through the window of a nearby shop. The man was standing at the counter, smiling, chatting to the proprietor, asking questions, presumably about what was going on in Savannah.
It might be the last thing he says, thought Irving, his sneer becoming a genuine smile. He was beginning to enjoy himself. He loaded the magazine, stepped back across the street and found some cover.
Chapter Eight
Inside her office, Chief McNamara indicated for the man to take a seat. He was skinny and streetwise, and his face was so unlined that he looked about thirty years old. He wore Nike high tops, a plain T-shirt and a gold chain around his neck. It looked like something he shouldn’t have been able to afford. He also looked like he hadn’t eaten a square meal in at least a week.
“Would you like a coffee?” asked Chief McNamara.
The guy smiled. “Already had two.”
“There’s always room for another,” said Chief McNamara. Then, soberly, “Do you think I’m a traitor?”
The man shook his head emphatically, wrenching it to and fro, his long dreadlocks flicking one way and then the other before finally coming to a sharp halt on his cheeks. Then he seemed to be thinking. His face screwed up and his eyes looked at the ceiling and back down at her. “Maybe,” he said, “I’ll take that coffee.”
“Cappuccino?” asked McNamara, poking her head out of the door and signaling for one of her assistants.
A young man in a sharp, snappy suit bustled up to her. “Yes, ma’am, what can I do for you?”
“A
coffee,” she said.
She looked back at the man in her office.
“Just black,” he said, “like me, and you.”
“Black coffee,” she said to her assistant, who bustled off, his suit tails flapping in his wake.
McNamara stepped back into her office and pulled her chair around to the same side of the desk as the man. She sat down as the aroma of brewing coffee filled her office and the whole of that floor of the precinct.
“I know you’re angry,” she said.
“That’s putting it mildly.”
“I’m angry, too,” she said. “Every day in this job, I see the injustices meted out to people, of all races, of all ethnicities, of all colors. I see the inequality. I see the system screw people over again and again, and yet each day I come back to work because I feel I’m in a position to begin to change this, to change these attitudes.” Her placid tone sharpened and hardened. “So, don’t you dare call me a traitor.”
“I wouldn’t know,” said the man, “about any of that, about whether you’re really a traitor or not.”
“You threw an egg at me and called me a traitor.”
“I needed your attention,” said the man.
McNamara leaned forward and searched his eyes. They were deep brown, and she could almost see herself in their reflection.
He also leaned forward, his voice a whisper, and his breath stale but not unpleasant. “I needed you to know—”
And then, there was a knock on the door, breaking the tension as they both flicked their heads around to watch as McNamara’s assistant struggled to bring the two coffees on a platter with a small cup of milk over to the table without spilling them. Coffee sloshed over the sides of each of the mugs and onto the tray. The assistant fretted, and tried to wipe it up with a napkin.
“Leave it,” snapped McNamara.
The Fight (A Ray Hammer Novel Book 4) Page 2
