City of Crime

by Warren Court

  Chapter 17

  First thing I had to do was get the money back, but Wave Dancer was out. I could see that the renter was not down on her but he might come down today and he’d notice it gone. If I left Dancer in her berth, he might not see the damage right away. My own boat was not an option; there was no way I could manoeuvre Purpoise into that tight bay and get her out again. She was just too large. No, it would have to be by land.

  It took a half hour to get out to the shooting range. There were four two-and-a-half-ton army trucks in the parking lot and a couple of smaller army vehicles. They were parked with precision in front of the main range building. It was one in the afternoon. I had to get the money now and get to Toronto for four.

  I drove past the range, pulled over to the side of the road and put the hood of my truck up. Someone would figure I’d broken down and was walking back to the nearest service station to get help.

  I walked back towards the range and before I came within sight of the buildings, I slipped into the thick bramble that ran alongside the property. The place was huge, over fifty acres. Beyond the buildings was the shooting range, over a thousand metres. At the end of it, near the cliff down to the lake, was “the butts,” a huge mound of earth that ran the width of the range. In front of the butts was a large dugout with concrete bunkers for the assistants to sit in while the people on the range blasted away. In the dugout were large metal racks that troops could use to raise and lower the targets and then take shelter from ricochets.

  I made my way through the bush. There was a high, rusty chain-link fence topped with barbed wire the whole way down to the escarpment. There was no shooting going on; the range was empty. The butts were empty, too, when I got down to them. I was sweating profusely and bugs buzzed around my face. Everyone must be inside, maybe having lunch or enduring a lecture.

  I got to the end of the fence; it jutted six feet out into the air and was held to the cliff face by large rusted metal supports. This was to keep everyone except daredevils and the desperate like me from climbing around the fence and getting access to the range from the rear.

  Directly below the fence was a seventy-five-foot drop down onto trees and rocks that made up the shore of the escarpment. And the bag of money. I could not see the water’s edge, where I had come ashore, nor could I see the tree that signalled where the treasure was buried.

  I clung to the metal fence and climbed out, and then swung around so that I was on the range side of it. I scrambled back to the ground and ran the ten feet of open space from the fence to the backside of the butts, then lay down flat and waited. There was no alarm sound. No one had seen me do my Spider-Man act. I was now officially trespassing on government property.

  I walked along the back side of the butts until I was directly under the flagpole. The Canadian flag was up and fluttering in the stiff afternoon breeze, but not the flag with the black square that would indicate active firing.

  I started down the escarpment. I had brought a long line of rope from my boat, and I tied it around a stout branch and threw it down. It would suffice to hold my weight until I reached the gentler slope of the lower part of the escarpment.

  I started climbing down. The rope bit into my hands. It was meant for hauling up sails, not scaling down cliffs. I got to the end of it and grabbed onto a tree that was growing out of the side of the escarpment at an impossible angle. From there it was bushes and trees all the way down, and I moved from one handhold to another the rest of the way down.

  I got down to the shore and then looked back up at the flagpole, centred myself and started to move back up into the bush. I found the tree with the marks on it and retrieved the canvas bag, checked it quickly to make sure it still held the money. The sight of it sickened and thrilled me at the same time. Boy, would I have loved to have this money free and clear. But I knew that it meant Cindy’s life or death. I held her life in my hands with this canvas bag. And my own.

  I slung the bag over my shoulder and started the climb back up. I reached the rope and hauled myself up the rest of the way to the top of the escarpment. When I got to the top, I caught my breath. I was just about to run across the bit of open ground when a volley of fire came my way. I threw myself back into the shelter of the butts. The flag, the one with the black square, was up. I could hear high-velocity rounds hitting the earthen works of the butts, and I could hear the squeal of targets being raised up on decades-old metal target holders. I could even hear the banter of the troops who worked them down in the concrete dugouts.

  I looked at my watch. I had two hours until the rendezvous time. Soos’s men might already be in position, ready to ambush me. I wanted to get the drop on them. The grass between the butts and the fence was long; I could crawl it on my belly like Vic Morrow in Combat. But instead of a Tommy gun, I’d have a bag with two hundred grand in it.

  I waited for a lull in the firing. I’d done some of my youth in the reserves and knew the drill. Twenty rounds at three hundred yards. Then another mag and a change of targets and they’d start up again. The rounds stopped and I got down flat and started to crawl. The troops in the butts could not see me.

  I got about halfway when they opened up again. The long grass prevented me from seeing them but I could hear them. The sound of the fire, even though not directed right at me, was terrifying. A round pinged off the metal works of the target holders and landed in the grass in front of me, its energy spent but still capable of killing me if it had hit the right spot.

  When I made the higher bushes that ran along the side of the fence all the way to the road, I raised myself a bit and saw the troops who were doing the firing. There were probably fifty of them and they were way back at the 700-metre marker. Ten were prone on the ground and firing while their corporals and master corporals stood over them, hands on hips. They were so focused on the targets that they never looked off to the side of the range in my direction. The rest of the troops were behind them, waiting their turn at the targets.

  When firing stopped and I saw them changing magazines, I threw the bag over the fence and scrambled over it fast, dropped down to the ground, and waited and listened. If they’d seen me, there would have been a whistle or a siren or a bullhorn, I imagined. There was nothing. Just another round of rifle fire. I got the hell out of there, away from friendly rifle fire on the range to the fire of Soos’s wrath in Toronto.

  Chapter 18

  I drove fast to Toronto, in the passing lane the whole way. Luckily it was getting into rush hour now and most of the traffic was heading out of Toronto. The one break I caught. Soos’s warehouse was tucked under the shadow of the Don Valley Parkway, one of the city’s arteries that ran north and south. It was locked down with bumper-to-bumper going north, but I got off on Lakeshore Boulevard and threaded my way over to the building.

  It was a nondescript affair, situated next to other warehouses and industrial buildings, with a large weed-filled parking lot in front of it. I saw no vehicles. One of the garage doors at street level was open. That was the only sign of life. I was expected to drive right in there—yeah, right. Why don’t I just shoot myself in the head and send Soos the money via Federal Express. It would be the least painful option for me.

  I drove past, went up another quarter mile, pulled in behind a FedEx building and turned around. I got the bag and the gun and walked back to Soos’s building. I took the back way, trying to come up on it from dead ground at the rear. The property was weed filled and there were clumps of industrial castoff and railroad ties. I saw the remains of a hobo camp—stumps and buckets for seats, a burned-out fire, blackened magnums of white wine, and melted plastic mouthwash bottles. I could sure have used a drink right then.

  I approached the warehouse from the back. There was the end of a sewer pipe sticking out from the ground with tall bulrushes all around it, and I put the money in the pipe and then climbed over the rusty fence and ran to the back of the warehouse.

  There was an unlocked door at the back and I snuck in, letting
the door close slowly. I stood there in the semi-darkness, letting my eyes adjust. I faced a wall of cardboard boxes on skids. Next to that was a set of metal stairs leading to a loft. At the top of the stairs there were more boxes. The loft extended out to about a third of the warehouse. Other than the material at the rear of the building, the warehouse empty. Weak bulbs cast cones of yellow light down onto an oil-stained warehouse floor. Daylight poured in from the open garage door.

  I heard the roar of two pickups coming fast into the warehouse, followed by a shiny black Lincoln Town Car. Goons with automatic weapons got out of the pickup trucks, and Soos and a couple of new bodyguards, replacements for Louis, got out of the Lincoln.

  The men dispersed into the warehouse and disappeared into the shadows. One walked under the loft I was perched in and I heard his footsteps on the metal stairs. I hid behind a huge wooden crate and turned the gun around in my hand so I was holding it by the barrel. I heard the man come up the stairs. He cocked his weapon, an AR-15—a little bit of overkill for little old me. Should I have been flattered? He came by me and I slugged him over the head, knocked him out cold. I caught the barrel of his weapon just before it hit the floor. He wore dark clothes, not unlike mine, and was wearing a ball cap. I put it on. There was some plastic strapping from crates nearby in a pile and I took two pieces and tied his arms and legs. I found a rag and stuffed it in his mouth. He was still out cold. If he choked to death, so be it.

  I moved cautiously to the ledge of the loft and peered over. Soos was standing near the Lincoln talking to one of his men. The rear door was still open, and he motioned to the man who reached in and yanked Cindy out. My heart sank; she looked untouched, but terrified out of her brain.

  One of the gunmen brought a metal chair from somewhere else in the warehouse and placed it in the middle next to the Lincoln. Cindy was put on it and tied up. They put a gag on her. Then the gunmen waited by Soos, their weapons and their eyes pointed at the entrance to the warehouse. Did they really believe I’d just drive in?

  I pointed the AR-15 at them. I could get one, maybe two, before they scattered and returned fire. I could at least take Soos out first. Without their leader the others might flee. Too risky. I waited.

  It was half an hour past the rendezvous. I put my phone on the wooden crate, facing it towards Soos and his men, and put the ringer on with the volume turned up. Then I went down stairs to the main floor.

  I approached Soos and his men, my weapon held loosely in my hands but the safety off. I had checked it—thirty rounds of 5.62 millimetre. No full auto, just a single shot or three-round burst mode. It was dark in the warehouse and Soos’s men gave only me a passing glance as I came at them. I shrugged. I got closer to the Lincoln, ignoring Cindy. She was whimpering softly into her gag, her head down. Soos was talking.

  “Call this asshole,” he said to his new lead man.

  The man took out a phone and dialled. Five seconds later my phone started ringing up in the loft and the gunmen, shocked, all spun around to find out where it was coming from. They had their backs to me, and I pointed my weapon at the back of Soos’s head and moved in close to him.

  “Hey, what’s up, Doc?” I yelled. The men spun around quickly, their weapons drawn. Soos kept completely still.

  “Untie the girl and put her in the car,” I said.

  No one moved.

  “I said untie her.”

  “You surprise me, Jack,” Soos said. I spun him around and pushed him towards his men. I wanted him facing me, not them. Didn’t want him to mouth anything to them.

  “Drop your guns, all of you.”

  “Do it,” Soos said. There was a clatter as several handguns and submachine guns dropped to the concrete floor.

  “You got the drop on us. Well done, Jack,” Soos said. “Now what are you going to do?”

  “Take her and drive out of here. In your car.”

  “No chance. Billy, kill the girl.” The big man who had been standing closest to Soos looked at him.

  “You heard me. Kill her.” A muscle-bound man next to Soos withdrew a knife from his jacket.

  “You do and I’ll put you all down,” I said, half screaming.

  “No, you won’t. A microsecond after she dies one of my men will kill you. You’ll freeze. You’re a loser, Jack. Sure, you got my money. Well done. And you got this thing turned to your advantage. I’ll give you that, however momentary it is. But you’re a loser and you are not walking out of here alive. But the girl can go free. Just drop your gun.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Pretty goddamn stupid, Jack. Look what a mess you’ve made of your life, your career. Your wife is banging the chief of police, and you’re moments away from a meat grinder. Pretty goddamn stupid.”

  I fired and hit Soos right in the chest and his lungs blew out his back. I dropped to the ground and rolled as the men withdrew other weapons they had on them. One or two dropped to the ground and picked up their guns. I fired. Hit three of Soos’s men. One ran off into the darkness, no weapon on him. I fired two rounds at him. The last man had put the Lincoln between him and me. We only had fifteen feet of Detroit steel separating us. I put the weapon on three-round burst and came up firing. He did likewise. My rounds punched through the car and slammed into him. He fell like a stone.

  I went over to Cindy. Her head was sunk down on her chest, the back of her head a mess of rhubarb pie. I didn’t think I had shot her; my rounds had all been aimed at the men. But she had been caught in the crossfire for sure. I took the gag out of her mouth, raised her head and put it to the side on her shoulder. I couldn’t leave her with that shocked look on her face. I closed her eyes.

  I went over to Soos. He was still alive but spitting blood. I pointed the AR-15 at him and heard what I thought was some sort of plea just before his skull split open from the three-round burst I put into it.

  The one guy who had run off into the darkness of the warehouse was nowhere to be found, and I didn’t want to linger. We were in a more or less deserted part of town, but still, those shots would have been audible from outside the building. I decided that the guy who got away was probably a lower-level underling, would run back to home base and call whichever of Soos’s associates were still alive, the ones who had not attended this little soirée. They would call in some cleaners, specialists designed to react fast and clean up a messy situation. And half a dozen people shot dead in a warehouse was a messy situation. Organized crime syndicates like Soos’s do not want police interference; they prefer to keep it in the family, deal with it themselves. There was probably a cell call being placed right now by the survivor, detailing what had happened. I had to get the hell out of there.

  I took one last look at Cindy and then swallowed the rage and anguish I felt at what had happened to her and walked quickly, not ran, out the back of the warehouse. I wiped down the AR-15 and tossed it aside just before I exited. Then I collected the duffel bag full of money and hightailed it back to my truck. At least I still had the cash; this was my lifeline out.

  I pounded my fist on the steering wheel on the way home until my hand ached. The more I thought about leaving Cindy back there the more I knew how bad it was. If the police did find her body, it wouldn’t take long for them to connect her with me. They’d interview people at the bar and Marty would be the first one to speak up that I was her boyfriend. They’d run my name and know who I was and make a guess at my connection to Soos. I hadn’t even untied her.

  My only hope would be that Soos’s men would get to the scene before the cops did and clean everything up. I shuddered at what I thought would happen to Cindy’s body along with Soos—a shallow grave up north somewhere, a cement barrel tossed into the lake, maybe the meat grinder Soos had spoken of. None of them were fitting ends for girl I had such strong feelings for. Not love—I had been careful not to let it approach that—but still she in no way deserved this ending. I should have left for St. Augustine a month ago. My over-preparation and procrastinatio
n had cost her her life.

  I stayed clear of the yacht club; there could be a swarm of cops down there in the bushes waiting. My apartment was also out of the question. Don was dead; his garage would be a crime scene. Cindy’s apartment was no good either—first place the cops would go if they got her body.

  I drove to the other side of town and, paying cash, checked into a seedy motel on Barton Street. The kind where hookers get a room for a night and cycle through johns. I could see two of them in the parking lot and they eyed me cautiously. I carried the duffel bag into the room, locked the door and lay down on the bed, not caring about the soiled condition of the bedspread. I had to sleep, clear my head and plan this out carefully.

  My sleep was fitful, just a couple of hours. Enough to recharge my batteries. It was now dark out and I turned on the television to the twenty-four-hour news channel. I let it cycle through all of the stories twice; no mention of the shootout down at the warehouse. No mention of an unidentified white female found tied to a chair and shot in the head or of the demise of notorious gangster Emerich Soos.