Five pairs of eyes turned to stare at him in mute shock. They were sitting on a couple of couches rescued from a dumpster and the air was thick with the smell of Bento’s dope.
“Hello, Pinky.”
“What the fuck.” Pinky reached under the cushion for a gun. Max fired, once, the bullet sinking into the dirty stuffing of the couch, sending up a plume of dust and crumbly foam.
“Shit, man,” Pinky said. His movements were jerky, delayed with shock and drugs.
“The next one will be in your brains,” Max said, “if you had any.”
The short fat kid started to laugh.
“Shut the fuck up, Bilbo,” Pinky said.
There were four boys and a girl. She looked up at Max with stoned, uncurious eyes.
“Get out,” he said. He motioned with his gun.
“Me, mister?”
“You. Leave.”
“But I only just got here.”
“Do I have to ask you twice?”
“Can I at least take the dope?” the girl said.
Max shrugged. “Why not,” he said.
“Hey!” Bilbo said.
“Shut up, Bilbo,” Max said.
The girl went through the boys’ effects and pocketed weed, pills and money.
“Bitch,” Pinky said. She stuck out her tongue at him.
“Are you going to shoot them, mister?” she said when she was almost at the door.
“I don’t know,” Max said, “what do you think?”
She shrugged. “It’s a free country,” she said.
She disappeared outside and Max returned to the business at hand. “Where is my briefcase?” he said.
“Look, we didn’t mean nothing, it was just—”
Max shot Pinky in the knee.
The boy screamed, a high-pitched cry that filled the room and leaked like snot to the street outside. The other boys huddled in their seats, staring at Max with frightened stoned eyes.
“Where’s my briefcase?”
“It’s not here!” It was the fat kid, Bilbo. “We didn’t have nothing to do with it, honestly, mister, it was just a job! He said it was nothing, just taking something from an old guy and—”
“He?” Max said.
“Bogdan,” Pinky said, crying. He was going into shock. “It was Bogdan, it was Bogdan!”
“Ah,” Max said. He almost felt sorry for the kids.
Almost.
“You gave him the briefcase?”
“Soon as we left you. Then we scored some weed and came home.”
“We really didn’t mean nothing, mister. We weren’t going to really shoot you or anything.”
“I need a doctor! Call an ambulance!”
“You don’t need an ambulance yet,” Max said. He surveyed the four boys. Shook his head. What was Bogdan thinking, using these clowns? They didn’t even shave properly yet.
He said, “Look, I’m going to give you a choice.”
They looked at him but didn’t say anything. Good. Max said, “I can either shoot you now—”
“Please don’t!”
He waited for them to calm down. “Or,” he said, waving the gun at the narrow balcony, “you could take yourselves over there and jump.”
“You what?”
“Are you crazy, mister?”
“Or I could shoot you where you are.”
The boys looked at each other, pale and frightened. Pinky moaned softly, his hands round his ruined leg.
“You’d have to pick him up and throw him over,” Max said. “I don’t think he can make it on his own.”
“Please, mister!”
“It’s not that far down,” Max said. “I figure you’ll probably break a few bones but you’re young, your bodies are still flexible. You might live.” He waved the gun. “Come on,” he said. “I haven’t got all night to stay and chat.”
“Please! We’ll get you back the case!”
“From Bogdan?”
They looked down at the floor.
“I’m going to count down from three,” Max said, “starting with you,” he pointed at a big lump of a boy. “What’s your name?”
“Rambo,” the boy mumbled.
“Well, Rambo,” Max said. “Help your friend Pinky there get to his feet. Three, two, one—”
“OK, alright! You don’t have to count so quickly!” The boy jumped to his feet. He went over to Pinky.
“Come on, Pinky,” he said. He slung Pinky’s arm over his shoulders and lifted him up. Pinky was crying, snot was running down the front of his shirt.
“You, Bilbo, and you, what’s your name?”
“Danny?” the boy said.
“I don’t know,” Max said. “Is it?”
“What?”
“Just get over there,” Max said. The three boys and the wounded Pinky made their way slowly to the balcony. The balcony doors were open. A warm breeze wafted into the room and the marijuana smoke made its way out to the street.
“What’s it going to be?” Max said.
The boys looked down to the street. Looked back at Max and his gun. He smiled at them without humour. “Well?”
“Shit,” Rambo said. “We just wanted to get high.” He picked up Pinky and before anyone could say anything to stop him he threw him over the railings.
Pinky disappeared over the balcony and dropped. There was a short scream and then a thud. They all looked over the balcony. Pinky lay on the asphalt with his leg at an angle and his head caved in.
“Doesn’t look too bad,” Max said.
The small kid, Danny, panicked. He rushed Max, almost knocking him back, and made for the door. Max fired once, twice, and hit the kid in the back. Danny fell, his hand still on the door handle. He didn’t get up.
Max stood up and looked at Bilbo and the big kid. “Well?” he said.
“Please,” Rambo said. “Please.”
Bilbo was crying.
Max said nothing.
The two boys held hands. They looked over the railing. “Help me up,” Bilbo said. He was struggling to climb over the railing. Rambo made an impatient motion and pushed him, and Bilbo flapped his arms in the air as he lost his balance and then he, too, dropped with a high-pitched scream. Rambo was the last to go. Max looked down and saw that he’d landed on the fat kid’s body.
Max pocketed the gun and stepped over the small kid’s body and left the flat.
5
When he left the building the stars had gone and he thought it was going to rain. Someone was screaming from an open window. The kids were lying on the ground.
Max walked away from them when someone took a shot at him.
It had come from somewhere to his left, ahead of him, and he was already moving, taking the corner and seeing two dark figures holding guns both levelled at him. He fired and one went down and the other yelled something in Arabic and behind him Max heard running footsteps and he knew they’d finally caught up with him.
“Listen,” he said, “it was just a job, it wasn’t personal.”
The man had a gun to his face and behind him more men blocked the passageway. There was no way out. The man came out of the shadows. He was a thin young man in worn jeans and a chequered shirt, and he had deeply tanned skin. On his head he wore a red Bedouin keffiyeh.
“Shut up,” he said. He raised his gun and slapped Max hard with it. The pain seared through Max’s head. He tasted blood. The man gestured. Max turned. Three other men stood there training guns on him.
“Start moving.”
If they wanted him dead he would already be dead, he thought. He followed them down the road. They left the one man’s corpse behind them. A dusty jeep was parked by the side of the road.
“Get in.”
Max stopped and just stood there.
“Don’t make me shoot you,” the man said. “I’ll shoot you in the leg. You’re not going to die yet. Not for a long time yet.”
The other men laughed and Max felt a cold fury rising in him. He heard police sire
ns in the distance. One of the neighbours would have rang up the emergency services by now, for the kids.
Max said, “I can’t.”
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“I have a package to deliver.”
“What sort of package?”
“Drugs, money. I don’t know. A kidney maybe.”
“You don’t know.”
“I don’t know. But I just killed at least two kids to keep it.”
He heard them conferring though he did not understand the words.
“Where is it?”
“Someone took it.”
“Who?”
“A guy called Bogdan.”
“Who does the package belong to?”
“Benny,” Max said. “It belongs to Benny.”
He heard the man spit on the ground. “Benny sent you? To kill my father?”
“He did.”
The Bedouin laughed. “Then we will go get your package, Mr. Max,” he said. “And then we will pay Benny a visit.”
They shoved him into the back of the car. Piled in on either side of him, taciturn men with the warmth of the desert. “What’s your name?” Max said.
“Ashraf,” the man said. He was sitting up front in the passenger seat. Turned and scrutinized Max. “Who is this Bogdan?” he said.
“He is a dangerous man in a world of dangerous men,” Max said, and Ashraf laughed, and the other men followed suit.
“What is he, mafiya?” Ashraf said.
Max nodded. Ashram studied him. Behind them police cars with flashing blue lights congregated on Wolfson. “Not a friend of yours, then?”
“He and Benny had a disagreement,” Max said. He might as well be honest. He wasn’t sure he was going to live through this, but losing the briefcase annoyed him all the same.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said.
Ashraf slapped him. “You’re not worthy of saying his name,” he said. But Max had forgotten what the old Bedouin’s name was.
He had come into the yard before the trailer, with a permanent fire burning in the yard and the skeleton of a Tel Aviv car suspended on a jack, stripped bare of its components, and two small children playing backgammon with an intensity that didn’t allow them to even glance at him. He came in his car and the old man and two bodyguards stepped out with AKs and he shot before they had a chance to shoot him, putting down the old man with a bullet to the head and one bodyguard in the chest shot and the other with a gut shot. Then he drove away: the whole thing did not take a minute.
“You would have caught me sooner,” he said, thinking of the cars chasing him down the Arava road, and of his desperate dash into the dunes. “If it wasn’t for the border police.”
Ashraf laughed without humour. “Well,” he said. “We caught up with you now.”
He looked at Max with uncurious eyes. “Where is this Bogdan?” he said.
So Max told him.
6
It was a Bauhaus building on the edge of the old neighbourhood. It resembled a ship, with a rounded foredeck and small round porthole windows. It was two stories high and the paint job was peeling badly.
They watched it from the jeep. There were two bulky men outside, packing under their coats. The only door was reinforced steel. No one came in or out of the building.
The Bedouins were organising. Ashraf barked orders and the men disappeared from the car. One had a sniper rifle, Israeli military issue. Then it was just Ashraf and Max and the driver in the car.
“Remember,” Ashraf said, and smiled without humour. “The first bullet’s for you.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Max said. He stepped out of the car. He did not like the plan. Not that there really was a plan. He walked to the building’s entrance.
“Stop right there.” They were two large Russians and now they brought up guns. Max stopped and raised his hands, palms forward. “I’m not carrying,” he said.
“That’s smart,” the one on the left said.
Max knew him slightly. “Leonid,” he said, nodding.
“Max,” Leonid said. He smirked. The other one Max didn’t know. “You sore?”
“A little,” Max admitted. “Sending kids?”
Leonid smirked wider. “Boss wanted the package,” he said.
“What’s in the package?” Max said.
Leonid shrugged. “What do I know,” he said. “I just work here.”
“Can I see him?”
“Why? You want to ask for it back?”
Leonid said something in Russian and the other man laughed.
“I thought Bogdan and Benny had an understanding,” Max said. Leonid shrugged again. Opened his mouth to say something and never finished the thought.
There were two cracks in the night and Leonid’s head disappeared. He crumpled by the door. The other man was down. Whoever Ashraf’s shooter was, he was well-trained. The two other men ran crouching to the door and attached a small explosive device. Max flattened himself against the wall when the explosion came. It tore the door off its hinges and blasted it in. The Bedouins were already moving, Ashraf and two of his men, the unseen sniper still there, Max thought. Ashraf pushed Max through the door first, roughly. It was full of smoke and debris inside. It was hard to see, which was when Max elbowed Ashraf in the face, broke his nose, and reached for the man’s gun hand. The gun fired but missed. Then Max broke two of Ashraf’s fingers and took hold of the gun. He was going to shoot Ashraf but there was a blast of machine gun fire and Max dropped to the ground. He crawled through smoke and the firefly flashes of tracer bullets. Soft grunts and the sound of falling bodies behind him. He saw the shooter through the smoke and raised Ashraf’s gun and fired. The shooter fell back and suddenly there was silence. It hurt Max’s ears. He stood cautiously and stepped forward.
“Don’t fucking move, Max.”
“Bogdan.”
The gun was stuck in Max’s ribs.
“Drop it, Max.”
“It wasn’t my idea, Bogdan. It was these Bedouins.”
“I said drop it, Max.”
“Where’s the briefcase, Bogdan?”
Bogdan laughed. “I wish I could have seen your face when those kids robbed you,” he said.
“You can see my face now,” Max said. “Am I laughing?”
“The gun, Max.”
Max dropped the gun.
“Good, good.”
The smoke was clearing. There were bodies on the ground.
Max said, “There’s still a sniper outside.”
Men were streaming past Max and Bogdan, heading outside. Max heard shots. Bogdan said, “Not for much longer.”
“I just want the briefcase, Bogdan.”
“You have some nerve, Max. I’ll give you that.”
“Hey, I was going to ask nicely.”
The gun didn’t leave his side. Max took a deep breath, coughed.
He said, “Look what I’ve got.” Pulled back his coat. Showed Bogdan the Bedouins’ final joke.
“Fuck me, Max, when did you join the Palestinian resistance?” Bogdan said. He took a step back. They’d wired Max up with explosives and a dead man’s switch.
“Drop the gun, Bogdan,” Max said. He bent down and picked up his own gun. There was no reason, he just felt more comfortable that way.
“Take it easy, Max,” Bogdan said. “I can help you. I’ve got guys can disarm that thing in a minute if you let them.”
“And where will we be then, Bogdan?” Max said. “No, I’ll take my chances. Maybe I could go into business as a walking bomb.”
“Just don’t try boarding a plane,” Bogdan said. “You know how they are at the airport about these things.”
“And I was just thinking how nice it would be to take a holiday,” Max said. “Where’s the case, Bogdan?”
He sensed men behind him. Sensed guns trained on him. Smiled. Went to Bogdan and smashed him across the face with the gun. Bogdan stared up at him in hatred.
“This isn’t over,” he
said.
Max took Bogdan’s gun and pocketed it. Stuck his own gun in Bogdan’s ribs. Thought that every moment could be his last. Wondered how stable the explosives were.
“You’re staying close to me,” he said.
“Isn’t over,” Bogdan said. He led Max deeper into the building, into a room on the second floor. Bogdan’s men followed silently but didn’t fire. It was a regular office room with filing cabinets and a desk. There was a bottle of arak on the table. Max helped himself to the bottle, drank, the aniseed flavour smooth on his throat. The alcohol burned pleasantly. He figured he’d earned himself a drink.
Bogdan reached under the desk and brought out the case. Max ran his fingers on it. The lock was intact.
“You didn’t open it?” he said.
“It isn’t for me,” Bogdan said.
“Then who for?”
“For your mother, the whore,” Bogdan said.
Max sighed. “Come on,” he said. He picked up the case. “You go first.”
“You’re mad if you think you can get away with it.”
“I’m just doing my job,” Max said. For the first time he felt his composure slipping. It’s been a long night. “You robbed me!”
“If I knew you were going to be such a bitch about it I’d have just told those kids to shoot you.”
“We all make mistakes,” Max said.
He pushed Bogdan out the door and down the stairs. Bogdan’s men parted silently before them. Max felt that every moment he could get a bullet in the back, but he didn’t.
He pushed Bogdan past Ashraf’s corpse and what remained of the door and then over Leonid. The Bedouins’ jeep was still there, the driver slumped in the seat with his head at an unnatural angle. The windows were broken and the frame riddled with bullet holes but the wheels were intact. They went to the car and Max opened the door and pulled the driver’s corpse out and climbed in. There was blood on the steering wheel. Max kept his gun trained on Bogdan’s face.
“I’ll be seeing you again, Max,” Bogdan said. “Real soon.”
Max sighed. The key was in the ignition. He turned the key and the jeep came alive and he felt it buck and shudder beneath him.
The Outcast Hours Page 11