Pigs

by Daniel James

  “Rico Perez?”

  Rico kept his back to him, inked arms dangling at his sides like big decorative hams. Isaac heard car doors opening behind him and realised his desperation had got the best of him. But he didn’t feel afraid. He felt free from his suffering. Two of Rico’s guys, one sporty, one smart casual, emerged from a silver Mercedes S63 AMG. They were smart enough to eschew the obvious low-rider gangster mobiles, opting for more sophisticated and professional vehicles. Rico ran a business, not a crew of wild banditos. Evidently the pair had been waiting for this. They both circled slowly around into Isaac’s view, their guns giving their own angry stares.

  “You’re the pendejo who popped Leroy in his foot. What’s the matter with you, blanco? You looking to die?” Rico slowly turned, hands in pockets. A man with time on his hands.

  “I just want to talk.”

  “You start all your conversations with a pistola?”

  “Wyndorf. You know where he is?”

  “I’m going to need that gun of yours, cowboy.”

  “That’s not happening.”

  “You need to reassess the balance of power here, holmes. You say you need info, but if I’m dead you ain’t got shit. If you die, I go and get some ribs. Comprende?”

  Sporty racked his slide.

  “I don’t like having conversations with guns being waved in my face.” Rico knew he held all the cards here.

  Isaac gave it a few seconds, jaw clenched, and dropped the 9mm, kicking it over to the shaven-headed soldado in the tracksuit.

  Sun glared off Rico’s glasses, hiding his thoughts. Isaac stood quietly for a moment, gauging which one of them was to talk first. Rico folded his arms across his chest and started to inquire about Isaac’s business with Wyndorf, when he shut off, his head tipping to the right to see something over Isaac’s shoulder. Before Isaac could turn around, he watched thin jets of crimson splatter out of Sporty and Smarty. A second later, another soft pulsing caused Rico’s left lens to crack into red shards, and the distributor fell against his pickup.

  Isaac turned around, wondering where his bullet was. The wolf stood in the center of the lot’s entrance aisle, returning his suppressed pistol to his shoulder holster. Two Audis with tinted windows had quietly crept in like panthers, one blocking the shared entrance and exit, the second slowly moving deeper into the lot. So the wolf had an Audi. Isaac wished he had trusted his instincts after seeing those men outside Mateo’s yesterday.

  “Who are you?” Isaac asked the stationary wolf. The Audi hovered confidently close in the distance, hemming him into this chain-link cage.

  The wolf stayed silent.

  “You know where Ludlow is?”

  The wolf nodded curtly.

  “You working with Wyndorf?”

  The wolf slowly shook his head. One leather-gloved hand reached inside his suit jacket, slowly pulling out a cattle prod. Isaac heard the crackle and hum, followed by the pop of the moving Audi’s boot.

  Isaac rushed for his gun on the pavement next to where Sporty was leaking his brains. His hand was chased away from the grip by several neat warning shots. The passenger window of the approaching Audi was down, and a gloved hand gripping steel was warning Isaac to leave his piece on the concrete. Isaac spun and sprinted toward the fence at the rear, hearing the slap of the wolf’s black wingtips reverberating off the concrete right behind him. The throaty grumble of the lead car declared its supremacy, coming to aid the wolf in his hunt. Isaac didn’t dare glance over his shoulder, knowing the car would be on him in a second. He just poured more coal onto the fire in his muscles. Isaac had a mental image of the sleek and powerful car slamming him down, not fatally, but just enough to slow him. To allow the wolf to shock him and toss him into the boot.

  Isaac slipped right out of the aisle and dodged and weaved through the ranks of parked cars. Bumping, sliding and half-climbing through the narrow gaps between cars, he caught a sidelong glimpse of the wolf, still hot on his tail, clearly in great shape and unfettered by breathing through a rubber mask, shock stick still clutched tight.

  The chain-link fence was just up ahead. Luckily it had no barbed wire across the top. He could practically feel the wolf’s breath on the nape of his neck. Isaac scaled the fence faster than he thought possible, dropping into a crouch back on the paving of West Grand Avenue. He stared at the wolf through the links, watching him step aside. An engine revved with fury. Isaac sprinted, knowing what was coming. The Audi crashed through the fence at his back, hand braking into traffic, tyres squealing and the clatter of the broken fencing harsh on the ear.

  Isaac raced until his legs and lungs burned, scurrying catlike across the four lanes of traffic, using the cars to impede the Audi roaring at his back, shifting its way through the blockages. He made it several blocks to North Halsted, his momentum failing as he recklessly threw himself across the intersection of Grand, Halsted and North Milwaukee, his salvation pinned on the Grand Station subway. Both Audis swung around the corner into the erratic mess of junction traffic Isaac had created. The lead Audi nipped at Isaac’s legs as he barely made the pavement, bolting down the grimy steps toward the blue line.

  He vaulted the turnstile, shoulder-checking the security guard aside. The angry commands at his back shut off like a switch. Isaac had a good idea why but chose not to look back for confirmation. He all but flew down the staircase, slipped and dodged his way along the platform and skidded through the subway car’s doors a half-second before they closed. A single frustrated blow slammed the door at his back. Isaac turned. The wolf stared back. Mask to glass, huffing and puffing.

  The subway pulled away, the wolf marching alongside for several angry strides before jogging back to the stairs and climbing topside.

  Isaac stared at the concerned faces watching him and his drama. They all lost interest soon enough. He walked in short circles with his hands laced on top of his head, breathing deep. Okay, he thought. Maybe it’s time I call Roach.

  Q & A

  “You got that look in your eyes, Roachie. You ain’t goin’ to go all Hulk-smashey-smashey-Nick Cage in here, are ya?” Fitzy was leaning into the lift, looking casual but also trying to keep a safe distance.

  Roach, bolt upright in the center of the lift like a treacherous peak, glanced at Fitzy and tried to dismiss his concern with a calming, controlled expression. Unaware that Fitzy and Grace saw a jovial-looking time bomb.

  Grace, hands in pockets of her denim jacket, appeared to have accepted the likelihood of Roach getting rough in here. “I’m with Fitzy on this one. I know you’re pissed an’ all, but starting a gang war over a hunch is like … fucking bananas. Use your words, boss man.”

  Roach fixed her with the same cheap plastic mask of imposed peace. “Simply a Q&A session. Cool it, both of you.”

  Grace and Fitzy exchanged a troubled glance.

  The doors opened onto a large, sleek reception area. They were on the tenth floor of a high-rise office block on East Jackson Boulevard. A nice commercial space with the ubiquitous floor-to-ceiling windows and glass-housed conference rooms. Roach clomped through the veneer of glass, steel and professional courtesy, seeing through all the bullshit for what it was. This was a back-alley enterprise as old as the wheel but with a paint job and some nice potted plants.

  Roach stopped primly before the mid-range reception desk, glanced into the black crow’s eye of the security camera then turned his charm onto the high-range cosmetically daubed bimbo occupying the hot seat. “Curtis Roach. I have an appointment with Mr. Payton.” If Roach had to guess, the tight little brunette spent as much time on her knees beneath Payton’s desk as she did typing emails and answering calls.

  However, she could at least read, which caught him by surprise, and promptly threw up the inevitable bureaucratic roadblock. “I’m sorry, you’re not on the list. But if you leave your contact details I’ll have him call you back at the earliest possible convenience.”

  “This”—Roach pointed at the ground, at the very mome
nt—“this is the earliest convenience.”

  Her smoky-shadowed eyes looked distrustfully at his large black peacoat, then to his two associates standing a few feet behind him.

  “Don’t worry yourself over it, sweetheart. I’ll see myself in.”

  Her lipstick-coated mouth made to protest but Roach was already cruising past her desk toward the closed office door at the far end of the hallway.

  Grace and Fitzy exchanged an exasperated look. Fitzy made himself comfortable in the nearby waiting area, taking a seat in one of the plastic chairs. He was delighted to find the latest issue of Automobile amongst the scattering of periodicals, all of which catered to the typical interests of gruff men, such as the leg-breakers, arm-benders and wise guys who made up this pleasant little enterprise. Using the magazine to hide his gun, he carefully divided his attention between the articles and the lift doors.

  Grace parked her rear against the secretary’s desk, gently took the phone out of her manicured hand, and offered a peaceful open-hand gesture, calming her back into her seat. “This’ll go much silkier if you don’t get the goomba brigade involved.”

  The secretary read Grace’s big brown eyes, drawing on her experience of dangerous people of both genders to judge that there was no inherent threat in the cool young lady, and kept her dainty hand away from the silent alarm button under the desk. Grace nodded cooperatively, and enjoyed the decent view of the Loop’s skyline, her smooth reflexes primed and ready to draw her gats should any of Payton’s employees stumble out of their corrupt little offices.

  Roach burst through Payton’s door with just the right amount of energy to make the eel-slick loan shark spring to attention, his neat handwriting taking a sloppy arc inside the notebook columns of client names and their outstanding crushing debts.

  “Roach? The fuck you think you’re doin’? You back on the sauce?” Payton looked like the dictionary definition of a sleazeball. A sly, aging imp with calculating eyes and a taste for expensive and gaudy jewellery. He also continued to dress like an 80s Wall Street criminal, with red braces over a pinstriped shirt.

  “Leave the gun in the desk or I’ll break your hand.” Roach spoke like a prophet. “I only need to ask a few questions.”

  Payton’s hand hovered near the drawer for a moment, then thought better of it. “I know how you ask questions. They normally come attached to expensive hospital bills.”

  “Not like you can’t afford it, Jack. Still adding the customary ten points to your generous handouts?”

  “You come up here to discuss business practices? Or you looking for work?”

  “I’m looking for Ludlow. Where is he?”

  Payton looked blankly at Roach for a few seconds. “No clue. I heard about what happened, but my knowledge extends no further than Chinese whispers. His security detail was hit, he was taken. That’s all.”

  “Detective Wu tell you that?”

  “Like I said, Chinese whispers.”

  Roach loomed large, hands down on the bureau, one palm over a suspiciously dark-stained gouge in the wood, a constant reminder of a poor beggar who’d had his hand pinned down with a stiletto blade. In a more scrupulous office, such sordid events would be covered up. As it was, this office, the whole blood-spattered credit company, looked like it had been thrown together in five minutes and could be disassembled in the same time. Some ugly metal filing cabinets in a vile shade of olive green, a few shelves, a cheap desk lamp and some random geometric paintings passing themselves off as sophisticated art.

  “You and Ludlow have a rough-and-tumble history, and I know you’re pissed that he recently bought up that piece of real estate you had your eyes on. A nice little earner like that, a respectable front, must stick in the teeth of you and your Italian pals.”

  Payton looked incredulous. Placing his fountain pen to one side and closing his debt collector’s diary, he laced his fingers over his flat stomach and sat back. “First of all, you know full well that I’m only a peripheral associate of the Trentinos. They have their own interests, and let me assure you, I doubt purchasing some modest restaurant was even a blip on their radar. And secondly, whilst Ludlow and I have a spotty history, I’m not going to go to war with him over some steaks. It’s a big city, Roach. There’s enough to go around for both of us.”

  “You’re known for your generosity,” Roach squinted at him, still having a difficult time swallowing Payton’s line. “You still got a side line distributing C.B.’s speed?”

  “Maybe I do. So what?”

  “You heard from Wyndorf?”

  “You crazy? Course not! Why the fuck would I have heard from him?”

  “I’m just trying to deduce a few things.” Roach clucked his tongue in thought. “Hey, remember that avalanche of heavy shit that rained down between you and Ludlow, you know, after you had the bright idea of vouching for Wyndorf. Telling Luds he was reliable muscle.”

  Payton rubbed his eyes in exasperation, his gold-ringed claws looking as though they might burrow into his brain to end this repeat. “You’re fucking kidding me. This? Again? Were you a history professor in a past life or something, because you sure love the subject. I held my hand up to that. Wyndorf was my contact in moving his cousin’s stuff. He’d been nothing but reliable for me. I knew he was a bit fucking crazy, but up until his … wingnut episode with that doctor and his family, it was a manageable kind of crazy. Shit happens, Roach. Ludlow got heated over that mistake and things got a little bloody between us. We thinned out each other’s payroll a bit, but we formed a truce, didn’t we. You survived it.” He spread his hand out to Roach. “Its business, you know that. Now can you get to some kind of point, because as you can see I have quite a bit of homework to be getting on with,” he gestured to his black book of future casualties and corpses.

  “I’d say collectively, your past friction has cost you enough bank to make the restaurant spat seem like a good reason to pull a stunt like this. The proverbial straw busting the camel’s hump. Why not get Ludlow out of your oily comb-over once and for all? You’re a greedy little shit, Payton. Always have been. Always will be.”

  Payton developed a dew of nervous sweat. The look in Roach’s eyes wasn’t just anger, it was worry and pain. It was the look of a man who wasn’t intending on leaving quietly.

  Roach reared back up to his full height, spine rigid, chest out. “Where’s Ludlow?”

  If Payton could resolve this peacefully, he would. “Roach, ask yourself something: if I had any hand in what went down last night, don’t you think I’d have made damn sure that you and your two jokers outside would have been dealt with, too?”

  Roach slowly took a warning step around the desk.

  Payton clearly knew Roach was only moments away from swinging his big mallets. He didn’t go for the gun drawer, he went for the secret dial-a-goon button under his desk. A lock clicked open behind Roach, a secret door opening into a small security cubicle.

  “Fucking weasel,” Roach spat.

  Payton’s two largest and most loyal henchmen spilled out in silk shirts and slacks, street dirt done up in elegance. These two dumbbells clearly spent a great deal of time in the gym, but Roach had never needed to pump himself up with weights; his right hand made him a born finisher.

  “There’s a lot of cornfields in Illinois, Roach. If you don’t want to become fertiliser you better control yourself right fucking now,” Payton threatened.

  Roach didn’t waste a breath. He stepped in and popped one neckless thug with a stiff jab, launched a freight train right cross into the jaw of the other, collapsing him as if his stylish clothes were suddenly void of a body, then returned to the first, blocking his punch and smashing his teeth together with a counter uppercut. Just for the hell of it, Roach thought he’d help him on his way down to the floor with a completely unnecessary overhand right to the temple, but his steaming anger got the best of him, throwing his timing off slightly and causing him to punch the rock-hard forehead instead. Roach heard something pop and fel
t a white jolt of lightning turn his hand into a limp dead fish. Shaking it off, he rushed Payton who had his hand in the drawer, scrabbling for his only available equaliser. Roach slammed the drawer shut on his wrist, ripping a sharp hiss from Payton. Then he dragged him out of his seat and threw him into the wall, cascading books from the shelves. He knew one way to confirm Payton’s honesty. Roach picked his chair up, and with a snarl of effort raised it over his head.

  “DON’T!” Payton cried out.

  The wooden base of the chair shattered the floor-to-ceiling pane, leading the glass shards in a rapid descent to the pavement below. Luckily nobody had been walking directly underneath the landing zone at the time. Nevertheless, a sizable commotion was soon stirred up by a gathering of pedestrians looking upwards in anticipation of more falling office furniture.

  “You stupid fuck,” Payton spat, hunched down like a cornered animal. “You stupid little—”

  Roach ripped him up by the scruff of his neck and easily dragged him toward the edge, the wind chill and bladder-clenching terror turning Payton’s insides to ice water. Roach hooked him by his suspenders, letting him dangle outside the window at a forty-five-degree angle.

  “Hey, Payton. You don’t happen to know where Ludlow is, do you?” Roach quickly checked the pair of brutes across the room. They were still out of the fight.

  “NO!”

  Peyton stared at the sickening drop, then looked back at Roach. “I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA WHERE HE IS! HEAR ME NOW, ASSHOLE, YOU DROP ME, YOU’RE A FUCKING DEAD MAN!”

  Roach allowed the elasticity of the suspenders to bob Payton back and forth, testing to see if the material might rip. He didn’t think the Trentinos would be best pleased if it did, but it was a risk he was prepared to take. “You better not be lying to me, Jack.” He squeezed out every last drop of false bravado and honesty from the scumbag. After a few more paralysing seconds, he ended the interrogation and dragged the parasite away from a much-deserved death.