Cat & Mouse

by Jason Vanez

  He handed the phone back. Farquhar had a good look, a grin of reminiscence on his face like some guy watching his old wedding video.

  "Don't annoy me by making me have to watch that hell in real life, Davey," Einar said. "Don't give Farquhar the satisfaction, either. He really wants to do that to you. He came all this way to do it. He's been lusting over it all morning with a spring in his step, like some guy on a promise. The best thing you can do to get one up on him is make sure he's brought that potato peeler for nothing. Understand?"

  Davey nodded again. "Just ask, man. I'll talk."

  "Then my first question is this: how do you know Chopper? Talk at length, impress me, prevent my needing to clarify things. Like it's a job interview."

  Davey started immediately. "I don't know his name, just so you know. Guy always wears a helmet and biker gear. Never seen him out of it. Wearing it when I met him. I was getting harassed by some thug called Bullet and he stepped in, just came up to me on the street, man. Said he'd sort him out for three hundred quid. That was what I owed the thug. So I said yes. So one night he goes into a pub where this thug played for a pool team and did it. Wearing his fucking biker gear. It was Bullet's local, full of hard cases, but the sort of place where people don't like the cops. That's how he got away with it. I only wanted the guy beaten up, legs broken so he couldn't come after me, but Chopper laid into him with a bar stool and killed the fucker. Room full of gangster wannabes and psychos, and no one did a thing. Pretended to be part of the fucking wallpaper and stayed well back. Bullet died next day in hospital. But no one talked, man. Wall of fucking silence in that area, like with the Kray Twins or something. So he got away with it. Rumour went round that I knew who did it, some saying I even set it up. Rumour was I knew a hitman. Some thought I was all pally with him cos I got no money, see. People think hitmen cost like fifty grand or something, so no way I could have paid someone. After that, the cops wanted a word, but I just said I knew nothing about it. No proof other, though, so the cops just dried up on me. He got away with it and I got left alone by everyone. Thought Bullet's pals might want a go at me, but I never got nothing."

  Einar nodded. "But that wasn't the one and only time?"

  "No. I got people coming up to me all the time. It's a thing of the past now, like, but back then, them early days, it was a fucking bonanza. Kids and fucking meth-heads and women wanting their husbands killed for cheating. Like they thought I had my own personal hitman. I just said no all the time, but I couldn't have said yes anyway. I didn't know this guy on the bike. But he knew me. Reckon he'd heard about all this interest and thought he could make some more money. But hey, man, if this guy offed someone you know, it ain't nothing to do with me. I only set up that first one and one other, man. He came to see me and he gave me this, like, drop point, a place to put a message if I wanted him, if I had a job for him. But I didn't bother with that shit and we didn't meet again for years. I reckon he got some coverage and word got around and he got other jobs that way. I heard a whiff about some jobs, dead people, biker involved. Suspected it was him. But I tell you, I never bothered with it until just a few days ago. Some important guy in a flash car pulls up and he sends a couple of heavies over with a file for Chopper. If this one is why you're here, I can't help you on that. Don't know what the job was other than it was some criminal called Alfo The Destroyer. I'd heard of him, knew nothing else. So I just went and left a note at that drop point place. Said I had a job for him and it was five grand. He collected it the next day. Some guy came round in a suit just before and dropped off the money and some other file on another guy. Said Chopper would get twenty grand for it. But I didn't look at that one, honest. So if this is to do with that, can't help you, man. Don't know. That's the fucking truth."

  Einar took a breath. "I didn't mean talk for England, Davey. But you covered all the point. Thanks you. I have just one more question. Remember the potato peeler. Because if you lie, we'll be back. Understand?

  Another nod. "Ain't gonna lie to you."

  "Where's this drop point? Where's Chopper's house, or hideout, warren, lair, nest, whatever?"

  Two minutes later Einar rose to leave. Davey asked what was going to happen to him. Einar had told Farquhar to scrub anything they had touched before he left. When he left was up to Farquhar. Einar said, "I'm going now. I apologise for misleading you, but Farquhar here would be quite upset with me if I brought him all this way for nothing. I've seen his disappointed face and it's like a child denied ice cream. Not pretty to see. And I believe he needs a more recent video with which to scare future victims. Goodbye and thank you."

  Davey screamed for him to come back. Screamed for help when he didn't. Einar left the flat and closed the door. He heard all the sounds of before: yells, bangs, music, engines. And he relaxed.

  Davey's screams of pain, if heard at all, would simply join the mix.

  ***

  Jimmy exited the lift and again nearly walked into a man in a suit. This time he wore a baseball cap and a thick bomber jacket. He had the peak of the cap tilted low and his head bowed, but he saw the man's feet walk past and towards the stairs.

  Surprisingly, the deck was empty of other people, except for one woman who was at her open door, trying to cram more rubbish into a bag that had a split and was vomiting trash onto the floor each time she forced something else inside. He passed her, head still low, and quickly made his way to Davey's flat. This time he didn't knock. Davey, he knew, didn't answer his door to people he didn't know. So he turned the handle and stepped inside, slow, quiet. He could hear the TV on loud. His TV, he remembered, although he had no plans to take it back.

  When Jimmy pushed open the door to the living room, he found himself staring at Davey, bound in a chair, bleeding badly from numerous places on his face, especially a massive laceration on the top of his head. His normally blue Chelsea shirt was almost completely red.

  Even as he rushed over, he knew he was making a mistake. He knew he should have checked the rooms for the assailant. Too late he stopped by Davey, who looked up at him in horror. Jimmy realised that Davey had never seen his face, and must be expecting him to be here to cause further damage.

  "Skinning's always easier when the skin's boiled," said a man as he stepped view just beyond the half-open kitchen doorway. A big guy with a beer gut, carrying a saucepan with steam rising off it. Some of the boiling water splashed over the edge as the man caught sight of Jimmy and jerked.

  "Who the fuck are you?" he said.

  "You've got five minutes, then we need to go," Jimmy said, stepping forward, then to the side, and grabbed the edge of the door, as if to make room for the big guy to enter. A good impression of a guy who was meant to be here.

  "My man didn't say anyone else was coming-" the big guy said, and that was when Jimmy slammed the door right into him. The pan splashed water across the floor, wall, and the arm that held the utensil. He yelled in pain, staggered back under the shock and the force of the door hitting him, hit the frame and dropped the pan. Panic caused him to watch the pan fall and lift a leg to avoid getting burned when it hit the floor. Jimmy used the moment to slam the door again, this time into the man's big, bowed head. He slumped to his ass on the carpet and Jimmy stepped forward and drove a knee into the man's face, busting his nose wide open, slamming his head back against the doorframe.

  The guy grunted in shock, shook his head, which sprayed blood from his nose, and started to rise. Jimmy grabbed the pan from the floor. It rose and fell twice. Two solid clangs of metal against skull. The big guy slipped over onto his side and lay still. There was a potato peeler in his fist. Jimmy grabbed it, then untied Davey's arms and legs and lifted him out of the chair, carried him like a groom with a bride and laid him on the sofa. Davey opened his eyes, and in them was horror.

  "What happened here?" Jimmy asked.

  Davey's eyes moved slowly, as if the effort was hard. They settled on the man laying slumped on the carpet. The fear swirled out of them and clarity returned,
as if his brain had been dulled by the knowledge that he was going to die and now knew better.

  "Who are you?" he croaked.

  "Someone on your side. Who was that guy?"

  Davey pulled an angry face. "Some sick cunt," he spat. "Him and some Asian cunt in a suit."

  The contract killer, Jimmy realised. The man wasn't Asian, but Davey was probably dazed, or thought everyone with darker skin who wasn't black was an Asian. But for sure he meant the contract killer. Again Jimmy thought of a guy in a suit that he had just missed while stepping out of the lift. So what had happened here today involved Jimmy, for sure. The hunt was still on. But why had the killer come here? Davey knew nothing about Jimmy.

  "I'll send an ambulance, Davey, but first I need you to help me. I need to know about the guy who asked you to get Chopper for him. And what did these men want?"

  "How do you know about that?"

  "Don't ask, Davey, there's no time. Who is he?"

  "Some businessman. I know a guy, Al. Al said he'd heard I knew of a hitman, could I get this guy for a job." Here Davey started coughing. Jimmy clenched his fists, angry and impatient. But he had to let Davey tell it at his own pace. So he waited, used gentle prodding if Davey seemed to be getting off-track, and soon had what he needed. He thanked Davey and promised to get him help. Davey stuck out a weak arm and grabbed his hand.

  "How do you know Chopper?"

  Jimmy smiled at him. "It's me, Davey. That guy's me."

  Davey's eyes said he didn't believe it.

  "I'm going to let you keep my TV," Jimmy said, nodding at the TV in question.

  The memory of that conversation from days ago hit home. Davey grinned back at him. "Christ, I expected you to be Mexican or something. Some bad ass. Look just like some guy."

  "That's me. Just some guy. Davey, what did these men want?"

  "Asian cunt wanted to know about you, man. Chopper. Don't know how he knew about me."

  "What did you tell him?"

  "I need an ambulance."

  "I'll call one. Davey, please, what did you tell this man?"

  Davey looked pained. "He was torturing me, man. I couldn't -"

  "It's fine," Jimmy told him. Stroked his bloody hair just to emphasis the point. "Just tell me."

  Davey coughed. It made his body shake. Blood dribbled from his mouth. Lots of it. "I told him how we met. Sorry, man, he was torturing me."

  "It's okay."

  "I think I told him how I contact you."

  Jimmy froze. The lock-up. His computer. If the killer found that...

  ***

  Einar parked in a car park belonging to a children's day-care centre called Nursery Times. It was busy with vehicles coming and going as mothers and sometimes fathers dropped off their screaming/giggling brats. Einar was given foul looks for taking up a space when he clearly didn't have a child. He crossed the road, shouting the name of a child, moving quickly towards the bridge. If nobody fell for his lost-my-child trick, so what? It was more joke than genuine subterfuge anyway.

  Here the bridge's arches were bricked up and had doorways. Some were plain doors like you might find on a garden shed, the brickwork containing no signs. Others had bigger doors, like the sort found on residential garages, and signs above like QUIK PRINT and THE COMPUTER SHOP. There were cars parked outside some, on the wide pavement. Nothing was parked outside an arch that had a steel door painted green and no sign above. But on the pavement in front was an old lamp letter box daubed in graffiti and rusted. The door was hanging off the box. It was empty. But the hollow post was bust near the bottom and Einar could see trash inside.

  Just because the post box was here and the hole in the post was right there, it didn't mean Davey had been telling the truth about stashing notes in there for Chopper. Maybe he'd lied. Maybe Einar should call Farquhar, because right about now Davey would be screaming through his skinless face, and be less likely to holler lies.

  Instead, Einar approached the green door. It was wider than a normal door, certainly wide enough to permit a motorbike. He looked around at the grimy ground and could see the odd faint oil stain, but again, that meant nothing. Here on the door was a padlock, just like Davey said. Einar pulled out a crowbar he'd picked up and slotted it behind the old hasp, jamming the end deep between the metal and the wooden frame. One jerk downwards and it was free. The door pushed inwards easily on oiled hinges.

  Here he paused. It was broad daylight and people were everywhere, but still he stood at the door and waited, knowing even as he did so that it was yet another risk to stay exposed like this. Chopper could have had associates who worked nearby and watched his lair for him - after all, he might need a way to know that a letter had been left at the dead drop for him. Chopper could turn out to be an upstanding member of the community, well-known and much liked, his dark alter-ego a safe secret even after his death. The discovery of his body might spark a giant police manhunt, and someone even now watching from across the road might step forward with information about the guy in the suit who stood right here at this doorway, his car parked over the road.

  But still Einar paused. He wanted time to savour this moment. In the early days, after moving to Australia, Einar had been just like Chopper. He had started small. His first kill for pay had been an off-the-cuff performance, just like Chopper's. Twenty years old, eight months into his new country, Einar had been working as a Global Sales Executive, a job he loved. He didn't like having a boss, and he didn't like having to be nice to people he didn't know just to get them to buy a commercial coffee machine, and he didn't like the clunky van he was forced to drive, but he loved the travelling. He drove around Australia, selling the machines and installing them in offices and shops, and as he saw more of the world, the more he hated the fact that there were other parts he hadn't seen. So he saved and planned holidays.

  His boss had been a man called Peterson, and Peterson had given him his first kill assignment, although it hadn't started as a kill. It had been planned as a beating, just like the job Chopper had been given. Some young punk Einar's age had been dating Peterson's daughter and beating her, although she always claimed she got mugged walking her neighbourhood. She was a mugger magnet if true. Peterson commanded a team of fit, young men, but it was Einar he chose. Einar was supposed to follow the guy home when he dropped off the daughter and accost him. Einar had done exactly that, but the guy had pulled a knife when his car was forced off the road on a deserted stretch of highway. His own knife had been used to cut his throat. Einar had received a slash on the inner elbow, and this injury had forced him to begin taking martial arts lessons. The body had gone back in the driver's seat and the car had been rolled down a steep embankment, toppling, rending, smashing. Einar had heard nothing about a murder or even a body found. Peterson had paid him well and Einar had taken a holiday until the heat that never came died down.

  It had started there. Peterson had used Einar three times for a kill over the two years they worked together. Three kills, but numerous beatings and intimidations. Because Peterson had a secret life. He was a drug dealer on the side. Einar accompanied him on collections and deliveries, posing as a bodyguard. He hit whoever Peterson asked him to, broke into any house or stole any car Peterson pointed at. Soon Einar started to hear rumours about himself floating around, tales about a vicious enforcer of one of the city's biggest drugs runners. Then one day one of his work colleagues made a threat that they were sending the enforcer after Einar, and that got him thinking. Thinking he could go this on his own.

  Sometimes Einar had to remind himself that he had left that life only a decade ago, because so much in his life had changed since then, so much had happened. He had left the job and Peterson soon after the ironic threat incident, deciding to set up on his own. Einar hated drugs - how could people want to consume something that dulled the senses, made their skills falter? But then he had decided he wanted new surroundings. He had used contacts formed through Peterson to buy a fake passport and had done so, after taking o
ut Peterson, his fourth kill, to ensure his silence. Peterson had enjoyed intimidating his enemies with a vile catchphrase, so Einar had invented one and his former boss had been the first recipient. Peterson had also been the first man Einar killed from a distance, having found it too risky up close, where your enemy could strike back, and where you could leave clues for the police.

  Here lay the difference between Einar and Chopper, though. Einar had continued to kill for money, but he had spread his realm to the whole planet. He had spread the word and he had found himself a series of contacts around the world in the major cities. Chopper had remained local.

  He shook off his reverie, getting back to the job.

  Einar used the flashlight on his phone to illuminate the walls beside the door and found a switch. He lit the place up by a single naked bulb dangling from the centre of the ceiling.

  The floor was pitted concrete, dirty, oily, littered with small car and bike parts. The side and back walls were lined with industrial shelving units, mostly empty. Just a scattering of junk. Tools hung on the walls behind the units, reachable through the gaps. It was pretty lame for a garage. Certainly one man's place for tinkering with his bike - and it had to be a bike, because that door would permit no car.

  At the back, though, was a simple wooden desk. A stack of papers. A pot of pens. He crossed to it. There was a router on the desk also, but it was turned off. Internet capability for the closed laptop that sat centre stage on the desk. The lid was covered with black fingerprints. Here then was not just a garage, but a den. No bed of any sort or fridge, which meant Chopper wasn't homeless and living here like some lunatic. The man had a house somewhere.