Rock Solid

by Paul Slatter

  Quickly Chendrill signalled the driver to pull up behind him and follow, pulling a slim jim from his inside jacket, Chendrill leaned over and paid the driver twenty and slipped out behind the tow truck in traffic, opening the van’s rear door and climbing in.

  Chendrill climbed over the shopping in the back of the van spread across the rear nestled in between the kid’s seats. The fucking prick, Chendrill thought, envisioning the mother stuck there downtown with all the kids and whatever else she’d bought for the day. He couldn’t have not seen it for what it was—the mother just grabbing something she needed and not leaving the kids in the car, getting out for a few minutes just so this prick could come along and fuck up her day.

  The tow truck carried on, Chendrill sitting in the back now could see the driver’s fat neck bulging as he twisted his sweaty head, nearly giving himself a heart attack every time he turned the steering wheel. They reached the yard and Chendrill felt the van shake and bang as the prick hit the potholes.

  Mazzi Hegan’s Ferrari sat there now across the lot, nose into the fence. Opening the rear door, Chendrill slipped out and moved along, hiding behind the other cars as he made his way to the red Ferrari and, opening the door with the key, slipped in. The tow truck driver stood there now stretching, his gut hanging over his jeans that hung from his ass. Across the way was another truck on its way in, waiting outside the gate with a Ford hanging from the back. Chendrill watched in the rearview mirror as the gate opened and as it did, he started the Ferrari, slammed it in reverse, and tore out across the yard backwards, past the tow truck driver staring there with his mouth open, and through the open gate out onto the road.

  Fuck them.

  He headed back up McGill Street until he hit the highway and joined the traffic heading out of town towards Surrey. Dennis would be there now, he thought, sitting in his basement suite, no longer lonely, waiting for the love of his life to get well enough to come home and begin to destroy his life again.

  He hit the bridge, the Ferrari feeling good, its engine purring right behind him. He took a right just as he reached the other side, heading towards the address on the East Indian’s licence. After scaling the area for five minutes he reached it and sat outside for a bit looking up at the tower block. It was nice, positioned and built in a part of town that was still a shit hole, the local authorities trying to clean it up one development at a time.

  He’d called a friend, checking the guy out—Rann Singh, landed immigrant, twenty-eight, arrived in Toronto three years ago, and now here, blackmailing good honest citizens like Patrick.

  He got out of the car and looked around as trucks passed blowing out smoke from their stacks and moving up through the gears. The Indian community here was big, bigger now in fact than he remembered, the street signs new and gleaming, mixing English with Urdu—the country’s second language, French, left by the wayside as the world slowly changed.

  An hour later, Chendrill saw him, walking towards him along the road, heading back from the sky train station in the distance, his turban now bright red matching his shirt. He wasn’t hiding.

  Rann reached the Ferrari and, slowing down to take in its majesty, noticed Chendrill standing there leaning against the wall of the building and said without missing a beat, “This yours?”

  Chendrill nodded. Then the East Indian said, “I’m in the wrong business.”

  Feeling his rib tweak as he shrugged himself off the wall, Chendrill said, “You need a brain to do what I do.” And just as Rann said, “Yeah right,” Chendrill hit him again, this time right in the throat, dropping him to the ground. Reaching down quickly, he pulled the knife from the guy’s sock and threw it over a fence. Then reaching down and pulling out a set of cuffs, he had the East Indian’s hands behind his back before the man could gather up his first full breath.

  Pulling him to his feet, he placed his hands into the man’s pockets and, finding his keys, began to march him across the road.

  They reached the front of the apartment block and stepped inside, Rann breathing hard, still trying to get his breath, moving in front of him with ease, his feet light on the ground, his hands twisted up, almost breaking both wrists with every step.

  Chendrill opened the door to Rann’s home and stepped inside, lifted the man’s arms up and away from his back and, forcing him to the floor, dragged the guy along the corridor by the scruff of his neck before bringing out another set of cuffs and securing him to the side of the fridge door. Then, as he stood watching Rann breathing hard, he said, “Don’t pull too hard or you’ll open the door and spoil the milk.”

  Chendrill walked away, looking around the place, stepping outside and putting his foot up on the balcony lounge chair as he looked down below at the Ferrari sitting there in the street looking out of place. He moved into the bedroom and came back with Rann’s laptop in his hand and, opening it, said, “What’s the password.”

  Rann replied, “You know I’m connected?”

  Chendrill stared down at the man sitting there with his arm up against the door handle to the fridge. He said, “Yeah I can see—what’s the password.”

  “It’s fuck you.”

  Not fucking around, Chendrill lifted the computer and cracked it down hard across Rann’s head, knocking his turban off onto the kitchen floor, then waiting for him to come around again asked, “What’s the password?”

  Rann stared up at the man now, the big fuck in his loud shirt standing in his home, giving out the orders. His turban gone, his hair now half out of the hanky and band hanging down the other side of his head. He said, “I’m not joking, it’s ‘fuckyou’.”

  Chendrill put the computer back on the dining table next to the kitchen, and typed in ‘fuckyou’. He wasn’t lying, it was.

  “I’d say that’s not the best choice of passwords.”

  He opened it up, quickly found all the photos of Patrick saved on the desktop, and deleted them. Then picked up the computer and bringing it down hard on the corner of the table three times, destroyed the machine completely, exposing the hard drive. He pulled a pair of pliers from his pocket, ripped out the hard drive, and threw it onto the table. Then said, “Where’s the photos?”

  Rann took another deep breath. He was fucked. It was obvious this guy was big, strong, methodical, and no dummy. Nodding to a dresser, he said, “In the drawer, there.”

  Chendrill walked over and opening the second one, pulled out the envelope. Letting the contents spill onto the table, he asked, “Is this it?”

  Rann nodded as Chendrill kneeled beside him and said quietly, “If it’s not—I’ll come back and throw you out that window.”

  And Rann replied, “Maybe next time I’ll throw you out that window.”

  From the look in the man’s eyes, Chendrill could see he meant it and had every confidence in himself that he could. But still, he said, “Good luck with that.”

  Chendrill searched the rest of the apartment and found nothing. Picking up the hard drive, he popped it into the envelope, leaned down, releasing the East Indian and dropping the guy’s wallet into his lap, and left.

  He felt a bit guilty. He’d hit the man a little too hard across his head, and knew it was sacrilege to remove the guy’s turban—but fuck him, that can happen when you blackmail people.

  Riding the elevator down, Chendrill reached the Ferrari, opened the door, and threw the envelope onto the passenger seat as he climbed in and sat down behind the wheel. He only saw the lounge chair flying through the air from above briefly before it crashed down hard on the Ferrari’s hood, barely missing the windshield.

  This guy was irritating.

  Chapter Nine

  It took two days to fix the car, and in those two days Chendrill had been over to see Dan’s mother four times, each time kissing her with a passion he’d never felt before with another woman. Dan, though, he’d only heard and not seen the whole time. And just as the car arrived, looking like new and paid for by Patrick, Sebastian called with another emergency.

&nb
sp; As soon as he sat in Sebastian’s office, Sebastian was on him, “He’s been calling here again Chuck, this time he went for Mazzi telling him he’s going to let the world know he’s gay.”

  Chendrill was silent for the moment, taking it in, “And what did Mazzi say about it?”

  “He just put the phone on speaker to make sure the guy knew the whole office could hear. Then announced to everyone he was homosexual and invited the guy over so they could get naked and have the guy fuck him on the boardroom table so there was absolutely no mistake about the fact.”

  Chendrill laughed, it was funny—but not funny at the same time. The guy wasn’t giving up and the whole stunt was obviously aimed at winding Chendrill up so as he would run straight over there into whatever the guy with the turban had planned for him. Then Sebastian asked, “Have you seen Dan?”

  He hadn’t, but he’d certainly heard him making his presence known with the broom he kept by his bed and the disappearance of food from the fridge, which seemed to get emptied at all times of the day or night—and which, after giving his first money advance straight to his mother, was now always full. So, he said, “Don’t worry about Dan.”

  “You know we’ve been getting calls and letters from all over the place about him; marriage proposals—the works, and that girl Marsha keeps calling wanting to speak with him.”

  “What’s she want?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Oh! Well that goes without saying, I suppose.”

  “That’s right, like we used to say back in London, she wants a bit of hickory, Chuck—hickory stick, rhymes with…”

  Chendrill got it. Then he asked, “Have you told Dan?”

  “I left messages yes. But he doesn’t answer. I can only think that he doesn’t care.” Then Sebastian took a deep breath and said, “I thought this pesky guy was history, Chuck?”

  So did Chendrill, who’d let the lounge chair incident go, hoping it would be enough to placate the man’s ego after he’d knocked his turban off—but obviously not. He’d have to go talk to him again. So, he said, “Sebastian, there are some crazy people out there and sadly one of them has decided to pester us. I don’t want you to worry about a thing—that’s why you pay me.”

  ******

  He walked away from Slave’s offices and headed towards the Ferrari he’d left parked along the way. He saw the tow truck first and then the driver with the fat neck and tattoos standing next to the car which, so far, had embarrassed him twice, and as he reached him, the tow truck driver said, “You’re lucky; I was about to tow it.”

  “Then you’re lucky you’ve still got a job, because you’re too fat to be a doorman around here.”

  Chendrill knew the rules. The cars had to be parked illegally for these shitheads to tow them—otherwise it’s theft. He moved past the tow truck driver and hit the key, giving it the beep-beep-bop and got inside. Then as he started the engine, wound the window down, and said to the guy as he began to pull away, “Go get a real job.”

  He pulled out of the space and drove along the road, passing the plethora of beautiful women who always seemed to hang around the area in the summertime and thought back to the blackmailing Indian, who was still causing trouble and who said he was connected. To whom? His own kind, he thought—most people usually were.

  There were a few gangs in town, the Hells Angels—most of whom never rode bikes anymore—the Asians doing their thing with the whores in the massage parlors and with heroin, the white-trash guys paid by the mile, who drove oversized trucks and delivered drugs across Canada, and the East Indians.

  He pulled out his phone and called the one he did know. Rasheed answered straight away, saying, “Was that your car that got hit by the lawn chair?”

  “That’s why I’m calling.”

  Rasheed was a good guy, to Chendrill at least. They’d gotten to know each other during the days when Chendrill had been on the police force, back when gangsters were being killed for no real reason other than pride. Seeing the writing on the wall, Rasheed had called Chendrill, taking himself out the way for a while with Chendrill happily arresting him on a bullshit charge and sticking him in a government holiday camp until the stupidity stopped—but not without a barrel full of info in exchange of course, and Chendrill had taken down the lot.

  Now Rasheed ran things, East Indian things at least. As they sat down out of the way in a bar on the outskirts of Maple Ridge and watched as a drunken slob in a cowboy hat showed everyone he couldn’t ride a mechanical bull, Chendrill asked, “Who’s he?”

  Rasheed looked around, realizing Chendrill was referring to his driver sitting there on his own, three tables down, with a diamond in his front tooth trying to look cool. Rasheed said, “Oh, that’s Archall, calls himself Diamond. He’s one of these wanna be rappers, he’s been driving me for a while. I like him because he’s not too sharp, so I don’t have to watch my back, and he’s good with tools.”

  Then changing the subject as he watched a guy hanging on to the saddle with all his might, Rasheed said, “There’s a guy I want you to meet, he’s supposed to be here tonight. I knew him from school, was crazy, used to dive under freight trains and roll out the other side. Now he flies those squirrel suits off mountains and out of planes. He’s here this week—you’ll see him if you go to the fireworks; he’s going to fly in and then drop onto the beach. Told me on the phone he’ll drop out real high, about 5 miles off, then come in like James Bond uninvited and scare the shit out of the crowd.”

  Chendrill listened, looking up at the bull then back to Rasheed. The crowd whooped it up as the bull spun around and around. The driver, Archall Diamond, sat showing off his tooth. Then Chendrill said, “What’s this daredevil want with me, does he need a lift to the airport?”

  Rasheed shook his head. “No, he’s not wanting anything; he’s in town and he’s looking forward to showing off. Said he’s back now for good and wants the city to know his name. The fireworks are going to be his swansong. A lot of the guys can’t stand him, though; say he’s a flash Paki, but they’re just jealous. He’s cool, thought you might like to meet him, that’s all. Then if you’re there you can say to whoever you’re with you know him.”

  Chendrill would, he thought, as cheesy as it was he’d still throw it out there. He’d seen those guys, swooping down off the side of mountains in a documentary and wondered how they could do it and not worry about dying. Or maybe that was just it—they didn’t.

  He said, “Yeah, I’d like to,” then laughing to himself followed up, “he can do all that but could he ride this thing?”

  And Rasheed replied, “The truth is if he set his mind to it, he probably could, but he’d have them grease it up first so as it was more of a challenge.”

  Then Chendrill asked, “So, who’s this Rann Singh?”

  “He’s not a real Indian, he’s a Londoner. The guy’s never been to the Punjab. In fact, I think, truth is, he’s not even from England; he’s an African Indian, lives here now though and mostly just blackmails people.”

  Chendrill smiled and thought, ‘just’, the prick saying it as though the guy were a waiter.

  “Yeah, he’s harmless, but he has a temper.”

  Then Chendrill thought back to the lounge chair flying through the air from the tenth floor of the apartment block and wondered if the guy had waited till he got in the car before he threw it.

  “Have you spoken to him?”

  Rasheed nodded. He had, Rann had called.

  “Yeah, he was complaining. Said some PI with a loud shirt was getting in the way of business and had fucked up a big money score with a realtor. Said soon he was going to lose his temper with the man and end up breaking his legs.”

  Chendrill smiled, the prick, as if that was the big issue between them.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah he also said you knocked his turban off and a couple of other things concerning $100,000.”

  Chendrill shook his head and watched a woman climbing onto the mechanical bul
l, letting her big tits show from her low-cut top so the operator would give her an easy ride for the crowd to watch them wobble.

  “There was never any $100,000. I gave that figure out to flush the prick out into the open as he was getting on my nerves.”

  “And he went for it?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  Rasheed shook his head. He wouldn’t, no. $100,000 was too much for a blackmail scam. They both knew it, he’d be the one getting scammed, as Rann Singh had been. Then he said, “The guy usually gets around $5,000 to $10,000 if he’s lucky, sometimes just a grand. He’s been away recently, in Asia I’d heard, but normally though when he’s here, he’s preying on guys who fuck those skanky crack whores down on the East Side, taking photos with his phone and getting the names and addresses from someone he knows at the insurance office from the plate numbers, then fucking with the married ones, says he’s like an evangelical Bible thumper and is waking these people up—doing them a favor, saving their souls before they go too far and pick up some sexual disease. But it looks like now he’s fucking with you.”

  Chendrill asked, “Why’s he been in Asia?”

  Rasheed replied, “Could be fucking pussy, he likes that they say—more than most guys if that’s possible. But since he’s got back, he’s been asking about Sildenafil, stuff that makes your cock hard.”

  “He needs it?”

  “No, wants to sell it.” And then Rasheed said, “You want me to talk with him, tell him to lay off?”

  Chendrill smiled, it would be an easy option, but he could sort the fucker out himself. So he said, “Thanks, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to.”

  But Rasheed did anyway. And the next day he was dead.

  Chapter Ten

  Rann and Rasheed had met at the side of a busy main road that headed south connecting the same road to the highway which led down to the border that crossed into the United States. Rann got there by bus as he liked to and Rasheed pulled up in his $75,000 Mercedes with low profiles and black windows as he liked to. Rasheed had called him a cunt and told him he wasn’t even a real Sikh, just a plastic one—that he needed to start seeing real women, Sikh women, if he wanted to fit in and stop fucking these skinny white sluts like he was. After all, he’d never been to India and didn’t even speak Punjabi. Same shit as he’d heard back home growing up outcast from the English and his fellow Indians. He was an African Indian, he spoke Swahili, which, like his mother and father, had mixed with English, but he was still a Sikh. Why did he have to put up with this shit all his life?