by Paul Slatter
Then he saw movement at the window, then at the balcony door. Then nothing. Chendrill looked again, trying to work out the launching capabilities the guy could have from up there. No chance with a lawn chair again, but smaller stuff yes. He picked up his phone again and this time wrote,
I’m off to the post office. If you want what you’ve been waiting for, then you’ll need to come find me.
Chendrill looked up again, still no sign of the guy standing there—maybe this time with a howitzer rocket, not just a brick. He put the car into gear and moved on past the apartment’s entrance and took a turn onto the main road. Laying there in the secure ward of the hospital, Malcolm Strong had said he was waiting for a package coming through addressed to a William Moore at a storage depot located on Vancouver’s East Side and that he was supposed to just let it through. This guy was a blackmailer and blackmailers usually did just that and seldom drifted—it was easy money.
So what else did this guy with the vicious right foot have coming in apart from these hard-on pills, harder drugs? Had to be, Chendrill thought, if it was badly made suits or counterfeit shirts, why put Strong in the hospital in the process? It looked like the prick was off his clients’ backs now anyway, so why put himself through it anymore with the idiot as long as he kept away? What was the point? All he had to do was keep an eye on Dan and stop the nutcase hippy from swinging by and belting songs from the seventies out in the boardroom and the rest of the day was his own; if he wanted, he could always slip over and see Dan’s mother.
Chendrill reached the offices for the storage company and asked the little girl behind the desk if he could see one of the lockers—a ten by ten would be great. He walked along behind her as they found an empty one and watched as she bent down to lift up the shuttered door. Then he took a photo of the empty space and sent the picture to Rann’s phone with a caption written underneath that simply read:
If you want what I have, then meet me on Denman Street at three this afternoon.
Then he called Williams and told him where he could find his blackmailer and at what time.
“How do you know he’ll show?” Williams asked.
“Because he’s stupid and I didn’t give a specific location. Denman’s a long road. He’ll walk it or ride it in a cab, I guarantee. Just be there, sit in one of the cafes, and wait for an East Indian in a turban to walk past looking perplexed and then arrest him for blackmail. It’s easy and you won’t need to leave town and let the RCMP take the credit. It’ll be all yours, gift wrapped.”
******
Rann Singh sat on a bench at beach at the south side of Denman Street and looked to his watch. It was still 2:45 p.m. Fuck, he looked over his shoulder again towards the road. Why had the big prick in the loud shirt not given him an address, a corner or something. Denman had to be at least a mile long. What the fuck was he supposed to do, wander up and down until the big cunt jumped out and told him what he needed to do to get his pills?
If he had them that is.
He’d called the office of the storage depot and asked to speak with a Mr. Moore. He wasn’t there or taking his calls either. “Has a package been dropped off for Mr. Moore by the postman?” he asked the girl. “Who is this please?” The girl had replied. But if there hadn’t been, then why not just say no? Why the hesitation, why the suspicion? Chendrill had them—he’d worked it out, he had to have. He was a detective after all. And now he’d got so far down the road that Rann had designed it was ridiculous. Fuck he should have left if be. Fuck—fuck—fuck. Standing, he turned and looked through the crowd towards Denman Street just beyond the bronze statues of happy Chinese guys that he thought looked stupid and began to walk along the road.
It couldn’t be a police trap. They’d have just come round his place if they wanted him. Come busting in with one of their big battering rams that they used, then come crashing in all jacked up on testosterone and adrenalin wearing masks and shit, wielding guns and stuff, then whisk him away so as he could sit in a room and say nothing.
It was Chendrill the big cunt, carrying on the feud. That’s all, he told himself. The guy was playing with him now because he could. He’d let him get too deep because of his stupid ego and temper. He hit the road and stopped at the crossing, watching as the cars passed, and waited for the lights to change, wondering what side of the road to walk along. The shadow side was better, Rann thought, it was just as crowded, but easier to hide in case there was anyone else waiting for him. But why the crowd? Fuck. He couldn’t work this guy out.
He crossed the road and carried along, passing tourists with ice creams, passing eateries and other businesses that were soon to fail. Where was this prick? he thought, as he made it halfway down and looked to his watch, which now read 2:55 p.m.
Turning, he headed back towards the beach as the sudden fear of a police sting sent a wave through his body. Fuck, it wasn’t even three o’clock yet. You should cruise it in a cab first, you fucking idiot, he told himself, cruise it at three, sit back in a cab, hide in the darkness, tour the back roads, look to see if there’s a load of cops sitting around in their cars waiting for a bust to happen, work out how the land lays. See if you can see the prick in his bright fucking shirt or if there’s a fucking bright red fucking Ferrari with a dent on the hood from a lawn chair. Play it cool, do the work, don’t walk straight into a trap like an idiot, he told himself as he paced up and down. You be the cool guy, you be the one that sees them, then you be the one who calls the shots and tells that big prick when you’re ready—not him. Say, ‘So you have what I spent my savings on so I could buy back my grandad’s farm in Kenya, now give the fucking pills back to me and let’s make a deal so as we can walk away from each other and no one needs to know about me and no one needs to know about all that money you took as backhanders from the drug dealers when you were on the force.’ That would do it, he thought, throw some shit at him when he was off guard and see if it would stick.
Then, the old pay phone beside him began to ring. He stared at it until it stopped, and by the time it hit its second chime when it rang again, Rann picked it up to hear the man on the other end say, “Don’t be frightened.”
“I’m not frightened of you!” Rann Singh snapped back as he looked around trying to see where Chendrill was watching him from. Then he heard the man’s voice say again, “I know you want me.”
“Yeah I do and I want something else an all.”
And he heard the man’s voice say, “Good—look above you. I’m up here above you. Look to me up here.”
Rann Singh looked up at all the windows above him, the glare from the sun beaming down back at him from their polished shine. Then he saw him standing there, the big man holding his phone in the huge plate glass window just in his cowboy boots and a red Hawaiian shirt as he heard the man say, “Yes it’s me. Come up to my apartment—I’m here for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Marsha paced up and down her Malibu home and stared at the peek-a-boo view of the ocean she’d paid $2.4 million for and wondered if she’d made a mistake telling Patrick she hated going to Bali. What if he took this new hot chick who was from that place with the funny name she couldn’t remember and what if Dan went and fell in love with her? Then everyone would laugh at her and she’d be the one on the magazine who was sad and everyone would feel sorry for her, and not read about her meeting the Queen or being engaged to Dan like they were supposed to. It wasn’t good, it really wasn’t good at all. Quickly, she picked up her phone and called Gill Banton and said, “We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“A movie, going to Bali.”
“What movie? You don’t like Bali, Marshaa, you told me that.”
“I do, I love Bali. It’s great.”
“Why the change of heart?”
“Dan’s going.”
“Oh Dan, the condom guy yes—I met him.”
Silence.
“I hear this.”
“Heard this—Marsha, that’s how y
ou say it.”
“I want to be an actress.”
“Don’t we all dear,” said Gill as the words ‘learn to speak properly first’ crossed her mind. Then, changing the subject, she said, “Bali’s nice,” and heard Marsha say back, “Yeah I like it there.”
Gill Banton said, “You want to go, you want me to fix something up?”
And Marsha replied, “I want to be an actress.” Then there was silence.
Gill Banton laid in her bed, listening to the shower run from the en-suite and looked out the window. How many times in her career had she dealt with this now, models at the top of their game getting bored with it all and wanting to take it further? They seldom had the chops for it. Some did, though, and did it well, but it was few and far between and there was a big difference between looking good and pouting and actually saying lines alongside of someone else who could. She said, “Well let’s get you some professional help, try out a coach for a while and see how you like it. You won’t be flying first class straight away when it comes to acting Marshaa, you’ll need a coach, and that’s the truth.”
And that’s when she heard Marsha cut her short and say back, “I’ll call you back.”
******
Rann Singh looked down at the incredible view of Denman Street that Samuel Meeken had from the window of his apartment and wondered how long the guy would be unconscious for.
It wasn’t that he’d hit him that hard. It was that he’d hit him in the right place to knock some sense into the man. After all, if you are going to invite strangers up to your place, then you have to expect the odd one to be offended if you answer the door sporting nothing but a cowboy hat, boots, and a hard-on.
Especially when they’re up there due to a case of mistaken identity, which now had turned out to be another turn of luck that had come his way. He could see the group of guys, who were obviously cops, through the side window, sitting in a café the next block up watching the road and not their mochas. His Sikh god Guru Nanak was looking out for him.
Leaning into the window, he looked further along the road to both sides, then back to the pay phone there below him. He had a good, almost unrestricted view of Denman Street from one end to the other. If Chendrill was there, he wasn’t in the café with the police or anywhere to be seen. Rann looked around the room, the place almost as strange as the guy lying on the floor with his tongue hanging out. Hand-drawn pictures of mythical warriors were framed all over the walls and there were mirrors everywhere, binoculars on the bookshelf, and women’s shoes lined up against the door that were, he figured, the same size as the cowboy’s boots.
Leaning down, he picked up one of the high heeled shoes and measured it against the naked unconscious man’s feet, realizing they were indeed his.
“What the fuck?” he said out loud.
He stood up straight again and walked into the bedroom, more mirrors and loose straps hanging off each corner of the mattress. Walking to the big wardrobe with its mirrored sliding doors that ran the length of the wall, he slid one side open and looked inside. Nothing out of the ordinary. He opened the other side, sliding the door so hard that it came to a stop with a clunk at the other end of the rail. Turning he looked to the bedroom door in case it had woken the guy on the floor; then looked back inside. Plenty out of the ordinary here, he thought—dresses, lingerie, huge dildos and lube in a drawer—and postal uniforms, some old, some new and not even worn yet, some with shorts, some with long pants with waterproof jackets. He stared at them and said out loud, “Why’d you dress up as a postman, you fucking weirdo?”
Almost a thousand people or more must have passed as Rann stood watching the café for the next hour, taking a moment here and there to check on the postman. And at just after four fifteen, he saw the Aston Martin pull up with the unmistakable figure of that prick Chendrill getting out, holding onto his ribs with one hand as he did, walking straight over, ordering a coffee; then, sitting himself down next to where Williams sat with two of his friends pretending not to be cops, he started to chat. Seconds later, Chendrill pulled out his phone, dialed it, and moments later Rann felt the buzz from his phone tingling in his pocket.
Pulling it out, he sat himself down on the back of Samuel Meeken’s black leather sofa and, before Chendrill could speak, he said, “I’ll be there at five like you said.”
Then he watched as Chendrill shook his head, raised his eyes and looked to Williams sitting next to him, and watched his mouth move and heard Chendrill say through the earpiece, “I said three.”
Rann smiled and shuffled his turban, catching his reflection in one of the many mirrors.
“No, mate you said five, I’ll be there at five on Davie Street right?” and heard Chendrill say, “No—Denman.”
Then he hung up and holding the binoculars to his eyes, watched as the others got up and stretched their legs, Chendrill telling the others what he’d just heard, mouthing the words, ‘the dumb fuck’ as he did.
Then Rann’s phone rang again, but this time it was Bill Moore telling him his shipment had arrived and was waiting for him in his storage lock up.
“You sure?” Rann said, staring at the road at Chendrill now standing, stretching his arms in the air as he heard the man’s voice nervous on the other end of the line saying, “Yes, it’s there and once it’s gone, if you come near me again… I’m going to kill you… And I don’t care about what happens next.”
Yeah yeah, Rann thought as he looked to the weirdo guy still out on the floor, then again to the big pair of platform high heels by the door. He’d heard it all before. ‘Come near me again and I’ll kill you,’ death threats were as common to him as a plumber heard people tell them they never washed shit down the plug hole of the sink.
Knowing he’d just saved another soul and the man would one day realize this himself, he said, “If they’re there as requested then send me a photo of the box in the locker I asked for and you’ll get your wish.”
And seconds later, the picture arrived on his phone, the box all sealed and professionally packaged just as the Kiwi pharmacist who had skipped out of Auckland decades before had put together for him, now sitting there on the concrete floor framed nicely in the middle of the orange storage locker with the number 1133 sitting right above the door frame.
Fuck me it’s here, Rann thought as he closed his phone and stood. Now Chendrill was moving along the road, stretching his legs, coming right below the apartment, passing the telephone. Reaching out, Rann picked up the house phone, hit redial, and watched as the pay phone in the street below caught Chendrill’s attention in amongst the traffic. Ignoring it for a second, Chendrill stood there below him, staring into nowhere in his big red flowery shirt, then he looked back towards the phone and walked over and picked it up just in time to hear Rann say, “You really are one big fucking dumb cunt!”
Then Rann hung up and, like a sniper hiding deep in the apartment, watched Chendrill standing there like a parrot looking up at the buildings and along the street with no clue.
Rann looked around the apartment again, then to Samuel Meeken, still laying there unconscious on the floor. He’d been out a long time. But that could happen if you took a big hit right on the chin. He stared at the door, then back to Meeken on the floor. Walking over, he felt the man’s pulse. Still good. He wiped his prints from everything he’d touched, including the phone and dialed 911, listening for the answer before dropping it on the floor next to where the weirdo lay. Then he walked along the corridor past the oversized women’s shoes all neatly lined up and out of the apartment. He took the staircase down to the emergency exit and, walking across the garden’s newly cut grass, headed towards the park and away from Chendrill standing out there in the open on Denman Street with a pickle up his ass.
******
Rann made it to the outside of the storage lockers and watched the building from afar. The place was deserted. If anyone was waiting for him, there would be a police vehicle sitting there somewhere with its big tires and bumper and r
ound black aerial transmitters sitting on the roof.
He walked to the back and let himself in with the passcode and entered the building, walking the long corridor of orange lockers and stopping at 1143. He opened it, stepped inside, and pulled the door down behind him. He opened the canvas bag sitting at the locker’s rear, pulled out a small battery-operated drill, and started to make a tiny hole in the locker’s rear wall.
Pushing his turban back a bit, Rann pushed his eye against the hole, looked through, and smiled. Yes it was there, he thought, sitting right in the center of the locker just as the picture sent to his phone an hour before had shown.
He put down the drill and pulled out a pair of tin-snips and worked the sharp end into the hole he’d just made. He began cutting out a hole big enough to reach through and pull back the box full of the hard-on pills that were going to make him rich.
He was there and he had done it.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was just after four the next day when Patrick arrived at the offices of Slave and within ten minutes had told Mazzi Hegan he didn’t know a good thing when he saw it.
“Me?” Mazzi Hegan replied in complete astonishment and, without taking a breath, quickly reeled off his entire resume, which ended with Dan, the now international sensation who was fuck all before he lifted his lens to him.
And with both hands raised, Patrick had said to him, “Trust me.”
“What?” asked Hegan as he rubbed his right hand through his already combed straight blonde locks.
“Trust me—the girl has talent, pure talent and that’s the truth.” And the truth was that at that precise moment Patrick was having trouble remembering what the girl looked like. So he said, “She’s got a face you never forget.”
“And that’s the talent?” Mazzi Hegan asked.
“No—it’s something beyond words, Mazzi. It’s beauty, it’s vulnerability, it’s childlike innocence, it’s honesty—she gives off more energy than any actress or model you’ll ever meet.”