Fearless ; The Smoke Child

by Lee Stone

  Lim’s eyes narrowed as the woman glanced over her shoulder and began keying a number into the electronic pad at the center of the lockers. One of them clicked open and from it she pulled a suitcase. It was identical to the one she had carried through customs. She wasted no time pushing the other suitcase into the locker and closing the door so that the swap was complete. Then she moved quickly back through the crowd to the restrooms, arriving just before her companion re-emerged.

  Now Lim saw things now for what they were. Everything made sense, and soon he would have good news to send back to Ta Penh. He finished his coffee and moved slowly through the terminal.

  At the front of the airport, Lim found a man holding a sign with his name on. Jimmy’s man. He would know where the courier lived. There was no rush. There was no need to stop her in the airport. No need to arouse suspicion. He would deal with her once they were somewhere much more private.

  ‘Mr. Lim?’ the man asked, extending a hand. ‘I’m Jake Leisler.’

  Lim’s eyes narrowed. Leisler. He recognized the name. Leisler was the man who had chosen the courier. Someone else who required his attention.

  32

  Two hours later, Jake Leisler pulled down the sun visor of a stolen Datsun Cherry and looked at himself in the mirror. His face was bruising up from Jimmy Penh’s beating, but he knew change came at a cost and he was willing to take his share of the pain. On balance, it would be worth it. In a strange way, he felt happy.

  ‘Sometimes you got to shuffle the pack,’ Leisler’s father had once told him. ‘See if you end up on top.’

  That was back in 1989, when Leisler Sr. was midway through a ten stretch for attacking his own attorney with an axe handle. Leisler had not heard from him since. Even so, the advice held true. Shuffle the pack. When you’re trying to climb to the top of the pile, chaos and confusion are your friends. They are the footmen of opportunity, and Leisler could sense opportunity all around him. He was alone in the darkness, waiting, just like old times. Except tonight, he was working for Mr. Lim. As far as Leisler could work out, Lim was some sort of fixer, sent out from Phnom Penh to clean up what had been happening in New York. And that meant someone over there didn’t trust Jimmy. And that meant that Leisler’s plan was working.

  They had discussed the suitcase switch that Lim had witnessed in the Airport, and Leisler had convinced Lim that he could track down the girl, far away from the gaze of the busy airport.

  ‘Even if we follow her through the parking lot, and kill her miles away, the police will investigate her murder and they’ll see us on CCTV,’ Leisler had argued. ‘Trust me, Mr. Lim. This is my city and I know how to do things right. Let me find the girl for you. If she’s got the case, I’ll bring it to you. And if she’s locked what you need back in the airport locker, I will convince her to open in up for us.’

  Lim had agreed, and so Leisler had gone out into the storm to hunt. He had sprung the Datsun the old-fashioned way, wedging a screwdriver into the doorjamb and then rummaging around with a coat hanger. He had stood for an age with his collar turned up against the driving rain until he hooked the handle and the door swung open. The whole experience had made him feel nostalgic. He drove the Datsun across town and pulled up a short block from the courier’s apartment, just as Lim had suggested he should. He was happy to take the job because he had unfinished business of his own with her. He had thought he could trust her. And in the end, she had made him look stupid. And she had almost fucked the whole thing up.

  A fork of lightning split the night sky, and Leisler saw a bright flash as it reflected off the blade in his foot well. He still liked knife-work. There was an intimacy about it that always left him with a satisfying sense that the person on the other end of the blade had understood exactly what was happening, and why. Sometimes that kind of closure can be important to a man. The courier would understand when he cut her. He had only given her one job. And she had screwed it up. What else had she expected would happen?

  ‘I gave you the suitcase,’ he muttered bitterly in the darkness. His breath steamed the windscreen. ‘All you had to do was to get on the fucking plane with it.’

  Leisler checked himself as he realized he was talking out loud. He took a breath and settled back into the driver's seat, figuring he had a right to be agitated. The courier had gotten scared or greedy. Maybe both. Either way, she had kept the suitcase for herself, and that had compromised his plan. The fact that the delivery never made it out of New York had angered Jimmy’s bosses in Cambodia. But Leisler had hoped for more. The suitcase was supposed to have arrived in Kep, missing only the wooden box. Missing the thing that only Jimmy would have stolen. But now Jimmy was off the hook, and the missing suitcase would be blamed on the courier. Or even on Leisler himself. So now he had to change the plan. Now, his plan was to get the suitcase back. Lim would thank him for that. And when the shakedown came, which eventually it would, Leisler would be known as a man who could fix everything. But to earn that reputation, he needed to retrieve the case. And tie off the courier.

  Leisler knew the inside of the courier’s apartment well. He’d been there many times. For a while, he had thought he was happy there. For a while, he had felt something for her he had never felt for anyone else. Something good. But business had always come before pleasure, and when Jimmy Penh had become interested in her, Leisler had backed off. But now history was irrelevant. He took a last look around, pulled the bowie knife from the footwell, grabbed his sports bag from the passenger seat, and headed out into the storm.

  Leisler was a powerful man, but the strength of the wind was almost enough to blow him from his feet. It was impossible to cross the street without entering a torrent of water, bubbling up from the drains and flowing across the tarmac. Anything that wasn’t strapped down was blowing along the street, and twice Leisler had to duck to avoid the debris. A guy stopped him before he reached the apartment block.

  ‘Hey buddy,’ the guy said as he hustled past. ‘They’ve closed the subway if that’s where you’re headed.’

  ‘Thanks buddy,’ Leisler said, without breaking his stride. The weather made no difference to him. He had a job to do. He felt the petrol sloshing in the can inside his bag as he battled through the wind and rain. When he arrived at the front of the building, he ran his finger along the row of intercom buttons, smiling as he passed the one marked ‘Braganza’. He pressed every button except hers until an irritable voice began scratching out of the tinny speaker.

  ‘I got a delivery,’ he shouted over the wind, ‘And I’m getting all blown away out here. I’m almost drowned. Buzz me in, will you?’

  He spoke with such vigor and conviction that the woman on the intercom did exactly as he asked. And within seconds, he was through the door. He pushed on through the dimly lit lobby and into a rattling elevator that took him to the fifth floor. The place reeked of an industrial strength deodorizer to mask the inevitable staleness by which nearly all apartment blocks are afflicted. Ugly graffiti had been scrubbed away in the lift car, but the scars of it remained.

  When it reached the fifth, the lift car stuttered to a halt like it had been rear-ended, and Leisler spilled out into a dark corridor. The carpet muffled his footsteps, and real life seeped out from the gaps beneath each door as he passed them. An argument. Television. And when he reached the door he was looking for, nothing. No light leaking through the crack. No sounds. Even the air felt still. Leisler reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. In the half-light, he brought it up to the lock. He had taken it months ago, without asking, but if she had noticed she had never said anything. He wondered if she had been cautious enough to change the locks. She was the slippery kind. More slippery than he had given her credit for. He slid the key into the lock. It fitted perfectly. Turned it. The latch gave, and the door clicked open an inch. In the darkness, Leisler smiled. He took a breath, pushed the door, and slid into the courier’s apartment.

  Inside, the air was cold. He left the canvas sports bag next to the sofa,
smelling the fuel beginning to leak through as he set it down. Then he padded quietly through the lounge and into the hallway towards the bedrooms. Leisler was cautious, wondering whether the courier’s new friend would be with her. No matter. The pair of them would be dead soon enough. He pulled the bowie knife from his pocket and moved silently onwards through the cold.

  He had considered spreading the fuel across the sofa and letting them choke to death, but he had been a long day cooped up in the garbage truck was looking forward to grappling with their flailing bodies as he slashed into them. He loosened his grip on the Bowie, allowing it to swivel in his hand so that his thumb was closed over the end of the handle, and the blade was pointed outwards from his wrist, ready to plunge mercilessly into a neck. Or the thigh. Anywhere that would bleed fast. When they were both beyond hope, he would find the suitcase, douse them with petrol and leave them to burn. Lim would be pleased with the ruthlessness of his work, and the seed would be sewn for the future.

  At the end of the hallway he took a last steadying breath and then pushed hard through the door. He drove his weight towards the bed, waiting to feel the thump of contact so he could plunge the knife forwards and into the pair of them. But no thump came. No movement. No bodies. He stepped back and switched on the light. The bed was pristinely made, and empty. The girl he was looking for was not where she was supposed to be. Leisler slid the knife back into his pocket and cursed, hoping that Tyrone was having better luck than him.

  33

  Leisler’s prey was walking fast along Cliff Street, her wet hair whipped into her eyes as the tall buildings either side of the road created a deep ravine down which the wind was rattling at a ferocious pace. The tops of the high-rises disappeared into the low cloud and water bubbled up from the drains and ran deep enough along the sidewalk to spill over the edge of her shoes.

  She had stayed away for five years, and every streetlamp brought back a memory. She thought about ducking into Maguire’s, just for old times’ sake, but the fewer people who saw her tonight the better. She had started the journey with an umbrella, hoping that she could hide beneath it as she made her way to the club, but it had whipped inside out and been shredded by the wind, so she had turned up the collar of her winter coat and sunk into it as best she could. Beneath the fur, her chest was pounding with adrenalin. Each time the wind dropped, her eyes darted from one side of the street to the other. The storm hid her panic. The storm kept her safe. The storm kept people’s eyes down. Besides, she liked the feeling of the rain on her skin. It was pin sharp and demanding, and it prevented her mind from drifting back to Kep and remembering what had happened to her sister.

  It should have been me lying in the hotel room, she thought.

  The wind picked up and ripped a sign from a shop front. The brackets snapped like twigs and the whole thing sparked as electricity hit water. She ducked into The Tiger Bar minutes later, hitting a wall of hot air as she pushed through the wooden swing doors and into the gloom. Nothing had changed. The place was still smoked mirrors and UV lights. There was nobody waiting to take her coat behind the desk. Fedde le Grand was rumbling out from behind a set of double doors. First observation: The music hadn’t changed while she’d been away.

  She skipped behind the counter and through the unmarked black plywood door. The girls’ entrance. The corridor was just as she remembered it. The carpets were even more threadbare and the walls more scuffed. There had been no renovation since her last visit. She found Sean in the usual place, tucked away in an office that doubled as a storeroom, and trebled as a dumping ground. The place was full of clothes racks, costumes, beer crates and paperwork. In the middle of it all was the guy she was looking for. He was carrying a couple of extra pounds and the black stubble on his chin had begun to fleck gray, but otherwise he looked the same as ever. He had the build of a pro wrestler and she’d seen him pin guys against the wall if they stepped out of line, but underneath it he was the only good guy in a not especially good place. He played fair. And he’d never tried anything on with her. And you can’t ask for much more than that in a place like The Tiger Bar.

  ‘Wow,’ he said, drinking her in. Making the same casual assessments she had made of him. Judging whether the years had been cruel to her or kind. ‘Look who it is.’

  She smiled.

  ‘Do you have a towel, Sean?’ she said. ‘I’m soaked to the bone.’

  She said it casually, as if the five-year absence had never happened.

  ‘I thought girls like you were waterproof.’

  She walked over to him and leant across his desk. She pulled her hair into a tight knot and began to wring the rainwater out of it so it landed in a puddle on his desk. Her old boss smiled.

  ‘I’ll get you a towel.’

  He slipped out into the corridor and returned moments later with black coffee and a snow white towel that was warm when she touched it to her skin. She thanked him as she patted her hair dry.

  ‘You still dancing?’ he asked, after a minute.

  ‘No.’

  He waited, but she didn’t elaborate.

  ‘Pity,’ he said eventually. ‘But I guess we all got to move on.’

  ‘I moved on to bar work,’ Kate said. ‘And then I moved on from that.’

  Sean raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I made a friend,’ she said, by way of explanation.

  Sean shot her a look that said: what the hell does that mean? Then his face broke into a smile like the sun’s first rays piercing the morning sky.

  ‘Did you fall in love?’

  ‘No,’ Kate said. ‘Not that it’s your business, anyway. Listen. I need your help.’

  ‘You did, didn’t you? You fell in love.’

  She ignored him.

  ‘I need some protection.’

  The smile faded.

  ‘From what, exactly?

  That wasn’t a refusal. Kate’s eyes darted around the room as she thought about how to play it.

  ‘It doesn’t matter from what,’ she said. ‘To be honest, you’re better off not knowing.’

  The eyebrow went up again.

  ‘I swear,’ she said. ‘All you need to know is that it’s more than the usual shit, and it’s something I need to deal with.’

  She watched him sucking the air in through his wide nostrils, chewing over her request.

  ‘What kind of protection do you need?’ he asked, eventually.

  ‘The kind you keep in your top drawer.’

  Sean’s face got real serious, real fast.

  ‘Away and check your head.’

  She scowled at him.

  ‘I mean it.’

  She stepped close to him. The smell of vanilla-scented tobacco and forest fern perfume hung about him, sucking her back half a decade. She reached forward and pulled up his sleeve. There were two numbers inked black on his on his pale Irish skin.

  ‘Exodus, right?’ she said. ‘Chapter and verse. An eye for and eye. You told me about it, remember?’

  All at once the bonviveur was gone, and Sean was stripped back to who he really was. His face darkened like a soldier reminded of some long-forgotten war. Warmth drained from his eyes until they were lupine and frightening.

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Screw you,’ she said. ‘I’m not threatening you. You know me better than that.’

  He shrugged and conceded the point. It was as close to an apology as she’d get.

  ‘So why are you bringing up ancient history?’ he asked warily.

  ‘Because an eye for an eye is exactly where I’m at right now.’

  Few people knew Sean had killed a man. But she did. She knew the whole story, near enough. It was a long time ago. Another lifetime. It was revenge. Retribution. She knew he wasn’t proud of it. He had told her that after the best part of a liter bottle of vodka and enough lines of coke that they had both lost count. He had told her about it in a moment of weakness and in the sweet release of unburdening. She pulled the damp hair from her face ne
rvously, watching him to see how he would react.

  ‘That’s too bad,’ Sean told her. ‘But you know it’ll end badly that way.’

  ‘It’s already ended badly.’

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Who for?’

  ‘For my sister,’ Kate said. ‘She’s dead.’

  Her voice wavered, the horrible truth of it crystallizing as she heard herself say it. ‘And it’s my fault. They thought she was me, and they killed her.’

  ‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry about that. I really am.’

  The air hung heavy between them, and for a moment they could hear the rumbling bass line from the strip show bleeding through the wall. The humanity that had rushed from Sean’s demeanor a moment earlier flooded back. He pulled a bottle from under his desk and poured them both a drink.

  ‘You know this won’t bring her back, right?’

  She nodded. She knew it was true, and it killed her. She hadn’t slept since her sister had died. Each time she closed her eyes she saw that bruised and lifeless face. And each time she saw it, she hated herself more. Guilt gnawed at every edge of her. She hated that she had underestimated the risk. Hated that her sister had agreed to the plan. And the thing that was ripping her up was that if she got what she wanted at the end of all this, she’d probably accept the trade.

  She looked at the guy behind the desk and said, ‘There’s more to it than bringing her back.’

  Sean sighed.

  ‘There’s always more to it. That’s the problem with revenge. I know something about revenge. It’ll ruin you.’

  ‘It already chewed me up and spat me out,’ she said.

  She held his gaze and something passed between them. Perhaps he recognized some kindred spirit in her. An honesty. Whatever it was, the brakes came off. Kate watched him slide open his drawer and reach under a stack of papers and pull out the favor that she wanted. It was a Colt Anaconda. He had told her that back in the day. He used it as a line of last resort if things got out of hand in the bar. She knew that he’d never fired it in anger. At least, he hadn’t five years ago. It was polished silver and its wooden handle was inlaid with gold. The word Anaconda was etched into the barrel in a swirling font that made it look like it had been engraved as an anniversary present. For all of that, it was ugly as hell. It was heavy. Chunky. Unforgiving. It was exactly what she needed.