Ride the Lightning

by Dietrich Kalteis

The photos Miro took of himself in the photo booth did the trick with the Department of Licensing. Really showed the bruises. Several partygoers, the guys with the pool cues, swearing to his story. Karl and Marty found themselves sitting across from Benny the manager, hearing about the security bond Global Trace had to put up for each of their agents, how they were expected to behave. Throwing up his arms in surrender, Benny shoved the paperwork with the federal seal on top at them, saying it was out of his hands, nothing he could do. Karl had been suspended indefinitely for taking part in prohibited acts, Marty getting off with a thirty-day suspension, the director of licensing taking pity on a family man with a wife and kid and no priors.

  Could appeal it, but Karl’s days as a bounty hunter in Washington State were over, so were the days when anybody in Seattle was hiring. Jobs were scarce, the whole economy in the toilet. Marty steered Karl to Sea-to-Sky up in Vancouver. Longtime friends Bob and Joyce Young were looking for a process server—summonses, writs, subpoenas—the job offering a third of the pay in a town that cost twice as much.

  Trying to cheer his friend, Marty told him Bob Young once served a guy on a nude beach—walked up in the buff with the envelope tucked between his cheeks—surprised the hell out of the guy. Joyce, his wife, topped it by serving a gynecologist. Booking an appointment, she served the doc his divorce papers with her feet in his stirrups. Marty promised Karl these were his kind of people.

  Karl took the job over the phone, talking to Bob Young for a half hour, went home and told Jerry the news. Jerry, his girlfriend of two years, asked if he was kidding, called him an asshole and told him they were done. She moved most of their stuff that afternoon while he went back to clear out his desk. Saying so long to Marty, Karl gave him his Smith, Canadian gun laws being what they were.

  Packing what he could into the tiny trunk, he got into the replica Roadster and drove north on the I5, Chip, his black and white cat, on the passenger floor. Karl tossed his jacket over Chip’s cage when he neared the Peace Arch, telling Chip to keep the meows down until they got by the border guards.

  Two months in and Karl was liking the new job, adjusting to a city where the locals settled arguments with middle fingers instead of firearms. Sleepless nights imagining sweet revenge on Miro Knotts gave way to sweet thoughts of PJ Addie, the legal assistant at Walt Wetzel’s law office three floors up from Sea-to-Sky. Lunch at Joey Tomato’s progressed to dinner at Umberto’s, followed by the new Coen picture, to drinks after.

  Now, here he was going once around the living room with the Swiffer. Karl tilted the only chair in the place, getting Chip’s fur from under the tabs with his sock. He unfolded his scribbled notes, the chicken tikka recipe he copied from the Jamie Oliver cookbook at Indigo, laying it in a wet spot on the counter, the naked guy’s words turning Greek as the ink ran.

  PJ loved curry. That’s what she told him, the hotter the better. And hot it would be, the bird’s-eye chilies blasting off the Scoville chart, the wet recipe looking like tie-dye.

  With the pan on the stove, he tested the sharpness of the new German blade that set him back two hundred bucks. Good of Jerry not to leave anything sharp lying around after she left, in case feelings of ruin turned him suicidal.

  By the time the aroma of curry overtook the sandalwood incense, Karl was setting out paper plates on the coffee table, leaving him scant time to shower. The phone rang and he answered thinking it was her, wanting him to explain the directions he gave her.

  “Hey, man.” It was Marty sitting back in his cubicle at Global Trace in Seattle, calling to catch up, getting past the small talk, then saying, “Wanted you to hear it from me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Our old buddy Miro Knotts got picked up in a pot raid in Lynnwood.”

  “Yeah.” No surprise there. Karl stirred the curry, turning down the heat to keep it from sticking to the pan.

  “Asshole got released by the courts, something about pending review of federal and state charges.”

  “They released a known bail jumper?”

  “Yeah, just another fucking glitch in the system, and guess what?”

  “The asshole fled?”

  “Yeah, but the good news is where he fled to,” Marty said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Guy at the sheriff’s department figures he went through the brambles along the border.”

  “So he’s up here?”

  “Canadian as a beaver, born in Chilliwack, wherever that is—used to run his shit down here from Vancouver.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’d love to see the look on his face when you serve him.”

  “Serve him what?”

  “The copy of the bench warrant I’m sticking in the mail.”

  “This is Canada, amigo,” Karl said. “They got sheriffs for the fun stuff.”

  “Yeah, what I’m sending’s not official, just a copy, thought you might want to have your own fun, let the scumbag know the feds down here are waving extradition papers, looking for his provisional arrest.”

  Karl was liking it. “A friendly reminder from the guys that dragged his ass to jail.”

  “Downright righteous, you ask me.”

  “Could use some excitement. Speaking of which . . .” Karl checked the time, told Marty he had a date.

  “Oh, yeah? Canadian chicks any good?”

  “You kidding?”

  “This one got a name?”

  “PJ.”

  “Short for anything?”

  “Nothing that I can tell.”

  “PJ, huh? Happy for you, bro. Things are looking up on all fronts.”

  “Listen, I got just enough time to roll on some Ban.”

  “Hey, don’t let me stop you. Have fun, but, hey, I want details.”

  “Getting stranger by the minute, Marty.”

  “Didn’t mean details with her. Meant with the douche bag.”

  Karl was laughing. “I’ll keep you posted. And, Marty?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Give my love to Chris and the kids.” With that Karl hung up and fished his cleanest Polo shirt from the laundry, feeling the adrenalin, thinking about getting a second shot at Miro Knotts. After the world’s fastest shower, he finger-combed his hair and rolled on the Ban, looking in the mirror at the guy wrapped in the towel with more hair under his arms than on his head, getting a little soft around the middle, thinking Fitness World was only a block away.

  bump in the road

  Chickie’s neon sign flashed blue by the door. The diner was trying for a vintage railcar look, a stainless steel counter, swivel stools anchored to the floor, tables covered with red and white tablecloths. The kind of place where if you checked the washroom before sitting down, you’d go someplace else.

  “So what the fuck I need you for?” Stax looked at him across the table, thinking he never liked Miro, even back when they both worked for Artie Poppa: Miro growing weed, making oil, Stax running the shit up and down the coast. Glancing up as the waitress approached, Stax read the name tag that said she was Sunny. Not bad for a scrawny blonde. He ordered coffee for both of them, watching her go.

  “Who’s going to make the oil, you?” Miro said, pulling a cigarette from his pack.

  “Oil, huh?” Stax looked around Chickie’s. “Lots of guys do oil.” Knowing nobody did it better than Miro.

  “Yeah, these guys ever work out strain hybridization, mix sativas and indicas, get the curing down right?”

  Stax put up a hand for him to stop.

  “And how many of these guys get six good crops a year? How many know dick about resin?”

  “Okay, I get the point,” Stax said, waiting as Sunny came with the coffee pot and a couple of mugs, watching her pour, telling her not yet when she asked if they were ready to order. When she left, Stax took a sip, the coffee hot and horrible.

  Mi
ro continued, “With Jeffery gone, thought you’d be open to something new.”

  “Came all the way up here thinking that, huh?”

  “The old man’s on his way out. You know it; I know it. Me, I figure you’re looking after your own ass,” Miro said, pretty sure Stax was behind hitting Artie’s grow house.

  “Yeah?”

  “And I’m guessing you’re as sick of working for him as I was.”

  No doubt Miro knew his way around cooking. The right product, the right channels, and a guy like Stax could do alright.

  “Been working out the bumps,” Miro said.

  Stax guessed a guy as irritating as Miro could end up being one of them, just like Jeffery, but still . . .

  like a house on fire

  It was the smoke alarm’s bleating that got Karl slapping the lid on the pan and dialing down the heat. The flatbread was black, but the curry survived. Marty’s call got him thinking about bumping into Miro Knotts again, distracting him from cooking. Fanning a flyer at the shrieking ceiling contraption, Karl cursed whoever had installed it this close to the stove. He fanned until his arms were sore; still, it wouldn’t quit. Then came the knock at the door.

  “Hey, there she is,” Karl said, pulling the door back, putting on a smile. He leaned in for a kiss, PJ looking good with her strawberry blonde waves, wearing a kind of Indian kurti with beadwork around the neck. She held out wrapped flowers and a bottle, looking at him like what’s with the alarm? He hung her jacket over his, held the flowers and wine in one hand and jumped, yanking down the housing, sending sparks, crippling the circuit, the dead alarm hanging by a wire. The pounding from the bridge construction replaced the sound of the alarm, a giant crane-operated hammer driving in bridge supports half a block away, shaking the whole building.

  “Next time try the reset button,” she said.

  He looked up at the housing, the mess of wires hanging down, pointing and asking, “That the one?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That could work,” he said, wondering how he’d explain it to Anton the super.

  Her heels made a hollow sound on the laminate floor as she walked by him. “Nice echo.”

  He checked her out as she passed him, caught her scent. “Just wait till I get it furnitured.”

  “Furnitured?”

  “Yeah, I’m stumped by it, absolutely no sense for it.”

  She looked around, assessing, guessing a man put the fireplace on the only wall that would take a sofa.

  “Maybe we could do IKEA sometime, you and me?” He came behind her, drawing her against him, the two of them getting into it until he remembered the pan on the stove. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the kitchen, telling her she didn’t need to bring flowers and wine, wondering what he could use as a vase. The only thing he had that might pass for wineglasses used to hold Dijon.

  “I know flowers aren’t a guy thing,” she said, “but more romantic than a six pack of Bud, don’t you think?”

  “You kidding, I love these.” He put his nose against the petals.

  “Yellow’s for friendship,” she said.

  “That right?”

  “One that’s going places. At least that’s what the florist told me.”

  “What’s the wine do, help it get there?”

  “The wine’s my favorite: Beaujolais Cru.”

  Reaching a mixing bowl from the cupboard, he dubbed it a vase and took down the mustard glasses.

  “Smells real yummy,” she said, sneaking a peek under the lid, the aroma reminding her it had been hours since the energy bar and latte. “Sorry if I held things up.” She looked around, the counter like a war zone of pots and dishes. “Had the worst case of Oompa Loompa hair, then got into it with Dara . . .”

  He wondered what he could use as a corkscrew, trying to avoid a conversation about her daughter right now, knowing it would upset her, asking, “Oompa Loompa, that a native thing?”

  “It’s when no two strands get together, and the whole mess just clumps.”

  “Looks pretty amazing if you ask me,” he said, getting close. “Smells good, too.”

  “That’s the Giovanni, but you don’t need to butter my toast, cowboy. A man that cooks gets you points where I come from.” She watched him half-fill the mixing bowl with water and prop the roses against the backsplash, asking what she could do.

  “Could play some tunes. Drown out that bridge noise.” He motioned to the old Sony on the living-room floor, the one he found in the hall closet when he moved in, telling her to wiggle the aerial around. “Try for some FM. It’s that or what’s left of my collection.”

  She went and picked up the stack of CDs. “Dear God,” she said, flipping through the Travers, Atkins, Wills, Orbison, Nelson and Cash, putting Karl somewhere between Hicksville and the sixties. “You from Mayberry, Karl?”

  That got him laughing.

  “No Smokey, no Aaron, no Aretha.”

  “Aretha Franklin? She still around?”

  “You kidding? Love her honey voice, the way she hits those notes.” She clicked on the Sony, saying, “Least there’s no Stompin’ Tom.”

  “A guy’s got to draw the line.”

  She settled on Roy Orbison, humming along to A Black and White Night, getting comfy on the beanbag in the middle of the floor.

  Impaling the cork with the Phillips, he forced it into the bottle. Fishing out bits of cork, he brought a glass over, told her dinner was minutes away and kissed the top of her head.

  “Great, I’m starved.” She sipped her wine.

  “Hey, I’m serious about needing help decorating this place.”

  “I can see that.” She picked cork off her tongue.

  “IKEA—any day you say, and I’ll throw lunch into the deal.”

  “Make it Antique Row and dinner at the Blue Water, and it’s a date.” She sipped, watching him dish curry onto the paper plates, her radar trying to pick up Jerry’s ghost. She crossed her legs, sitting Japanese-style in front of the coffee table, letting Chip curl up in her lap.

  Karl came with the plates and slid a packet of plastic utensils in front of her, apologizing for it, saying it was going to be a little like indoor camping.

  She tore into the cellophane, her teeth fantastic. “So long as you don’t make me sleep on the lumpy ground, cowboy.”

  the midnight oil

  It didn’t look like much—just a storehouse with the windows all soaped; a chipped, painted concrete floor, old power tools left on a bench. The place held a funky smell like it was used to store seafood at one time. From the door, Miro could make out a barge out on the Fraser River, this part of Richmond all industrial, Chinese and Thai importers, one after another. Not a lot of road traffic, just the odd truck making a delivery.

  Stax unloaded the last of the sealed garbage bags, the weed Wolf and Vince stole from Artie’s, killing Jeffery in the process. Letting Ike the pit bull out of the car, he closed the Mustang’s door with his foot, saying to Miro, “When you get done, got a couple of guys I want you to meet.”

  “What guys?” Miro said, holding the door to the warehouse, looking at the car, thinking about his Challenger back at his grandmother’s in Seattle, one eye on the pit bull, the thing growling at him as it walked through the door, then sniffing that fishy smell in the place.

  Stax got a kick out of seeing Miro afraid of the dog, saying, “Guys I been using as mules.”

  “What do we need with mules?”

  “They’re going to hit Artie again, another grow house.” Stax told him about Wally calling Wolf up and offering to sell back the license plate.

  “No shit,” Miro said, grin going ear to ear.

  “Got Jeffery’s Python, too, chrome one with the big barrel.” The way Stax told it, the cops had Artie Poppa under surveillance, looking to flip him or take him down. Artie was set to bol
t with enough cash stashed in his safe to buy Malta. Aside from hitting the grow houses, the idea was to find his safe before he made his move.

  “We keep our hands clean, make the two clowns kinda partners,” Miro said, getting the idea.

  “Temporary partners.”

  “Temporary, huh?”

  “Till Artie sends me to find out who did it.”

  Miro agreed on a lesser cut this time around since Stax was supplying the raw product, the weed Jeffery Potts was killed over. Next time it would be an even split. But he didn’t care about that right then, spinning the idea of hitting Artie again in another direction, thinking back to the call he made in Belltown. The girl picking up the phone at Global Trace told him Karl Morgen no longer worked there, told him he quit the business and moved to Vancouver. Made his day. The photos Miro showed the director of licensing had done the trick, got one of the bounty hunter canned, the other one suspended. Point was, the asshole that had dragged him to jail was here in town, and here was his chance to square things once and for all with Karl Morgen, adding a few pieces to Stax’s plan: the two clowns rob the grow house, Stax puts a bug in Artie’s ear, and Artie hires Karl Morgen to find out who did it, the guy with the reputation Miro had heard of back in Belltown: if your man’s breathing, Morgen will find him; if he’s not breathing, Morgen points to the spot. Morgen being a hotshot, couldn’t resist a guy like Artie asking him to find the guys that ripped him off. So, Morgen gives up the clowns for a cheap reward, Stax takes them out and Miro makes sure it looks like Morgen did it. Morgen burns for the double homicide.

  Stax went out the door with Ike, left Miro daydreaming. Stax wasn’t sure about this guy Miro wanted to set up, but at least the two of them were on the same page about hitting Artie.

  Still juggling details, Miro locked the door and started stuffing the bud into glass jars, topping them with alcohol and swirling them around, straining them, picturing the look on Morgen’s face when he found out Miro had set him up. He flipped the fan on high, blowing the smell out of the place through the open windows.